𝟑. 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭?

Next Morning — Varanasi:

“Roop, uth jaa! Dopahar ke baarah baj rahe hain! Aise hi rahegi apni sasuraal mein toh woh log wapas bhej denge tujhe!”

(Roop, wake up! It’s already noon! If you behave like this in your in-laws’ house, they’ll send you right back!)

Her mother’s voice cut through the stillness of the morning as she shook her awake.)

Roop groaned, burying her face in the pillow. “Uhh, Maa… unhe agar mere sone se problem hai, toh fir na karwaye mujhse apne bete ki shaadi.”

(Ugh, Mom… if they have a problem with me sleeping, then don’t make me marry their son at all.)

“Nautanki! Chup-chaap uth jaa aur fresh ho jaa. Khana bhi ban jayega tab tak. Jaldi kar!”

(Drama queen! Get up quietly and freshen up. Lunch will be ready soon. Hurry up!)

Ragini scolded, her tone half strict, half amused, before leaving the room muttering under her breath about her daughter’s laziness.

With a reluctant sigh, Roop finally sat up, rubbing her eyes. Sunlight filtered through the floral curtains, casting golden lines across her face. The day had begun — whether she liked it or not.

Dragging herself to the mirror, she brushed her hair lazily. Her gaze drifted to the small photograph on her dressing table — his photo.

His eyes — dark, deep, and unreadable — stared back at her. They held something cold, something too calm, and yet, something that made her heartbeat stumble every time she looked.

Why does it feel like he’s watching me even through a photograph?

She bit her lip lightly, shaking her head. “Pagal ho gayi hoon main. Ek photo dekh kar itna soch rahi hoon.”

(I’ve gone crazy. Overthinking just by looking at a photo.)

After getting ready, Roop headed downstairs for lunch. The aroma of freshly cooked dal and rotis filled the air. The house was spotless — every surface shining, every cushion perfectly arranged. Her mother moved swiftly between the kitchen and the dining table, adjusting things that were already perfect.

Her father, Rajesh Sharma, sat at the table with Ramlal Ji, their voices low and serious. The kind of tone men used when talking about something important.

Roop quietly took her seat, serving herself a small portion of rice and curry, trying not to disturb the ongoing conversation.

Then she heard it.

“Rathore’s pohonch gaye Varanasi,” Ramlal Ji informed in his calm, steady voice.

(The Rathores have arrived in Varanasi.)

The words froze her hand midair. The spoon hovered above her plate, her mind suddenly blank. They’re here.

Her heart skipped a beat, then raced. Nervousness crawled up her spine like a slow shiver. She forced herself to keep eating, not wanting to show the sudden tremor in her hands.

Her mother noticed but said nothing, while her father and Ramlal Ji went on discussing preparations — gifts, dinner menu, timing. The usual. But for Roop, everything suddenly felt too real.

Lunch ended quietly. The elders continued talking, while Roop walked back to her room, her pulse still uneven. He’s here… what if he doesn't like her?...

By late afternoon, the Sharma house transformed into a whirl of activity. Servants moved briskly through hallways, arranging flowers, setting up decorations. The rich aroma of spices — cumin, cinnamon, and fried onions — filled the air. The faint sweetness of jasmine from the garlands mixed into it, wrapping the house in a heady fragrance of expectation.

From the kitchen came her mother’s voice again, firm and affectionate all at once.

“Roop beta, paanch bajne wale hain! Jaldi tayyar ho jaa, woh log kabhi bhi aa sakte hain! Aur haan — kuch accha pehen na!”

(Roop, it’s almost five! Get ready quickly, they could arrive any moment! And yes — wear something nice!)

Standing before her wardrobe, Roop’s fingers trailed over rows of folded fabrics — soft pastels, bright silks, delicate chiffons. Her hand paused over a blush-pink suit, simple yet elegant. But not yet sure...

For a moment, she just stared at it. What does one wear to meet the man who already feels like a mystery written in her fate?

Taking a deep breath, she finally slipped into the outfit and stood before the mirror. A touch of kohl, a hint of lip tint, and her dupatta draped gracefully over her shoulder.

The reflection staring back looked composed — calm, even serene — but her heart was anything but.

Because tonight, she would meet him.

The man whose name now bound itself to hers.

The man whose eyes refused to leave her thoughts.

*************************************

Meanwhile -

The clock had just struck midnight when the Rathore convoy rolled into the quiet lanes of Varanasi. The headlights of the black SUVs sliced through the misty night, drawing curious glances from the sleepy neighbourhood.

