📍R A J S T H A N

It was evening, and Naina was sitting in the living room with her friends. Meanwhile, Arshia was in the kitchen, preparing a cup of coffee for herself. She intended to use the quiet time to select photos and delete the unwanted ones.

As she stood there, a voice from the living room reached her ears. It seemed like an interview was being broadcast. Surprised, she thought to herself, Naina watching interviews? That's unexpected.

From the television, a sharp question echoed:

"Ansh, you are a successful and renowned designer in this country, but you only design clothes for men. It's said that you are a misogynist, self-centred, and anti-feminine, can you explain yourself?"

A deep voice responded, calm and composed:

"People will always talk; that's their job. I don't pay attention to such things. As for thinking less of women, perhaps I believe that I am not worthy of designing clothes for them."

Intrigued, Arshia leaned back against the kitchen counter. She found his answer captivating. He didn't answer the question directly; he responded with another perspective, she thought.

The interviewer pressed further:

"In this entire country, there may hardly be a city where your boutique chain hasn't expanded, where your fashion house isn't present. Your name is a brand in the textile industry. Perhaps the audience doesn't know, so let us inform them that Ansh Singh Rathore is also the owner of four textile Mills and a partner in Devansh Maheshwari's interior design company."

Before the interviewer could continue, Ansh interrupted, "Come to the point."

"The point is, despite having so many women in your textile Mills and fashion houses, your main branch have only a handful of women employees. Why is that? This gives rise to allegations of misogyny. Would you like to clarify?"

Arshia's coffee was ready by now, but she lingered in the kitchen. She perched herself on the countertop, taking a sip of her coffee while listening to the interview. She found it more engaging than sitting in the living room with Naina and her friends. This is interesting. I'll stay here for a while, she thought, settling in comfortably.

Ansh smiled faintly. "I would call it a coincidence, nothing more," "I would call it a coincidence, nothing more," his tone smooth and dismissive.

Ansh never lies; he just twists the truth to fit his narrative.

Arshia shook her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. Here we go again. This man will twist and turn the question, making it seems like he's answering directly, but it's just his way of dodging. She could already predict how he'd navigate through the rest of the interview with his usual eloquence, sprinkling pearls of wisdom where it suited him and cutting straight to the point when it didn't.

He continued, skillfully crafting his responses. His words were precise yet evasive, leaving just enough room for interpretation.

"Where do you see yourself in the next few years?" the host finally asked.

For a moment, there was silence. Ansh paused, his expression unreadable.

Arshia, too, froze mid-action, her coffee mug halfway to her lips. The stillness was almost tangible as seconds stretched into minutes.

Then, he smiled, looking directly into the camera. At the same moment, Arshia closed her eyes and whispered under her breath, perfectly in sync with him,

"At the pinnacle of success, because that is what I was made for."

Her eyes fluttered open, startled by the eerie synchronicity. She took a breath, her mind swirling with thoughts, but before she could process further, the interview seemed to wrap up. The sound of an advertisement filled the air.

Shaking her head, she slid off the counter, rinsed her coffee mug, and placed it on the drying rack. Without giving it much thought, she made her way to her room, lost in a tangle of curiosity and frustration over the man whose words lingered far longer than she intended them to.

---

In the living room, the family sat gathered after dinner, chatting comfortably. Arshia, her eyes alight with determination, spoke up. "I want to study more."

Her uncle Raj Solanki, smiling warmly, nodded. "Ye toh achhi baat hai."

Her aunt Rekha Solanki, however, rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed with the conversation.

Arshia continued, her voice filled with excitement, "I applied to Mumbai University, and they've accepted me!"

Rekha, barely hiding her disapproval, sighed. "Padhna hai toh yahi kahi admission le lo," she said dismissively. Then, as if dropping a bomb, she added, "Aur waise bhi, hun shaadi kar rahe hai tumhari."

Arshia had been expecting this moment, the words hanging in the air like a weight she had already been preparing for. She remained silent, her gaze steady, though the stir of emotions was hard to mask.

Arshia, her voice firm but laced with a hint of frustration, replied, "par mujhe shaadi nahi karni."

Rekha scoffed, shaking her head. "Kyu? Uske liye, jisne kabhi khud se call nahi ki, humne ki bhi toh kabhi usne tumse baat nahi ki. Jab bhi usse bhulao, toh vo aata hi nahi. Abhi tak toh usne shaadi bhi kar li hogi."

Arshia's chest tightened at the words, a mix of pain and resignation settling deep within her. She knew her aunty was right, but the distance between them, both physical and emotional, was something she wasn't ready to face.

- F L A S H B A C K -

7 years ago

The old telephone rang, its sound echoing through the quiet house. It had been there for years, a relic of a time long past. One of the servants picked up the receiver, listening intently to the voice on the other end. After a brief exchange, the servant hurried to Raj's room, knocking softly before entering.

"Sir, there's a call for you," the servant said.

Raj, slightly puzzled, stood and walked toward the phone. He picked it up, his voice steady but laced with curiosity. "Hello?"

A deep, familiar voice came from the other end. "Mai Aarav bol raha hun."

Raj froze, his grip tightening on the receiver. "Aarav...??" he whispered, his heart skipping a beat.

