The room felt different when I stood alone in front of the mirror.

Too quiet.

I adjusted the dress slowly, then let my hands fall. The girl looking back at me didn’t feel entirely familiar anymore. Not in a bad way. Just… different. Like I had stepped into a version of myself I hadn’t met before.

If someone had told me a few months ago that I would be here, in Veer Singhania’s house, wearing his engagement ring, I would have laughed. It would have sounded impossible in the most obvious way.

And yet here I was. I glanced at my hand again. The ring was still there.

Still real.

I had always believed in the idea of the red thread of fate. Something invisible tying people together, even when life tried to pull them apart. I used to think it was just a comforting story people told themselves when reality didn’t make sense.

But now… Nothing about Veer made sense in a simple way.

The accident. The memories I couldn’t reach. His past that felt like it belonged to me but didn’t fully sit in my mind. The way he looked at me like I was never actually lost.

If all of it was true, then maybe this wasn’t coincidence at all. Maybe it was something already written.

And if he had spent years holding onto something I couldn’t even remember, then the least I could do was not let go now that I was here.

When I stepped onto the balcony, everything outside was dark. No lights. No movement. Just silence.

“Veer?” I called softly.

And then the entire space lit up. Warm golden lights flickered alive across the balcony, revealing a view that made me stop mid-step. For a moment, I forgot to breathe.

“Did you like it?” his voice came from behind me.

I turned.

He was standing there in a dark suit, relaxed but sharp in a way that didn’t feel like effort. Just presence. Like the world naturally adjusted around him.

“Yes,” I said honestly, my voice quieter than I expected. “It’s beautiful.” He took a step closer. “I was talking about the view.”

I rolled my eyes slightly, but there was no real annoyance in it. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he said, entirely unbothered. The space between us shrank naturally, like it had done it before without permission. He tilted his head slightly, studying me.

“Have I told you how beautiful you look?” I shook my head. “Then ask me,” he said.

I hesitated. “How do I look?” He leaned in just slightly, enough that I caught the scent of him—clean, expensive, familiar in a way that unsettled me.  And then he spoke, quieter this time.

“You look like mine. Not in a way that traps you,” he added softly, his fingers brushing under my chin to make me look at him, “but in a way that feels like coming home. Mine to care for. Mine to spoil. Mine to love. Mine to worship”

My breath caught, and I quickly looked away, suddenly aware of how close he was. Before the moment could spiral further, my stomach betrayed me with a soft growl.

Veer laughed under his breath. “Food,” he said immediately. “Come on.”

Dinner felt easier.

More normal.

We sat across from each other, but it didn’t feel distant. He served the food before I could even reach for the spoon, like it was instinct now. I pretended to complain, but I didn’t stop him.

At some point, I asked him about childhood stories, and that was all it took for the evening to soften completely.

He talked about things I couldn’t remember but somehow still felt familiar when he said them. Small incidents, school chaos, people I apparently knew. And then suddenly I was laughing, properly laughing, when he mentioned something about Mahir Bhai and a ridiculous childhood moment involving me and rubber bands. 

“Stop,” I said between laughter, taking a sip of juice. “Young me sounds like a menace.”

Veer hummed, watching me more than the food. I noticed it after a while. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, narrowing my eyes slightly.

“Like what?” he said, resting his chin on his hand. “I don’t know,” I muttered. “Just… stop.” He didn’t.

“I look at you,” he said finally, voice quieter now, “because I don’t think I ever got enough time with you even when you were right there. And now I’m afraid I’ll miss even a second of you again if I blink.”

The teasing tone was gone. So was mine. The room felt still in a different way.

Then he told me about the years he went to the temple on my birthday. About prayers he repeated even when hope should have made no sense anymore. About how he had only ever seen my eyes in dreams, never my face clearly.

And I didn’t know when my vision blurred. Because it didn’t feel like I was hearing a story. It felt like I was remembering something I never lived.

When I finally spoke, my voice came out quieter than I expected.

“It feels like I’ve known you before,” I said slowly. “Like this isn’t the first time I’m meeting you… just the first time I’m remembering.”

Veer didn’t interrupt. “There’s still something missing,” I admitted. “A gap I can’t explain.” He leaned forward slightly. “Then we fill it together. Not separately.”

A pause. Then, lighter again, he smiled. “Now can I have this beautiful lady for a dance?”  I nodded before I could overthink it.

Later, when the night had softened and everything had settled, I reached for a small velvet box I had kept aside.

Veer looked at it immediately. “What’s that?” I didn’t answer. I just handed it to him. He opened it carefully. And for a second, he didn’t speak.

“Do you like it?” I asked, suddenly unsure. “They’re perfect,” he said finally, looking up at me. “When did you even get these?” 