After a long, tiring journey, the family finally reached the grand heritage bungalow Deva had arranged for their stay — a restored haveli by the ghats, glowing faintly under the streetlights.

Inside, servants rushed forward to greet them, bowing respectfully.

Vineetha Rathore stepped out first, her sari slightly creased from travel but her eyes bright with excitement.

“Bas, ab yahan aake dil ko sukoon mil gaya. Kya khoobsurat jagah hai,” she murmured, looking around in admiration.

(Finally, my heart feels at peace here. What a beautiful place.)

Daksh chuckled softly, stretching his shoulders.

“Aapke bete ne sab kuch arrange kar rakha hai, Vineetha. Pata nahi kab se yeh plan bana raha tha.”

(Your son arranged everything so perfectly, Vineetha. Who knows how long he’s been planning this.)

“Haan, par ab so jaate hain. Raat ke ek baj rahe hain. Kal subah milte hain Deva se,” Mamta Dadi said, yawning as she entered the house.

(Yes, but let’s sleep now. It’s already 1 a.m. We’ll meet Deva in the morning.)

Soon, the servants carried in the luggage, and the lights dimmed as the house slowly fell into silence.

        ---------------------------------------------

Early Morning — Around 7 a.m.

At the private Varanasi airstrip, Deva’s sleek black jet landed smoothly against the pale dawn sky. The hum of the engines faded as he descended the stairs, dressed in a crisp black shirt, the morning wind ruffling his hair. Shiva followed, half yawning, half smirking.

“Sari raat kaam karta raha aur ab yahaan shaadi ka drama, tu kab sota hai bhai?” Shiva teased, stretching his arms.

(Worked all night and now this wedding drama — when do you ever sleep, brother?)

Deva slipped on his sunglasses, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Neend unhe aati hai jinke paas sukoon ho, Shiva.”

(Sleep comes to those who have peace, Shiva.)

The driver opened the car door, and within minutes, they were heading toward the Rathore residence. The city slowly came alive — temple bells, the scent of incense, and the calls of vendors echoing through the narrow streets — but Deva’s focus remained distant, unreadable.

---------------------------------------------

A Few Hours Later — 12 p.m.

The haveli was now filled with soft sunlight and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

The Rathores, having finally rested, gathered at the breakfast table — or rather, brunch table, given the time.

Vineetha was already in a lively mood. “Daksh ji, ab toh lagta hai hum sab ke ghar me dhol bajne wale hain.”

(Daksh ji, I think we’ll soon have wedding drums playing in our house.)

Daksh smiled faintly. “Bas, Deva ki haan mil gayi hai, warna toh humne kab ka haath utha liya tha.”

(Now that Deva’s agreed, otherwise we had almost given up hope.)

Mamta Dadi chuckled, sipping her tea. “Mujhe toh lagta hai ladki ne hi jaadu kar diya hai humare Deva pe.”

(I think that girl has cast a spell on our Deva.)

The table filled with laughter. Even the youngsters grinned, making light-hearted comments, but Deva — sitting at the far end of the table — only looked up from his cup briefly, his expression unreadable.

“Bas Dadi, sab kuch perfect hona chahiye. Woh log aaj shaam ka intezam kar rahe hain, hum time pe niklenge. Aur hum nahi chahte ki unhe yeh patha chale ki hum unhe pehle se jaante hai, toh aap sab yeh dyaan rakhiye ga ki yeh baat galti se bhi na bataye aap sab". Deva said with a full authority.

(Dadi, everything should be perfect. They’re hosting us this evening, we’ll leave on time. And I won't want them to know that I know her beforehand, so I want you all to not disclose it even by mistake)

“Arey, haan haan tu chinta mat kar. Hum taiyaar hain beta! Par tu bhi thoda muskura le kabhi, shaadi teri hai hamari nahi!” Vineetha teased.

(Ohhh, yesss, yess don't worry about that. We’re all ready, son! But at least smile a little — it’s your wedding, not ours!)

Deva glanced at her, a small curve touching his lips — but it wasn’t warmth, it was control.

“Maa, sab kuch sahi se hi hoga. Bas waqt ka intezaar kariye.”

(Mother, everything will happen correctly. Just wait for the right time.)

The tone was calm, polite even — yet something in it made the room fall briefly quiet. Shiva’s eyes flicked toward him knowingly.

To break the silence, Mamta Dadi clapped her hands. “Chalo, chalo sab! Ab taiyaari shuru karo. Shaam tak Sharma ji ke ghar jaana hai.”

(Come on now! Everyone start getting ready — we have to visit the Sharmas by evening!)

