His Unexpected Love ~ A saga of love and betrayal

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Isha's POV

The soft, amber light of dawn spilled faintly into the room, casting golden lines across the marble floor and over the intricately carved pillars of the chamber. I slowly stirred, feeling the warmth of an arm around my waist. My eyes opened gently to find myself nestled in the familiar cocoon of Shivansh's embrace.

For a few seconds, I lay still, tucked into the softest silk sheets, listening to the world still wrapped in slumber. The room was dim—the soft grey light of dawn pressing against the curtains—but it held that distinct, sacred quiet of early mornings. A quiet that felt like a secret shared only with those who dared rise before the world remembered its chaos.

I sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, my muscles still heavy with the exhaustion of yesterday's laughter, emotions, and memories. But inside, my heart felt light—warm with something I couldn't name.

Maybe love.

Maybe responsibility.

Or maybe just the hope that today, for once, I could do something that would make this palace—this family—feel cherished.

Maasa's anniversary...

Her smile from last night echoed in my memory—tired, but full of peace. That one moment had made everything worth it. And today, I wanted to make sure she woke up to a day that felt like a celebration of her gentleness. Her strength. Her quiet sacrifices.

His face was so calm in sleep, the faint rise and fall of his chest syncing with mine. I stayed still for a moment, just watching him.

His long lashes rested peacefully against his cheeks, and I couldn't help but smile. How was it possible that this man—cold, calculating to the world—held me like I was the most precious thing he owned when no one was watching?

Outside, I heard the soft cooing of pigeons and the distant chirping of early morning birds. I glanced at the wall clock and my breath hitched slightly—5:00 AM. I was late.

"Oh no!" I whispered under my breath, careful not to wake him.

Gently, almost reluctantly, I slipped out of his arms. He stirred just a little, but didn't wake up. I watched him for one last second before pulling the silky dupatta around me and padding quietly to the bathroom.

The icy splash of water broke my drowsiness. I wrapped myself in the morning air, letting the cold shower ground me for the long day ahead. Today wasn't an ordinary day. It was Maasa's and baba sa wedding anniversary, and I remembered Dhruv's words during our last trip—the pooja in their home mandir, how they made it a tradition. I wanted to make this day special for them. For all of them.

After drying off, I stood in front of the large wooden wardrobe.

I padded across the polished marble floor, silently opened the wardrobe, and stood in front of the hanging rows of clothes. My fingers grazed the fabrics—silks, chiffons, cottons, elegance in every fold—but my eyes rested on a soft, pastel-pink Anarkali.

It was simple. Embroidered lightly with gota work, threaded with little golden vines along the neckline and sleeves. Feminine, flowing, and dignified.

Perfect.

I held it against myself in the mirror and smiled. Today, I don't want to just be Isha. Today, I want to be part of them. Not as a guest. But as their own

My eyes searched quickly and then stopped at one of my favorite suits—a soft psstel pink Anarkali, adorned with delicate hand embroidery in golden thread, with hints of pastel pink and green. I ran my fingers over it gently, feeling its warmth and memory. It was traditional yet elegant—perfect for today.

I wore it slowly, tying the back dori, fixing the matching churidar, and adjusting the dupatta over my shoulders. I kept my makeup minimal—a small bindi, a stroke of kajal, and a soft pink lip. My hair, still slightly damp, I left open with loose waves. I slipped on my simple jhumkas and finally took a deep breath. Ready.

I walked downstairs, the house still wrapped in slumber. Only the butlers moved about quietly, dusting corners and arranging cushions in the massive drawing room. It was too early for anyone else.

"Good morning, beta," one of them greeted, surprised to see me.

I smiled, "Good morning, Bhaiya. Aaj thoda jaldi ka kaam hai."

I dialed Raj prohit ji, and he answered within the first few rings.

"Namaste, rani sa. Subah-subah yaad kiya?"

( greetings, rani sa. remembered early in the morning.)

"Namaste Raj prohit ji," I smiled softly. "Aaj pooja rakhni thi Maa sa-Bapu sa ke vivaah-diwas par. Kya aap batayenge kya-kya taiyaariyaan chahiye?"

( greetings Raj prohit ji, Today there was a puja to be held on the wedding anniversary of Maa Saa and Baapu Saa. Will you tell me what preparations are needed?)

He sounded pleased, his voice calm. "Bahut achha kiya beta. Shubh kaam mein deri nahi honi chahiye. Main list bhej deta hoon—kya samagri lagegi, kya prasad banana hai… aur main 9 baje tak mandir pahunch jaunga."

( You did a very good job beta. There should be no delay in doing good work. I will send the list-what materials will be needed, what prasad has to be made… and I will reach the temple by 9 o'clock.)

"Bahut dhanyawaad," I replied with heartfelt warmth.

( thank you.)

I hung up and turned toward the pooja ghar, walking barefoot inside. The scent of incense from the day before lingered faintly in the air, mixed with the quiet silence of the sanctum. I looked around—it needed to be cleaned and dressed anew.

