Third Person POV.

Sharma Niwas looked nothing short of a temple itself that morning. The ancient Rajasthani haveli was glowing in gold and red drapes, fresh marigold garlands hanging from carved arches, the fragrance of jasmine and ghee lamps mixing in the air. 

The courtyard had been transformed into a grand mandap, where a towering idol of Maha Ganpati Bappa sat, adorned with silver crowns, bright hibiscus flowers, and sandalwood paste. 

Conch shells and the deep echo of nagadas filled the air as villagers, relatives, and guests from both Sharma and Agnivansh families gathered, their voices joining in the rhythmic chants of

  "Ganpati Bappa Morya!"

Veer Agnivansh, the formidable patriarch, sat with his lifelong friend, Pranay Sharma, at the head of the gathering. Time had etched lines upon their faces, but today those lines seemed softened, illuminated by pride and fulfillment. 

Their bond—once forged in friendship and now strengthened by family—radiated in the way they watched the rituals unfold, their eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of legacies coming together.

A little distance away, Atharva Agnivansh, the Cabinet Minister, sat tall in his ivory sherwani. His composure was as commanding as the authority he carried in public life, yet here it was touched by devotion. Beside him, his wife Meera glowed under the warm flicker of the temple lamps, her saree shimmering like liquid gold, her presence a graceful counterpoint to his regal bearing. 

Aarav shared the same princely poise, though his air was gentler, steadier, as though he carried his power in silence rather than display. His wife Yukta sat at his side, her serene smile lending a quiet warmth to the majesty of the family's presence.

Kiaan and Vihaan were looking at everything sitting near their eldest brother. Regal.

Near the sacred fire, the two matriarchs of the houses held their place of honor. Sugandha Agnivansh, with her silver hair bound neatly and her eyes alive with devotion, mirrored the very essence of a royal matron. 

Beside her, Pooja Sharma, grandmother of Ira, carried the same aura of wisdom, her hands as steady as her voice in prayer. 

Together they offered grains, flowers, and ghee into the flames, their chants blending seamlessly with the deep cadence of the Maha Pandit's mantras. 

The sight of the two women—pillars of their families—kneeling side by side seemed to embody the very union of the dynasties.

And in the very center, commanding the space like destiny itself—
Aariv Veer Agnivansh.

Draped in his embroidered ivory sherwani, his sharp features set like stone, Aariv's aura radiated power. The flickering flames of the havan reflected in his dark, unreadable eyes. He sat cross-legged before the sacred fire, hands folded, performing every ritual with precision, his voice low but steady as he repeated the mantras after the pandit. 

His presence was so overpowering that even amidst the grandeur of Ganesh Chaturthi, all eyes seemed to circle back to him.

Across from him, Rishab sat prepared for the most important ritual of the day—the Tilak Ceremony. As per the ancient Rajasthani tradition, the bride's brother must anoint her would-be husband, welcoming him into their bloodline.

The pandit's voice rang clear—
"Samay aaya hai, var ke tilak ka."

The crowd hushed. The sound of dhols slowed. The only thing audible was the crackle of the fire and the whisper of mantras.

Rishab rose, his hands trembling slightly, not from fear but from the weight of what this moment symbolized—his sister's fate sealed with the man before him. He took the silver thali from Pooja, carrying kumkum, rice, flowers, and a diya. 

With reverence, he placed a tilak on Aariv's forehead. The red vermilion glistened starkly against Aariv's pale skin, a mark of honor and acceptance.

"Tilak shubh ho, yeh jodi sadaiv mangalmay ho," the pandit chanted.

Rishab's eyes met Aariv's for a brief moment—one filled with protective warning, the other unreadable, emotionless as a mask. 

Aariv did not flinch. Instead, he lowered his gaze to accept the ritual, a faint nod escaping him as if silently acknowledging Rishab's unspoken vow to guard his sister's happiness.

Sugandha sprinkled sacred rice over both men, her lips moving in silent blessings, while Veer and Pranay exchanged glances—two old men watching the promise of tomorrow unfold before their eyes.

As the aarti began, the entire courtyard erupted with chants of,

"Ganpati Bappa Morya!" 

The villagers raised their voices, the dhols thundered, and diyas were lifted high. 