Within minutes, the calm breakfast turned into chaos — suitcases opened, sarees unfolded, jewelry boxes scattered. Servants hurried back and forth with trays of tea and clothes to be ironed.

Deva, meanwhile, stood by the balcony, watching the city stretch before him — ancient temples glinting in the distance, the sacred river reflecting the sunlight. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond, as if searching for something unseen.

Shiva joined him quietly.

“Toh ab kya?”

(So, now what ?)

Deva’s lips curved faintly.

"Aur ab waqt hai… unhe dekhne ka.”

(And now… it’s time to see her.)

He turned, his expression unreadable but his eyes holding that familiar darkness — the kind that promised this meeting wasn’t going to be ordinary.

******************

The golden evening sun cast long shadows across the courtyard of the Sharma house. The house was glowing — strings of marigolds hanging at the entrance, diyas lit along the pathway, and a soft aroma of sandalwood filling the air. Inside, Ragini was giving last-minute instructions while adjusting her dupatta.

“Rajesh ji, sab thik se hogaya na? Mithaiyaan table pe rakh di maine.”

(Rajesh ji, is everything set properly? I’ve placed the sweets on the table.)

“Haan, haan Ragini, sab perfect hai. Aap bas apna stress kam karo.”

(Yes, yes Ragini, everything’s perfect. Just stop worrying so much.)

Ramlal hurried in from the front gate. “Bhaisaab, gaadiyan aa gayi! Lagta hai Rathore parivaar aa gaye.”

(Brother, the cars have arrived! The Rathore family is here.)

The moment those words left his mouth, the entire house came alive — servants straightened up, Roop’s sister peeked out from the balcony, and Ragini quickly pulled her pallu over her head.

Outside, the Rathore family stepped out of their sleek black cars. Vineetha Rathore, elegant in a soft peach saree, smiled warmly as Rajesh and Ragini came forward to greet them.

“Namaste Vineetha ji! Swagat hai aap sabka. Safar se jyaada thake toh nahi."

(Namaste, Vineetha ji! Welcome. You’ve come such a long way, you must be tired.)

“Arre nahi, Rajesh ji, yahan ke mausam ne toh saari thakaan mita di.”

(Oh not at all, Rajesh ji, the weather here has taken away all our tiredness.)

Vineetha replied with a gentle laugh.

Mamta and Vanraj Rathore followed behind, their presence warm yet regal. Ragini touched their feet respectfully.

“Khush raho, beti. Itna pyara ghar hai tumhara.”

(Bless you, dear. You have such a beautiful home.)

Mamta smiled, patting her head affectionately.

Inside, the atmosphere turned lively. Servants moved around serving cold drinks and snacks, children giggled in corners, and the aroma of freshly fried pakoras filled the air.

“Vineetha ji, thoda chai lijiye, Varanasi ki special masala wali hai.” Ragini offered as they settled in the living room.

(Vineetha ji, please have some tea, it’s Varanasi’s special masala blend.)

Vineetha smiled. “Aap logon ne toh itni achhi mehmaan-nawaazi ki, ab toh humein lag raha hai hum apne hi ghar mein hain.”

(You’ve welcomed us so warmly, it feels like we’re in our own home.)

Rajesh chuckled softly, “Bas aapka pyaar hi chahiye, Vineetha ji. Yeh toh humara farz hai.”

(Your affection is all we need, Vineetha ji. This is our duty.)

While sipping their tea, the younger Rathore cousins leaned forward eagerly, mischief glinting in their eyes.

“Bhabhi kaha hai? Woh kab aayengi?”

(Where’s Bhabhi? When will she come?)

Their teasing drew soft laughter from the room. Vineetha Rathore, smiling warmly, joined in,

“Haan Ragini ji, betiya kaha hai? Bhulaye toh.”

(Yes, Ragini ji, where’s your daughter? Please call her.)

“Jii, jii… bas abhi bulati hoon.”

(Yes, yes… I’ll call her right away.)

Ragini replied, adjusting her saree pallu as she turned toward the staircase.

And then—

Roop descended.

Step by step, her anklets barely whispered against the marble, the red fabric of her anarkali flowing like liquid flame. She looked angelic, almost unreal — soft light pooling around her face, her eyes lowered shyly, her hair brushing against her shoulder. She carried no jewelry heavy enough to shine, yet she shimmered.

There was something pure, almost divine, about her simplicity. The atmosphere softened — every gaze drawn toward her, every smile warming in quiet admiration.

But before she could reach them…

everything shifted.

The faint, rhythmic click of polished black leather shoes echoed across the hall.

Click.

Click.

Click.

A chill ran through the air, slicing through the sweetness of the moment. The laughter stilled. Even the wind outside seemed to halt.