I fetched a clean bucket and cloth and began scrubbing the marble floor myself. I dusted every idol, wiped the silver plates, polished the bell. By the time I had finished mopping and washing every corner, the sky outside had begun to take on hues of soft orange and pink.

I opened the drawers of the old pooja cabinet, took out fresh marigold garlands and began decorating the mandir—wrapping the flowers gently around the frame of the deities, placing rose petals around the aarti thali, lighting a fresh diya.

The air began to hum with that sacred morning stillness, and I felt it—peace, purpose, and something deep within me that I hadn't felt in a while. Maybe devotion, maybe love. Or maybe just this small desire to make someone feel special.

With everything set in the pooja room, I tied the pallu of my dupatta tighter and stepped into the kitchen. The staff wasn't here yet—it was still early—and that was exactly what I wanted.

I brought out the ingredients to prepare Prasad—choosing to make Rajasthani Churma, keeping it simple and traditional. I roasted the atta carefully, added jaggery and ghee, mixed it all with my hands, and shaped them into little balls with all the care and warmth I had within me.

So I prepared the prasad slowly, taking my time to stir with patience, to taste with care. I wanted it to carry my love, my intention. I wanted it to feel like home.

And once the pooja preparations were done and the offerings were placed neatly on a silver thali, I moved toward the larger kitchen to begin breakfast preparations for the entire family.

My fingers were slightly sticky from jaggery. My braid had loosened. The Anarkali had a tiny spot of flour near the hem.

But I felt radiant.

I felt real.

Like I was no longer a guest in this palace.

Like I belonged.

Once the prasad was ready, I offered it first in the mandir, placing it in a silver bowl at the feet of the deity. Folding my hands in prayer, I whispered, "Aaj ka din sabke liye shubh ho, aur Maasa aur bapu sa ke liye yaadgar."

( May this day be auspicious for everyone, and memorable for Masa and Bapu sa.)

Then I turned back toward the kitchen, the day still young, but my heart already full.

As I stepped out of the puja ghar, my hands still smelling of sandalwood and rose petals, I exhaled with contentment. The soft glow of the diya flickered behind me, and the silence of the house slowly began to unravel into soft footsteps and hushed voices of the early risers.

I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and made my way back to the kitchen.

The moment I entered, I wrapped my dupatta tighter around my waist, determined to finish making breakfast before anyone could even think of lifting a spoon. I rolled up my sleeves and began taking out ingredients—besan, suji, vegetables, curd. I was planning to make vegetable cheelas, soft, nutritious, and warm. Just the way bapu sa liked it.

But before I could even reach for the chopping board, I suddenly felt two warm arms snake around my waist from behind.

"Aah!" I gasped, half-startled, half-laughing.

"I knew it was you," I said softly, without turning around.

Shivansh's deep voice came close to my ear. "And how exactly did you know, jaana?"

I turned slightly, resting my back against the counter and facing him with a soft frown that couldn't hide the smile tugging at my lips. "Because no one else has the audacity to enter the kitchen like this."

He chuckled, running a hand through his messy hair. He was wearing one of his oversized white T-shirts and grey pyjamas. Effortless. Barefoot. And far too handsome for my own good.

"You should be sleeping," I whispered, still trying to sound stern.

His eyes softened. "When you're not next to me, I can't sleep. You know how I am."

My heart fluttered for a second—annoying, flirty, stubborn king. "When I got up you were sleeping," I added, "I didn't want to wake you."

He tilted his head slightly, stepping closer. "So what are you doing here all alone, Miss Sunrise?"

I crossed my arms. "Making breakfast. I already did the most like, set the prasad, and decorated the puja ghar."

He looked mildly impressed. "Typical jaana."

I turned away to slice some tomato. "And by 9, Raj prohitbji will arrive. So you better be ready."

"And?" he teased.

I smirked, not turning. "i have something for you. Kheer. Traditional."

"Oooh," he drew out the word mischievously. "You mean the kheer for me?"

"Yes," I said, finally facing him again. "And you better smile through all of it. No royal arrogance allowed."

He grinned. "Fine. But only if I get to taste your cheelas before that."

I shook my head with a half-laugh, but before I could say anything, he walked closer and leaned in. "And… coffee."

I sighed. "Demanding prince."

"Deserving king," he corrected, giving me that crooked smile.

We moved side by side, his elbow brushing against mine every few seconds as we chopped vegetables together. He grated the carrots while I beat the batter. For a moment, there was silence—just the sound of metal spoons clinking, knives slicing, oil sizzling. Somehow, in that small kitchen corner, we fit. Not as royalty and commoner. Not as lovers battling a hundred things. Just two people, building something soft, and quiet, and real.

I filled one kettle for tea and placed another on the stove for coffee. As I waited for them to boil, I glanced sideways.

"i want juice" I muttered.

"you didn't drink it?" he asked, frowning.

"no," I replied. "We have pooja, i will drink it after that."

Shivansh nodded quietly. "And you?"

"I'll be fine. I'll run on coffee and stubbornness," I smirked.