Yet, in the middle of this divine celebration, Ira's absence was deeply felt—her name lingering in every prayer, her destiny sealed in the tilak that now glowed red upon Aariv's forehead.

The ritual was complete. The would-be groom had been honored. The engagement of two dynasties had begun.
**********

The tilak ceremony had ended. The air inside Sharma Niwas still vibrated with the echoes of Vedic chants, the fragrance of ghee lamps clinging to the walls, and the crackle of the sacred fire fading slowly.

Aariv Veer Agnivansh sat unmoving before Lord Ganesha's idol, his hands folded, his posture regal, his face carved into an unreadable mask. 

His hazel eyes, when they flickered open, carried that same cold precision that unnerved most men.

But Rishabh was not most men. He was Ira's brother.

With measured steps, careful to avoid drawing the attention of flashing cameras and curious relatives, Rishabh approached. Folding his hands briefly before Bappa, he turned, lowering his voice so only the man in front of him could hear.

"Mr. Agnivansh," he began, quiet but firm. "We've never met before. I understand—you're a busy man, a powerful one. But this is not about politics. This is not about your empire. This is about my sister."

Aariv didn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on the idol, his composure unshaken.

Rishabh's words sharpened.
"Ira is soft. Innocent. She doesn't know the games of the world outside, and she has been sheltered all her life. You—" his voice faltered only for a second before turning steel, "—you are clever. Calculated. 

Always weighing profit and loss. But don't ever treat her as an obligation or a duty. She deserves more than that."

The fire in his eyes flared, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"I'm asking you, as her brother—be loyal to her. Don't betray her trust. Because if you do..." He leaned forward slightly, his jaw tight, "no matter who you are, no matter what power you hold—I will hunt you. And trust me... you don't want me hunting you."

The air between them thickened, heavy as iron. The weight of his threat lingered in the silence.

Finally, Aariv moved. His hazel eyes turned to meet Rishabh's, their depths unreadable—like molten gold chilled into stone. No anger. No mockery. No warmth. Just an unshakable calm.

He inclined his head slightly, the barest acknowledgment, and said in that low, composed voice that carried more weight than thunder:
"Very well."

Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned back to Lord Ganesha, his hands still folded, his expression unchanged.

Rishabh stepped back, chest rising with uneven breaths, his eyes still burning. He had said what needed to be said. He had laid down his vow. 

And if the day ever came that his sister's smile dimmed because of the man before him—then even the great Aariv Veer Agnivansh would face the wrath of a brother.

*********

The Sharma Niwas was alive with a thousand little movements—servants rushing about with trays of refreshments, relatives ushering guests with folded hands, laughter and instructions mixing with the sound of conch shells echoing faintly from the inner courtyard. 

The house had never glowed this way; today it was not just a haveli but a palace of celebration.

On the second floor, behind the carved wooden jharokha windows, the scene was different. 

In one room, Kiaan and Vihaan busied themselves with Aariv, who, even amidst the swirl of festivities, remained seated before his laptop, his fingers typing with cold precision while his cousins discussed their textile business. 

In another, Siya and Myra were being fussed over by attendants, their giggles and chatter softening the otherwise heavy aura of Agnivansh blood. 

The elders had been given their own rooms to rest, but Veer and Pranay had abandoned theirs, lost in stories of old times, their booming laughter like a reminder that this day was not just a ritual, but a reunion of destinies.

Sugandha and Pooja sat close to the Maha Pandit, their eyes sharp and practiced, directing khansamas and cooks with the precision of women who had done this for decades. 

Nothing slipped their gaze—be it flowers for the puja or the silver bowls of kheer being carried for prasad.

But far from all this bustle, inside her chamber, sat Ira.

The makeup artists had just finished, their brushes and palettes now packed away, leaving behind a silence that was almost heavy. Isha stood beside her sister, her own lehenga shimmering under the faint golden light of the room. 

The younger one looked regal in her sea-blue attire—rich silk with delicate embroidery that seemed to mirror the sky just before dawn. 

Her hazel-brown eyes glowed with warmth and mischief, her laughter bubbling in little bursts to ease the tension she sensed in her sister. The ornaments that adorned her were minimal, yet her youthful charm made her look every bit a princess born of grace.

But Ira—
Ira was something else entirely.