And then he appeared- Deva.

The sharp edges of his suit caught the low light, his presence too commanding to be ignored. He didn’t need to speak — silence bowed to him on its own. There was something darkly magnetic about him, something that made the world shrink until there was only him — and her.

Their eyes met.

Her breath faltered; and his breath stopped altogether.

In that one moment, everything else blurred — faces, voices, the very air — fading into nothing.

Her red anarkali glowed in his vision like a living flame.

He had always loved red.

It was the color he saw every time he destroyed something… or someone.

But this time, red destroyed him.

For the first time, the predator felt hunted — by innocence itself.

He wanted to look away, but couldn’t. The urge to hide her, to shield her from every other gaze, grew inside him like a storm. She’s mine, his mind whispered, dark and possessive, even before a single word had been exchanged.

Roop felt her skin burn under his gaze. Not the warmth of affection — but the scorching heat of something far more consuming.

It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t fear.

It was a pull, raw and undeniable, as though he could see straight through her — her thoughts, her pulse, her soul.

Her fingers trembled against her dupatta. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. His eyes… those amber, dark, unblinking eyes — they weren’t looking at her, they were devouring her, worshipping her in silence.

And for a terrifying second, she didn’t want him to stop.

“Deva, tu aa gaya beta!”

(Deva, you’re here, son!)

His mother’s voice sliced through the thick air, shattering the trance that held them both captive.

Roop blinked rapidly, her throat tightening as she tore her gaze away. The air she breathed felt heavy, as if it belonged to him. She lowered her head quickly and moved to stand beside her parents — her heart still pounding, her fingers cold, her mind a blur of confusion and heat.

She dared not look again.

Because she knew — if she did — she’d fall right back into those eyes that promised sin disguised as devotion.

Ragini tried to break the taut silence, her voice gentle yet uncertain.

“Arey Deva beta, aajao, baitho, chai lo tum bhi.”

(Deva beta, come, sit, have some tea too.)

He gave a small nod, deliberate, measured, almost ritualistic. His gaze never left Roop. Even as he moved toward the sofa and lowered himself beside his mother, the air seemed to tighten around them — taut as a drawn bowstring, vibrating with an unspoken charge.

Roop could feel it like a weight pressing against her chest.

His eyes tracked every micro-movement — the subtle tremor of her wrist as she poured tea, the faint shuffle of her dupatta across her arm, the delicate tilt of her head as she adjusted a stray strand of hair. It was as if he was memorizing the rhythm of her being, every imperfection burned into his mind.

When she stepped closer to hand him a cup, their fingers brushed.

A mere second, a fleeting contact — yet it ignited a small, unbearable blaze across her skin.

“Thank you.”

His voice was quiet, restrained, but under the soft tone lay something darker, something deliberate. The words were polite enough for the room, but they pressed into her chest, making her heart stumble.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she lowered her gaze and stepped back toward her seat. Still, his presence clung to her like heat. She could almost feel it searing along her spine, rising in goosebumps over every inch of exposed skin.

The elders spoke around them, voices light and casual — about the city, the weather, family memories — but Deva’s world had narrowed to a pinprick of focus. Laughter blurred into static; the clink of teacups and rustle of silk became meaningless noise against the drumbeat of his own pulse.

He sipped his tea slowly, eyes never leaving her, watching her over the rim of the cup.

Every subtle motion drew him in — the quick rub of her nose, betraying a dust allergy; the faint patting of her hands to dry invisible sweat; the restless tucking of her hair behind her ears. His hands twitched to reach out, to steady her, to hold her, but he restrained himself, masterfully, deliberately.

And every time she dared to look up, he was already staring — patient, unflinching, consuming.

Then her mother’s voice broke through like a bell:

“Roop, beta, jaa… Deva ko tera kamrah dikha.”

(Roop, dear, go… show Deva your room.)

Her eyes widened. The room had already felt impossibly close, impossibly intense with him there. Now, to be alone with him? The thought made her throat tight, her stomach coil with unease — and a strange, thrilling fear.

She wanted a escape, she waited her mother to tell that it's a joke but nothing like that happened and she knew that there was no escape now.

But Deva…

He didn’t move immediately. His gaze lingered, dark and deliberate, following her every step toward the stairs. A faint smirk, almost imperceptible, tugged at his lips.

It was a silent promise, a quiet command — a remi

nder that even apart, even without words, the world had already narrowed between them to just two heartbeats, two breaths, two souls drawn into an inevitable pull.

And for a single, suspended moment, the air itself seemed to pause — waiting for her to step, and for him to decide what would happen next.

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