"I'll make the juice," he offered, already walking toward the fridge.

"No, you don't—" I began, but he raised his hand.

"I'm already here. Might as well earn my breakfast."

I smiled, placing the teacups on a tray. As I picked it up and turned toward the main hall, he was already squeezing oranges with a manual press and prepping his own coffee beside it.

"I'll bring it in a minute," he called after me.

The batter was almost ready, and Shivansh had just handed me a bowl of perfectly chopped carrots when we heard the sound of anklets approaching. Before I could even guess, three women walked into the kitchen—Maa sa, Chhoti Maa sa, and dadi sa. Draped in soft pastel sarees and wearing early morning smiles, they looked like graceful queens of a forgotten era.

"Well well…" Maa sa said, narrowing her eyes with a playful smile, "What's happening here?"

I froze with a ladle in hand, while Shivansh leaned coolly against the counter, still holding the knife.

"Breakfast?" he offered casually, flashing a grin. "Teamwork."

Chhoti Badi Maa crossed her arms, amused. "Teamwork? Beta, we have a whole kitchen staff for that. What are you both doing together, cutting and stirring like a filmi couple?"

I blushed instantly. "Woh… I just thought to help a little, before the pooja. I've already done the other things. Now just… cooking."

"And he?" Maa sa said, jerking her head at Shivansh. "You're helping voluntarily?"

He laughed, not the least bit fazed. "Why not? She's not just anyone."

"Hmm," Maa sa said, nodding slowly. "I see that."

Then Chhoti Maa stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

Then maa sa said.

I looked up, curious.

"Today's our wedding anniversary," she said, smiling warmly at Shivansh and me. "And this time, I wanted to start the day differently… meaningfully. I thought why not let everyone feel special, and you two, more than anyone, deserve that. So I wanted to prepare something small—halwa, maybe, or a few sweets—to offer with the tea. Just to mark the moment."

I blinked in surprise. "That's beautiful, Maa sa. "

"Which is why," she added, taking a step back, "you go ahead, take the tea and coffee outside when it's ready. I'll come with the kitchen staff and help finish the rest. Shivansh, you too—go sit. I don't want my babies do work on my anniversary."

Shivansh chuckled. "You sure?"

She nodded firmly. "Positive. Now go. I'll take over with the team."

I gave her a thankful smile as she pulled me in for a light hug. Then she turned toward the kitchen staff who had just walked in and started giving instructions in her graceful, commanding tone.

Shivansh brushed his hand against mine as we stepped out. "See? They love you already."

I rolled my eyes. "They love that I cook now. "

He laughed. "They love you. The food is just a bonus."

With the tea tray in my hands, I stepped into the living area, the soft clinking of cups muffled under the gentle hum of morning ragas playing in the background. Sunlight streamed in from the huge windows, casting golden halos on everyone's faces. The scent of sandalwood from the puja room danced faintly in the air.

I stepped into the hall with the tea tray, placing cups for dadi sa, dada sa, Bapu sa, and everyone who'd woken up early. The scent of incense still lingered from the puja ghar. I felt a strange calmness wash over me—until I turned back and saw him.

Shivansh.

Everyone was seated in a circle—dada sa, dadi sa, chote baba sa, even Baba Saa had taken his royal seat in the large carved wooden chair in the center, his shawl casually thrown over his shoulder, his white beard glowing in the morning light.

As I bent forward, handing tea to each one with a small "good morning" and smile, I could feel their warm glances follow me like a comforting shawl. Every now and then, someone would touch my head or cheek softly—like I was already a part of them.

Just as I served the last cup to baba sa, I turned instinctively to take my spot beside Shivansh on the low couch at the side. He had already cleared a space for me, patting it gently like, "Here, come to me." His eyes were teasing, warm, waiting.

But before I could take a step, Baba Saa's booming voice filled the room.

"Aree ruk jao, bitiya!"

(Oh wait, daughter!)

I blinked.

"Yahaan aao, mere paas," he said, opening one arm invitingly, "baba sa ke paas baitho. Apni maa sa - baba sa ke beech. Aaj humari subhe tumhare naam."

( come here, to me, Sit next to your Baba Saa. Between your maa saa and Baba Saa. Today our morning is dedicated to you.)

The whole family giggled and smiled knowingly, and Shivansh... oh god, Shivansh's face—priceless. His eyes narrowed just a little, a small smirk playing on his lips, but I could feel the green flame of jealousy flicker in them. It made me bite my lip to stop my laugh.

I obediently walked over and sat between Baba Saa and Maa sa who just came with chot maa sa. The thick carpet felt soft under my feet, but their affection made everything warmer. Baba Saa placed a hand on mine.

He was walking toward me, balancing a tray with practiced grace—two glasses of juice, and his favorite cinnamon coffee.

He stopped just in front of me, held out the glass of orange juice. "For my woman, She'll need it."

"And the coffee?" I asked, raising a brow.

He held it up like a trophy. "For your man. He'll need it too."