Seated like a still idol, draped in a lehenga of soft ivory and blush pink, her presence transcended adornments. The light from the antique mirror lanterns fell upon her face, and it seemed for a moment as if the room itself held its breath. 

Her doe-like blue eyes, deep as a monsoon sky, glistened with emotions she dared not show—fear, hesitation, hope. Her long lashes quivered each time she blinked, casting shadows on skin so flawless it looked carved from marble. 

The dupatta, sheer and embroidered in gold, was placed lightly over her head, framing her face like a halo.

She looked less like a bride-to-be and more like an apsara descended from some forgotten heaven, caught between the realm of gods and mortals.

Isha stared at her sister for a long time before whispering, half in awe, half in pride, "Didi... tum toh aaj sach mein swarg se utari hui lag rahi ho."

Ira gave her a small, almost absent smile. Inside, her heart was drumming, her thoughts tangled in fears of an unknown future. But outwardly, she sat still, a vision of serenity. To anyone entering the room, she was the perfect bride, untouched by worry.

But only Isha knew—the glow on Ira's face was not from jewels or makeup, but from her soul, trembling yet luminous, as if standing at the edge of destiny.
***********

Isha pushed open the carved wooden door, humming softly as she stepped out of Ira's room. Her lehenga swayed lightly, and the soft tinkle of her anklets filled the quiet corridor. She was still smiling, thinking about her sister looking no less than a goddess inside.

From the other side of the corridor, a maid came hurrying forward, balancing a large silver tray brimming with glasses of sherbet and laddoos. The poor girl's eyes were lowered, too focused on not spilling the load in her hands, unaware of the chaos about to unfold.

And then it happened—
from the opposite direction, two figures turned the corner almost at the same time. Neither noticed the other until the maid, startled, stumbled slightly, the tray wobbling in her hands.

In that split second, both figures lunged forward instinctively—to save the tray, to steady the maid—only to crash straight into each other.

Thud!

The silver tray clattered to the floor, sweets rolling like pearls across the polished marble. Isha gasped, taking a step back as the two people tumbled sideways, colliding shoulder to shoulder, then slipping in perfect cinematic timing. 

The next second, one of them grabbed the other's arm in an effort to steady themselves, but it only dragged both down together—landing on the floor with a soft crash, tangled, breathless, eyes wide in shock.

For a moment, time stood still.

The maid froze, her hands pressed against her mouth, terrified at what just happened. Isha's laughter broke the silence first, uncontrollable, bubbling out like music in the echoing corridor.

The two on the floor looked at each other—half embarrassed, half stunned. Their breaths mingled, faces inches apart. 

The world outside the corridor was buzzing with preparations, chants, and laughter, but here—right here—everything felt paused, like a scene framed in golden light.

The world had stopped spinning for a heartbeat.

Isha blinked rapidly, still sprawled on top of Vihaan. Her sea-blue lehenga shimmered under the golden corridor lights, her hazel-brown eyes wide with horror. Vihaan, on the other hand, lay beneath her with a half-worried, mostly emotionless expression. 

His hazel gaze was fixed on her, quiet, steady—as though the chaos around them had silenced just for this moment.

"Are you... are you okay?" Isha stammered, horrified, pushing her hair back clumsily. Then she froze, her hands flying to her cheeks. "Wait! My makeup—" she gasped, "is it okay? Oh God, tell me my eyeliner hasn't smudged! Do I need to do a touch-up?" 

She was babbling without pause, still lying on him, her words tumbling over each other.

Vihaan said nothing. His eyes just lingered on her, unreadable, like something had stopped for him too. The sound of her rushed words, her anxious little gestures—it all washed over him, but his silence stayed unbroken.

"Wait—sorry—but who are you?" Isha blurted finally, staring down at him, still not realizing she was very much on top of him.

And that's when a dry, exasperated voice cut through the air.

"Will you let him speak?"

Startled, Isha turned her head and nearly yelped. Behind them stood Kiaan, arms folded, his face twisted in irritation, though his sharp eyes glimmered with mischief. "And for God's sake, stand up!" he added, brows raised. "Or are you planning to just... lie on him forever?"

Heat rushed to Isha's cheeks as she scrambled upright, her dupatta tangling in the process. 