"...meri amanat hai aapke paas," Aarav replied calmly, the weight of his words sinking in.

Raj understood immediately what he meant, a chill running down his spine.

"Sambhal ke rakhiyega," Aarav added before abruptly cutting the call.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Raj slowly set the phone down, a storm of thoughts racing through his mind.

- F L A S H B A C K E N D S -

"Chachu, vo aayega," Arshia insisted, her voice steady, her belief unwavering.

Her aunt let out a bitter laugh. "Nahi aayega vo," she retorted sharply. "Humne bulaya tha usse, call Kiya tha." She paused, her words gaining weight with each second. "Kehta hai tum uski amanat ho aur vo nahi aayega. Aur agar vo nahi aaye, fir bhi tumhe uska intezar karongi"

Arshia's heart clenched at the words, but her resolve remained unshaken. She looked at her aunt, her silence speaking louder than any argument she could make.

"Do din baad tumhari engagement hai Rishabh se aur Aman ki Ananya se," her aunty announced with finality, her tone leaving no room for discussion. Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away.

Arshia's heart sank as she turned to look at her chachu. Though she wasn't close to him, she knew he was the only one in the family who truly cared for her. Her eyes silently pleaded for his support.

Raj sighed, his gaze softening as he placed a reassuring hand on her head. "Main usse call karunga, beta," he promised gently before leaving the room.

Arshia stood there, her emotions a whirlwind, clinging to the faint hope his words brought.

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📍M U M B A I

Late night-

The towering building of "Elysian Designs", a prestigious fashion company, stood in darkness, its windows reflecting the faint glow of city lights. From the outside, it seemed deserted, the stillness of the night enveloping it entirely. But inside, in a secluded corner, a faint yellow light spilled out from an office-the office of Ansh Singh Rathore.

In the dim glow, Ansh stood, focused and precise, working on a striking red gown. The fabric cascaded over the mannequin, its intricate details catching the soft light. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of his toned chest. His curly hair, tousled and unkempt, fell across his forehead, a testament to hours of relentless work.

The room was silent except for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional scratch of a pencil against paper. Ansh's presence commanded the space, his intensity palpable even in the solitude of the night.

"Tumne toh kaha tha tum auraton ke kapre nahi banate," a harsh voice pierced through the quiet room. It was sharp, mocking, and had an air of authority that only one person dared to use with Ansh-the one and only Devansh Maheshwari. Leaning casually against the wall, a smirk played on his lips as he watched Ansh.

Ansh didn't respond, his focus remaining on the gown. His fingers grazed the fabric, a faint smile tugging at his lips. There was something about this gown-something inexplicably perfect that he couldn't put into words.

Devansh, unwilling to let his jibe go unnoticed, pushed further. "So, the man who avoids women like the plague is now designing a red gown?" His tone was teasing, but his curiosity was real.

Ansh's smile faded as his eyes drifted to the sleeves. Something about them didn't sit right with him, and his expression turned cold.

Devansh, noticing the shift, decided to add more drama. "Hai Bhagwan! Yeh dekhne se pehle meri 10 girlfriends maar kyu nahi gayi?" he exclaimed, feigning despair.

Without looking at him, Ansh finally spoke, his tone calm but dripping with venom. "Maine padha tha kahi ki raat me kutte bohot bhonk-te hai."

Devansh raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the sudden change.

Ansh turned his gaze toward him, his eyes sharp as a blade. "Aur pata hai, jab kutte bhonkte hai, toh mujhe kya karne ka Mann karta hai?" He paused, letting the tension build.

"Kya?" Devansh asked, half-smiling but sensing the shift in the room.

"Ek ek ko goliyon se uda doon," Ansh replied, his voice as cold as ice, stepping forward and locking eyes with Devansh. The room fell silent, the air thick with unspoken words and challenges.

*Vo agar normally bhi tumhe dekhe toh tumhe dar Lage, jaise serial killer ka aakhri sikar ho tum*

Devansh pushed off the wall, taking slow, deliberate steps toward Ansh. "You know what happens after that?" he asked, his tone dropping to something darker, almost predatory.

Ansh tilted his head slightly to the side, an expression of indifference on his face as if saying, Bolte raho.

Devansh stopped just a breath away, leaning in closer, his smirk fading into something more dangerous. "Jab tum apni gun lekar unhe marne gaye," he began, his voice low and menacing, "toh un kutto mein ek bheriya bhi tha."

The air around them grew tense as Devansh's eyes darkened, a flicker of something primal flashing in them. "You need to be careful, hamesha aise hi nahi nikal jate kahin bhi," he warned, his words carrying a weight that lingered between them.

Devansh tapped Ansh's shoulder lightly, a mocking gesture, before turning and walking toward the door hidden in the shadows. His steps were slow, deliberate, as if savoring the moment.

As he reached the edge of the dimly lit room, Ansh's voice cut through the silence, sharp and biting. "Jo bheriya kutto ke sath Shikhar karte hai, vo kutto se bhi bekar hote hain."

Devansh paused for a fraction of a second, but he didn't look back. Without a word, he stepped into the darkness and disappeared, leaving Ansh alone in the yellow glow of his office. The tension lingered, like the echo of words meant to wound but failing to break.

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