I couldn't help but laugh.

And for a moment, I stood there in that grand palace hallway, sunlight peeking through the jharokhas, holding tea and love in my hands. As he stood in front of me, grinning like a little boy who knew he did something right, I thought—this was what mornings were meant to feel like.

"You've done everything today, beta. Morning puja, prasad, cleaning, breakfast—ab toh lagta hai poori ghar ki bahu aa gayi."

( Now it seems like the daughter-in-law of the whole house has come.)

Choti Maa sa chimed in, "Not just bahu, beti ho tum. Our home didn't know this kind of gentleness before."

(Not just Daughter-in-law, you are a daughter.)

I lowered my eyes, shyly. "Bas, sabke liye kuch karna tha.. "

( I just want to do something for everyone.)

Just then…

"maa…!"

Two groggy voices echoed from the stairs, breaking the serene morning with chaotic harmony.

Dhruv, Aviyansh and ranveer was lso with him trudged down like lazy lion cubs. Hair messy, eyes barely open, their t-shirts inside out, and expressions that screamed, "Why did the sun rise so early today?"

Aviyansh flopped on the carpet and yawned, "Maa… coffee… please…"

Dhruv collapsed beside him like a sack of potatoes. "Make it strong…"

Dhruv continues, rubbing his eyes dramatically, added, "Aur meri bina cheeni wali, Isha… please? Thoda pyaar daal dena bas…"

(And my sugar-free one, Isha… please? Just add some love to it.)

Everyone chuckled.

I blinked, then glared at them in full elder-sister mode.

"WHAT?!" I almost yelled.

They flinched like scared cats.

"I just made tea for the whole family," I said, pointing to the tray, "served it with a SMILE, and you two spoiled brats come down like royal zombies and ask me to make coffee?!"

They stared blankly.

"KHUD bana lo!" I shouted, grabbing a cushion and aiming it playfully at dhruv.

( Make it yourself! )

"Ouch!" He ducked. "So violent in the morning?!"

I stood, arms on my hips. "Next time come down after a proper bath! Look at your hair! And your t-shirts—seriously, Avi, you're wearing Shivansh's shirt!"

He looked down. "Oh… oops."

"Make your own coffee before I throw all two of you into the sink!"

Dhruv sprang to his feet like a soldier called to battle. "Right away, Queen Isha! Come on, battalion!"

Aviyansh scampered behind him like guilty puppies, muttering, "Bhabhi is so scary when she's angry…"

As they disappeared into the kitchen, the room erupted in laughter.

Shivansh leaned back, watching me with such obvious admiration that even Maa sa noticed.

"Hai Ram," she said, nudging him. "She handles you all better than any of us."

He smiled. "She's already ruling the palace."

I tried to look angry, but I was glowing inside.

This… this was what love felt like. A morning full of laughter, teasing, warmth, the sweet scent of cardamom in the air, and a thousand blessings hidden in every word.



Author's POV

The sun peeked softly through the intricately carved jaali windows of the haveli, casting a gentle golden glow across the marble floors. The air was filled with a sacred stillness, broken only by the quiet hum of preparation as the household got ready for the puja. A dignified calm spread as everyone slowly made their way to the puja ghar, a sacred room nestled in the heart of the palace, draped in marigolds, sandalwood incense, and the purest white sheets.

Raj prohit jii had arrived, his calm aura commanding the quiet reverence of the Raghuvanshi household. All elders bowed to touch his feet as he greeted each with wisdom-filled blessings. Slowly, everyone settled in the sanctified room—couple with partner and single people in last.

Isha stood near the door, holding her dupatta tightly. She wasn't sure if she should go in yet. Her eyes flickered toward the corridor again and again. Her heart whispered one name—Shivansh. The last time she had asked him to join the puja on holika dahan, he had come. Just for her. And she had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that he'd come this time too.

Her mother gently nudged her. "Beta, come. He won't come. You know that."

Isha lowered her eyes, her fingers clenching the edge of her dupatta. With a soft sigh, she nodded and walked inside quietly, sitting beside her maa saa and Baba Saa Or you can say his parents. The chants had begun, the air heavy with devotion.

Just then, a warm shift of presence beside her made her look up. Her breath caught in her throat.

Shivansh.

He had come. For her.

In silence, he lowered himself beside her. Raj purohit ji with a hint of stern affection, said, "rana sa, cover your head."

Without a word, Shivansh reached toward her. His fingers found the left end of her dupatta—the same one he had earlier placed on her head—and now gently brought it over his own head.

Isha looked at him, heart trembling. He was already looking at her.

His eyes were soft, full of something unspoken—an emotion more intimate than any word could hold. He reached forward slowly, found her hand in his, and placed the gentlest kiss on the back of her hand. She froze. The world around her continued—chants, fire, devotion—but she only saw him.

And then, the puja began.

The yajna fire crackled to life, a small but sacred flame lit for peace and happiness. The family offered prayers, flowers, ghee, and blessings into the holy fire. Shivansh and Isha, side by side, silently mirrored the steps, their hands brushing occasionally, and every time it sent a wave of emotions through her.