She muttered a thousand apologies under her breath, fussing with her lehenga, still sneaking nervous glances at Vihaan, who rose slowly—his gaze calm, unwavering, almost mesmerizing.

Her heart was racing. She wanted to look away, but couldn't.

And Vihaan? He said nothing. But the silence between them spoke louder than words ever could.

Isha stumbled back to her feet, cheeks flushed, her dupatta slipping from her shoulder as she gave Vihaan an apologetic glance. Her wide hazel eyes softened for a second—sorry, they said silently.

But then she turned sharply to Kiaan, who was smirking with arms crossed. "You!" she hissed, narrowing her eyes.

Before he could respond, she lifted her lehenga slightly and stormed her heel right onto his foot.

"Aahh—!" Kiaan hissed in pain, hopping once and glaring at her.

"That's for being so irritating," she declared, her nose in the air, giving him the stinkiest stink-eye she could manage.

"And who are you, anyway?" she added, crossing her arms.

But before Kiaan could answer with one of his sarcastic quips, her gaze slid back to the man still standing before her.

Vihaan.

And suddenly, her breath caught.

The golden light of the corridor wrapped around him like he had just stepped out of some ancient Greek sculpture—broad shoulders, well-built frame, sharp jawline, and eyes... those hazel eyes, deep and unreadable, that seemed to hold secrets she couldn't begin to guess. 

His sherwani only emphasized the commanding cut of his physique, his presence so magnetic that even silence felt loud around him.

Isha blinked rapidly, trying to pull her gaze away, but her lips parted just slightly. Oh no... he's... he's so...

"Handsome Greek god," she muttered under her breath before realizing what she'd just said aloud.

Her face turned crimson instantly. She covered it with her palm, fumbling with her words, "I-I mean—not Greek! Rajasthani god...? Oh God, I should just stop talking!"

Vihaan's face remained calm, still expressionless, but there was the faintest flicker in his eyes—like he'd heard her, like he'd noticed.

And Kiaan? He burst into laughter, clutching his stomach. "Oh, this is too good! My stoic brother and Miss Clumsy Princess. Wah, wah. This rishta is already sounding like a comedy serial."

Isha glared daggers at him, mortified, but her heart refused to calm down. It was still drumming wildly—for reasons she wasn't ready to admit.

Isha, still red as a tomato from her embarrassing slip-up, tried to collect her dupatta and dignity at the same time. Her hands were shaking, her eyes darting anywhere but at Vihaan.

Kiaan was still chuckling behind them, clearly enjoying the show.
"Careful, princess," he teased, "at this rate you'll fall for my brother more than on him."

Isha snapped her head toward him, about to unleash another verbal storm, when suddenly—

A strong hand appeared in front of her.

She froze.

Her hazel eyes traveled up the hand—long fingers, steady grip, veins running over a perfectly sculpted wrist—up the forearm clad in an ivory sherwani, until they landed on his face.

Vihaan.

Silent. Composed. Expressionless as ever. But his gaze—those deep hazel eyes—locked onto hers like he was reading every thought she was desperately trying to hide.

He didn't say a word. Just held his hand out, patient, waiting.

For a moment, time itself seemed to still.

Isha's heart did a flip inside her chest. He's... helping me? Oh no, oh no, why does it feel like the floor is shaking again?

Swallowing her nervousness, she placed her trembling hand into his.

The moment their palms touched, a strange warmth shot through her, her pulse thundering in her ears. Vihaan's grip was firm, steady—effortlessly pulling her to her feet as though she weighed nothing at all.

But instead of letting go immediately, his hand lingered a second longer than necessary, his gaze steady on her. Not soft, not tender—just sharp, assessing, and yet... something else flickered there.

Isha blinked up at him, completely lost for words. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

And then, as if nothing had happened, Vihaan finally let go and looked away, sliding his hands behind his back.

The spell broke.

Kiaan smirked. "Well, if you two are done re-enacting a Bollywood slow-motion scene, can we move? We have a ceremony to attend."

Isha flushed crimson again, glaring at him. "Shut. Up."

But inside? Her heart was still stuck in that one moment—his hand around hers, his eyes locked into hers.

And for the first time in her life, Isha Sharma, who always had a comeback for everything, was speechless.
*****************

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