“When you were busy being impossible in the showroom,” I replied. That finally made him smile properly.

He closed the box and pulled me into a hug without warning, like that was the only correct response.

“Thank you,” he murmured.  

“Good night,” I said softly. He kissed my forehead again, slower this time. “Good night.” And for the first time that day, everything felt still in a way that didn’t ask for anything more.

I wake up to the sharp, repetitive beep of my alarm cutting through the quiet of the penthouse. For a second I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, before the realization hits me properly. I’m late.

8 AM.

I sit up immediately, running a hand through my hair, already mentally calculating the meetings I’m about to survive on too little sleep. The day doesn’t wait, even when I do. By the time I come downstairs, it’s already half past eight.

The smell of something warm fills the kitchen before I even step in properly. Inayat is there.

Hair slightly tied back, moving around like she belongs in this space without asking for permission. There’s something grounding about that. Like the house has finally learned how to breathe.

“Good morning,” I say, loosening my tie as I walk toward the coffee machine. She looks up immediately and smiles. “Good morning.” 

“What are you making?” I ask, watching her move between the stove and counter. “Bread omelette,” she replies, sliding a plate toward me before I can even fully register it. “This is yours. I’ll bring your coffee.”

I take the plate from her hand. Our fingers brush for a second longer than necessary, and she notices it too, because she looks away first. I sit on the stool across from her instead of the dining table. Closer. Easier.

She places the coffee beside me a moment later. “Thank you, cupcake,” I say automatically. The nickname slips out like it belongs there now.

She just smiles. That small, quiet smile that still manages to slow things down inside my head.

“Are you going to the studio today?” I ask between bites.

She shakes her head. “Not today. I usually go once or twice a week. Other days I stay home, or I visit the orphanage. I think I’ll go there today.”

Orphanage. That detail sits somewhere deeper than the rest of the conversation, but I don’t push it. Not now.

My phone rings before I can respond properly.

Neel.

I answer immediately. “Yes?” 

“Sir,” his voice is tense, “the media is out of control. The news about you and Miss Inayat is spreading everywhere. If we don’t handle it—”

“I’m coming,” I cut in. “Arrange a press conference.”

I end the call and exhale slowly. When I look back at her, she’s watching me carefully. “I have to go,” I say, softer now. “And you’re staying here today. Don’t go anywhere.” Her brows knit slightly. “Why?”

The word I want to say is truth. But the truth right now would only confuse her more. So I step closer instead. “Please,” I say, lowering my voice. “Trust me on this.”

She holds my gaze for a second longer than I expect, then nods. “Okay.” I kiss her forehead before I leave. I don’t overthink it anymore. I’ve stopped trying to.

The press conference is exactly what I expected. Noise pretending to be questions. Voices overlapping, cameras flashing, people desperate for a version of my life they can package and sell.

“Sir, who is the girl with you?”, “Is she your girlfriend?” , “Is this an alliance marriage?” I listen for a few seconds before I finally speak.

“I understand your job is to report,” I say, voice steady, controlled, “but there’s a line between reporting and intrusion.” The room quiets slightly.

“You all have personal lives,” I continue. “Imagine if I stood outside yours and asked questions you wouldn’t answer. Would that feel fair?” No one responds.

Good. Then I turn slightly, pointing at one of them. “You,” I say. “You’re divorced, aren’t you? Still wearing your ring. Should I ask you why?”

Silence sharpens. I don’t wait for an answer. “There’s enough in the world to report without turning private lives into entertainment.” I adjust my cuff, glance around once more. “Thanks for coming.” And I leave. No satisfaction. No anger.

When I get back home, it’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that immediately tells me something is off.

“Cupcake?” I call once. Nothing. I remove my jacket, place it on the sofa, and walk further in.  “Inayat?” Still nothing. That’s when the unease starts creeping in. Not loud. Just persistent. I check the rooms one by one until I reach hers.

I don’t knock this time. The door opens. And there she is. Asleep. Half curled into herself, phone resting against her collarbone, empty plate beside her. Hair slightly messy, dress from morning still on her like she had simply… forgotten to stop the day. Relief hits first.

Then frustration. Then something softer I don’t bother naming. I step inside quietly, take the phone from her hand, and glance at the screen. A movie paused mid-scene.

Of course. Small screen. Again.

I place it on the table and adjust the duvet around her more carefully. Her breathing stays steady. She doesn’t wake.

Her hair falls across her face, and before I even think about it, I brush it aside.

She looks peaceful like this. Not guarded. Not uncertain. Just… here. “Idiot,” I mutter under my breath, but there’s no real bite in it. I kiss her forehead once before leaving the room.