When the yajna concluded, the room felt lighter—as if something sacred had truly touched them all. Rajpuri ji offered the final aarti, and everyone joined their hands. It was time for bhog.

In accordance with their customs, Isha walked with the thali toward the idols. She offered the prasad to Bhagwan ji first, whispering her prayers, her thankfulness, her wishes. Only once the bhog was offered than they begin serving the prasad to everyone else.

Everyone means everyone she was serving bhog to every butlers snd even guards. Seeing this shivansh and other feel proud of isha and their choice.

Later, they all moved to the living room, still draped in the scent of sandalwood and saffron. Isha walked in, a large plate in her hands, carefully giving each bowl to everyone of their share. Her smile was gentle, her heart still warm from Shivansh's quiet act of affection.

The dining table was being set for breakfast. Plates clattered, laughter returned to the air.

But then she noticed—he wasn't there.

She turned, scanning the room. There, in the corner of the hallway, partially hidden, stood Shivansh. He was talking on the phone, his voice low and serious.

She walked toward him, quietly determined. As she reached, she gently pulled the phone from his ear, her eyes soft but firm.

"Breakfast is served. Come sit. Then you can talk to anyone you want," she said with a small smile, not knowing the storm about to come. "Eat first, Your Highness. Then save the world," Isha said softly, half-playful as she said.

But the moment he turned...

She froze.

His eyes—those eyes that had looked at her with tenderness just moments ago during the puja—were now sharp. Cold. Almost... furious.

He turned to her sharply, eyes blazing with a sudden, overwhelming rage.

"What are you doing?!" he barked. His voice sliced through the quiet hallway like a slap. "Stop behaving like a child, Isha! You don't know what you're doing!"

Her hand trembled as she held the phone, shocked at the sudden change.

"Stay away from me. Stay away from my business. Do you even understand what you've done?!"

Every word echoed louder than the last.

Stop behaving like a child, Isha!" he snapped. "Stay away from my business. Just stay away from me. You don't know what you're doing! You have no idea what you're interfering with."

Each word was a blow. Her hands trembled. She didn't even realize when her tears began to fall. Her voice caught in her throat as she nodded slowly, silently handing the phone back to him.

She didn't understand.

She had only asked him to eat. Like always. Like she used to.

Her lips parted slightly, trying to ask him what he meant, but no sound came. Her mind couldn't catch up—everything felt like a blur. A haze. Her heart pounded violently in her chest, not from anger—but disbelief.

Then she felt it.

Warm.

Silent.

One by one, tears began spilling from her eyes.

She didn't even realize she was crying until she blinked and saw the shimmer on her lashes.

Her fingers clutched the phone for one more moment—before she slowly, silently extended her hand and gave it back to him.

Not a word.

No protest.

No defense.

Only silence.

She turned around.

And then she ran.

And without saying a word, she nooded and turned around and ran.

Past the corner.

Past the living room.

Up the long marble staircase, bare feet thudding softly against stone.

Family were calling her name. Cause they all listen what he said to her.

Past the stunned gazes of family, past the whispered questions.

"Bitiya."

"Isha!"

"bachhe, wait!"

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

Her breath hitched as she finally reached the guest room on the first floor—the one they had given her for comfort, for warmth. And now all she wanted was to lock herself inside it forever.

She turned the latch.

Clicked it shut.

And collapsed onto the bed.

The door muffled the voices outside, but it couldn't silence the storm inside her.

She buried her face in the pillow as the sobs came, muffled, messy, unstoppable.

She didn't care if anyone heard.

Didn't care if anyone understood.

All she knew was this:

He came for her during the puja.

He sat beside her, touched her hand, kissed it like it meant something.

And then, minutes later, he tore that moment to pieces.

Why?

What had she done so wrong?

She wasn't even sure when the crying stopped and the emptiness took over. She lay there, face turned to the wall, eyes wide open but unseeing, and heart heavy like lead.

Downstairs, life continued—unaware, or maybe unwilling to confront what had just happened.

But upstairs...

She was still.

A storm, waiting for someone to remember she was in it.

Shivansh didn't realize what he'd done—not immediately.

The words had flown from his mouth like arrows loosed without aim, and they had found their mark, deeply and precisely.

He had seen her face crumble in real time—the flicker of disbelief in Isha's eyes, the way her lips had parted as if searching for breath. But she hadn't spoken.

She hadn't defended herself. She didn't ask why.

She simply looked at him, with all the innocence and hurt in the world, handed his phone back with a trembling hand, and walked away.

No—she ran.

And something inside him collapsed.

The chaos of the breakfast hall continued for a few seconds, unaware. But those who had seen… those who mattered… they stood still.

The silence around him didn't come from the absence of sound.

It came from the sharp, palpable disappointment that now echoed in the expressions of his own blood.

"Bhai sa, What the hell was that?" Aviyansh's voice came first—low, stunned.

Shivansh turned slowly, still trying to collect the pieces of his composure. But they were scattered—too far gone.

Dhruv stepped in beside Aviyansh, jaw tight, voice sharper. "You shouted at her? In front of everyone? For what? Because she asked you to eat? Are you even listening to yourself?"

He opened his mouth to answer—but nothing came. The weight of his own reaction was too loud in his mind.

It was like watching a scene you wish you could rewrite.

"She's the one who serves everyone, smiles at every one, keeps everything together like a thread holding a frayed fabric. And you—" Aviyansh paused, scoffing in disbelief, "You just tore through her like she was the problem."

Shivansh flinched.

His mother had been standing nearby. She didn't say anything either. She didn't have to.

The way she looked at him… it was enough.

Not anger.

Sadness. Disappointment. Pain.

"Shivansh…" His grandmother's voice followed—calm, aged, and heavy with grief. "There is royalty in titles, but not in the heart that cannot respect love."

Those words cut deeper than his own guilt.

Suddenly the room felt suffocating.

He looked up toward the stairs—toward the direction she had run. Every step she took away from him screamed inside his chest now.

Why had he done it?

Why did he lash out at the one person who waited for him during the puja?

The one who had remembered he came last time on holika Dhan, just for her. The one who had been looking for him in the mandir, who had kept glancing back, hoping he'd come and sit beside her.

And when he did… she smiled. He had seen that. Her eyes softened with warmth.

He had even picked up the chunni—the same one he'd draped on her head earlier—and covered his own head before sitting beside her.

Their fingers had brushed.

He had kissed the back of her hand gently—in silence, while the world prepared for the puja.

And now…?

Now he had shattered it all with one outburst.

It wasn't just anger anymore.

It was regret. Thick. Heavy. Immediate.

He turned to walk—almost to run—but paused.

There were people watching.

His father. His elders. His staff. His friends.

But none of it mattered.

Because in that moment, all Shivansh could hear was the sound of a door slamming upstairs.

She had locked herself in.

And he had put her there.

"Go," his mother finally whispered, placing a hand gently on his arm. "If you still think she matters—go. Don't wait until she learns how to survive without you."

His chest clenched.

He didn't even nod. He just turned around and walked away from the room, away from the judgment in the eyes around him.

He took the stairs two at a time, dread building with every step.

Behind him, the conversation picked up again, soft and scattered—but no one could forget what had just happened.

Not even the walls.

And certainly not Shivansh.

Shivansh turned toward the stairs, heart pounding like a war drum inside his chest. Every second felt like a wound—open, fresh, bleeding.

He had to go to her.

Had to.

He would knock, wait, even beg—but he had to let her know he hadn't meant it. That his anger wasn't for her. That he was scared… Scared of losing her, of being vulnerable, of being seen.

His foot had just touched the first stair when a firm voice cut through the silence behind him.

"You won't go."

He froze.

His father's voice was not raised, not loud—but it carried the weight of a king used to being obeyed, a father not used to being defied.

Shivansh turned slowly, brows furrowed.

"Why not?" he asked, confused and already restless. "She's my fiancée."

He took another step up.

"She's my love." His voice cracked a little—truth always does.

"She's mine."

That was it.

The moment that word—mine—left his mouth, his father's calm shattered.

He stepped forward, eyes narrowing. Not with rage. No, this was something deeper. The kind of fury that stemmed from heartbreak, from watching your son lose sight of what love truly meant.

"No," his father said, his voice low but cutting. "She is not yours. Not a thing to be claimed."

The air turned still.

Everyone standing nearby went quiet—Aviyansh, dhruv and ranveer, even Shivansh's grandmother. You could hear the faint clinking of breakfast plates still being served in the background, as if the world continued unaware of the storm brewing in this corner.

"She is a person, Shivansh."

"She is a woman with her own choices. With dignity. With emotions."

Shivansh clenched his fists at his sides, hurt blooming in his chest. "I know that—"

"Do you?" his father interrupted, stepping closer.

"Because five minutes ago, you shouted at her like she was a child. In front of everyone. And what for? Because she cared?"

Shivansh looked away.

He couldn't meet his father's eyes.

But he wasn't done.

"Second," he continued, voice hardening. "You may have promised to marry her. But before that—she is my daughter now. Do you understand what that means, Shivansh?"

Silence.

The kind that thundered.

"It means I have every right to protect her. From pain. From shame. From anyone who makes her cry."

His voice cracked then. Just barely. A flicker of emotion crossing the steel in his tone.

"Even if that person is my own son."

Shivansh's throat burned. "I didn't mean to hurt her—"

"But you did."

A pause.

"And until she wants you near her again… you will not be allowed near her."

His words were final. Regal. Protective.

And they cut Shivansh deeper than any sword.

This wasn't just about authority. This was about pain. A father standing between a man and the woman he hurt. A father who had watched Isha grow from a quiet girl into a woman with fire in her eyes, kindness in her heart, and now—tears on her face because of his own son.

He sighed then, not out of relief—but out of exhaustion.

"You want to prove your love, Shivansh?"

"Start by giving her space. And respecting the silence she left you with."

And with that, he turned and walked away—leaving his son alone.

Shivansh didn't move.

His brothers didn't say anything either. Ranveer placed a quiet hand on his shoulder before walking away. Aviyansh followed.

Even the help in the hall tiptoed now, as though the entire house was holding its breath.

Shivansh stood still at the edge of the stairs, staring up at the first floor.

A hundred thoughts raced through his mind.

But only one remained:

"What if she doesn't forgive me this time?"

The walls of the palace, once a place of grandeur and pride, now felt too big, too cold, and for the first time—empty.

All because the girl who brought it to life had locked herself away.

And he had no right to knock.

Not yet.

The air upstairs felt different. Softer.

It wasn't silent, no—but there was a stillness that clung to the halls like the weight of a broken heart. And inside one of the guest rooms, Isha sat curled against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees, face buried in them.

Her long hair was messily tucked behind her ear, and though her body was still, her shoulders trembled ever so slightly every few minutes.

She hadn't spoken since she stormed up. She hadn't even looked at anyone.

But she cried.

Quiet, muffled sobs.

The kind that came not from anger—but from hurt. Deep, personal, piercing hurt. The kind that only ever comes when someone you love wounds you in a moment they didn't even realize would cut so deep.

She wasn't crying because he raised his voice.

She was crying because it was him who did it.

The boy who'd once carefully lifted her off a twisted ankle was now the man who scolded her in front of a room full of people.

And that hurt more than anything.

A soft knock.

No response.

The door creaked open, and in stepped he , not as a his father Or someone of the royal family, but simply as a father.

Behind him, his sons—Ranveer, Avyansh, and Dhruv—peeked in quietly, all of them unsure, all of them worried.

Shivansh didn't follow them in fully—he stood back, leaning against the far wall outside her room, hands in his pockets, his eyes on the floor. He knew better than to try to step in now. He had no right yet.

He walked forward gently, his heavy steps lighter than ever before.

"Isha beta…"

No answer.

She didn't lift her face. But her shoulders paused their trembling—acknowledging his voice, even if her words didn't.

He sat down beside her on the bed, not too close. Just enough.

"Don't cry, my child," he said softly, with the kind of affection that comes from somewhere deeper than words. "You didn't do anything wrong."

She sniffled—just once.

Her fingers dug tighter into her sleeves, trying to calm herself down.

The door opened wider as Ranveer tiptoed in with a small tray. A gentle aroma floated into the air—poha, her favorite, lightly spiced. And beside it, a delicate bowl of kheer. Not just any food—comfort food. Love, served warm.

Avyansh followed, holding a glass of fresh orange juice, and Dhruv—sweet Dhruv—carried a small folded napkin and a spoon like he was presenting something precious.

They didn't say anything at first. They just walked in like little boys trying to make up after breaking their sister's toy. And in a way, that's what this was.

Isha looked up slowly, eyes glassy, cheeks stained pink and tear-streaked.

They saw her face, and all three of them winced in unison.

"Oye," Dhruv said, his voice soft like cotton. "You'll get a headache if you cry this much. And then you'll yell at us for not doing anything about it."

Avyansh tried a half-smile. "And we don't want to get yelled at before breakfast."

Ranveer knelt on the floor in front of her, placing the tray down slowly on the bed beside her. "We're sorry, Isha. For everything. For standing there like idiots. For not hugging you right then and there. But we're here now, okay?"

Her lower lip trembled.

He gently placed his hand on her back, rubbing it in small comforting circles.

"Do you remember," he said warmly, "on your first visit here, how you refused to eat anything until you made tea for everyone? And now you're starving yourself after doing nothing wrong?"

She looked down at the plate. Her stomach rumbled at the worst time.

Everyone heard it.

And for the first time in that morning—a soft laugh bubbled out from the brothers. Not mockery, but relief. That she was still in there, their Isha, their fiery little queen who was always right even when she was wrong.

"Please eat, beta," he said, this time gently lifting a spoonful of kheer to her lips. "Papa's hand-fed you before, I'll do it again."

Isha blinked.

"Papa?" she whispered, like it hurt to speak.

He smiled, nodding. "Haan. Papa. Not future father-in-law. Not guest. Not a stranger. Your Papa. Your baba sa. "

Tears welled up again in her eyes—but this time, they were warm.

She opened her mouth and let him feed her.

Ranveer took over next, holding the spoon to her mouth with exaggerated drama. "Only one bite, okay? Rest, I'll eat. This poha is next-level."

She giggled—just barely.

Avyansh handed her the juice, and Dhruv wiped her face gently with the napkin like a dramatic housekeeper, making exaggerated noises about the "princess who forgot how to smile."

One by one, they fed her. Spoke to her. Teased her. Reminded her—she mattered.

Not because she was going to be married into the family.

But because she was already in it.

Outside, Shivansh leaned against the wall, hearing the soft echoes of her laughter through the crack in the door. It pierced him and soothed him all at once.

He smiled faintly to himself.

And whispered—more to himself than anyone else—

"Thank you… dad."

Because in that moment, he knew he didn't just get lucky falling in love with Isha.

He got lucky being born into a family that chose to love her… even when she wasn't ready to love him back.

The room, once heavy with tension and tears, now danced gently with warmth.

There was still a heaviness in the corners of Isha's eyes, and the reddish tinge on her cheeks told the truth her lips didn't. But there was laughter too — soft, shared, healing laughter, like how the first sunshine seeps through after a night of storm.

Isha wiped her cheeks for the fifth time with the napkin Dhruv kept handing her every time she teared up — not because she was still crying, but because she was laughing so much now that she couldn't stop her eyes from watering.

Dhruv was animatedly mimicking Shivansh's dramatic walk, with his chest puffed and his eyebrows furrowed.

"Main hoon Shivansh Rajput. Mujhe sab pata hai. Mujhe koi farak nahi padta. Except when Isha cries and then I look like a statue in the corner."

(I am Shivansh Rajput. I know everything. It doesn't matter to me. Accept when Isha creates and they look like a statue in the corner.)

Isha giggled.

Avyansh followed up with a hand-over-heart sigh, "Isha, meri jaan, mujhe maaf kar do. Main aapke saamne ghutno pe baith kar poha khaunga. "

(Isha, my love, please forgive me. I will sit on my knees in front of you and eat Poha.)

The spoon she was holding nearly slipped from her hand from laughing.

Even her Papa-in-law, as she had begun to think of him, had loosened up beside her, hiding a smirk behind his mustache.

And then dhruv, sweet but the most dramatic of them all, narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms.

"Okay, enough laughing now," he said seriously, looking at the others. "She cried, didn't she?"

Everyone went silent.

Isha looked up at Dhruv, confused.

Dhruv leaned forward and, with a grave tone, said:

"Now we'll make your Shivansh cry."

She blinked.

"What?" she asked, half amused, half curious.

He nodded solemnly. "Tit for tat, Queen. You cried. Now it's his turn."

She scoffed dramatically, putting the spoon down and lifting her chin with faux pride.

"Yes! I will make him cry. He made me cry, and I'm not going to forget that so easily. I'm angry. Very angry."

The boys leaned in, eager.

"Okay, go on, go on! What's the plan, General Isha?" Ranveer asked, rubbing his hands together.

Isha smiled wickedly, like a little villain plotting the perfect drama.

She leaned closer too and whispered, "First… I won't look at him. Not even once. Even if he tries puppy eyes."

The boys nodded, taking mental notes.

"Then… I'll pretend to be hurt. Like really emotional and distant. So he'll keep panicking."

Avyansh gasped, "Oh, psychological warfare. Nice."

"Exactly," she grinned. "And when he tries to talk, I'll interrupt and say, 'Can you please give me some space?'"

Dhruv clutched his heart.

"That'll break him. You've already won."

She giggled again. "And finally, I'll drop the biggest bomb."

Everyone leaned in.

"What?"

She raised one eyebrow proudly.

"I'll make him jealous like today while dancing with any of you. "

The room went absolutely still.

Then the brothers screamed together in shock.

> "WHATTT?"

Ranveer almost dropped the juice glass.

"Are you mad?" Avyansh laughed nervously. "He'll die on the spot!"

"Perfect," Isha said with a wink. "That's the plan."

"Uff Isha, you're just... a mastermind!" Dhruv declared. "Remind me never to break your heart. Or sneeze wrong in front of you."

They all laughed — that full-bellied kind of laughter that pushes away clouds.

In that moment, she wasn't a girl who had cried.

She was a queen surrounded by her newly-earned knights.

The door creaked open then.

They turned, startled, as Rani maa—Shivansh's mother—and not Isha's mother walked in.

Their eyes swept the room: the half-eaten poha, the soft napkins strewn around, the juice glass barely clutched in Avyansh's hand, and most of all—Isha, looking almost herself again.

"What's going on here?" Shivansh's mother asked, hands on hips but a smile tugging at her lips.

"Isha's planning a war," Ranveer said proudly.

"A love war," added Dhruv quickly.

Her mother shook her head with a mock sigh, but her eyes glimmered with love seeing her daughter's smile return.

"Okay, enough of your battle strategies," her mom said fondly. "Now come downstairs. Everyone's waiting."

Isha hesitated, glancing down at her half-finished plate, suddenly unsure. That emotional tightness returned a little.

Her maa sa—Shivansh's mother—noticed, and she walked over, kneeling by the bed. She took Isha's hand in hers.

"Don't worry. No one is angry with you. Everyone is just worried. You're not alone, Isha. You have all of us. Now come down, take your time, but join us. Then you can go to your room and rest, okay?"

Isha looked at her, eyes soft.

A different kind of tear filled her eyes this time.

The kind that comes not from pain—but from being seen, held, and cherished.

She nodded slowly.

And for the first time since morning… her heart began to heal, piece by piece.

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