Time - 7:00 am

📍Khanna Penthouse

Morning arrived at the Khanna Penthouse without ceremony, slipping in through the glass walls like an uninvited memory. The city below was already awake—horns, movement, urgency—but up here, everything moved slower, heavier, as if time itself knew better than to rush.

Priyal Khanna stood barefoot in her bedroom, the cool marble grounding her as she faced the far wall. Three framed photographs rested there, untouched by excess decoration, placed deliberately at eye level. She never hid them, and she never displayed them proudly either. They existed the way grief did in her life—present, controlled, unignorable.

Her parents looked back at her from the frames, frozen in a moment that no longer existed. Her father’s expression was calm, steady, as if he were still silently instructing her to stand tall no matter what. Her mother’s smile was warm, almost alive, the kind that once made everything feel survivable. Between them was another photograph—her masi—strong, dignified, the woman who had held their broken family together after the unthinkable happened.

Priyal lit the small diya beneath the frames. The flame flickered briefly before settling.

“Good morning,” she said quietly, her voice barely more than a breath.

She didn’t clasp her hands or bow her head. Rituals had never been her way. Conversation was.

“I hope you’re not disappointed,” she continued, eyes steady on her mother’s face. “I did what I had to. I still do.”

She exhaled slowly, the weight in her chest familiar, constant.

“Nightsky is expanding again,” she added, as if giving a status report. “Asia is… manageable.”

A faint, almost humorless smile touched her lips. “I didn’t let anyone walk over me.”

Her gaze shifted to her father’s photograph.

“I remembered what you said,” she whispered. “Kindness doesn’t mean weakness.”

Silence answered her, like it always did.

For a moment—just one—Priyal allowed herself to feel it. The ache. The absence. The part of her that had grown up overnight, learning to replace love with responsibility.

Then she straightened.

The world didn’t pause for grief. Neither could she.

She turned away, smoothing the invisible crease from her kurta, and left the room.

Downstairs, the kitchen was bathed in soft morning light. Glass, steel, and marble reflected quiet elegance, but Priyal moved through it with familiarity, not reverence. She tied her hair back loosely and began preparing breakfast with practiced ease.

She didn’t cook to relax. She cooked because it was necessary.

Coffee brewed. Toast popped. Parathas warmed on the pan. Fresh fruit was sliced neatly, each piece deliberate, measured. She plated two servings and set them on the dining table—one slightly larger than the other, though she never acknowledged it.

As she poured the second cup of coffee, footsteps approached.

“Morning,” Kritika said.

Priyal glanced over her shoulder.

Kritika stood near the doorway, fully awake now, dressed in jeans and a casual kurti, her college bag slung over one shoulder. Her hair was still slightly damp, her expression open, unburdened in a way that always made Priyal both relieved and fiercely protective.

“You’re up early,” Priyal said.

“Presentation,” Kritika replied, pulling out a chair. “And before you ask—yes, I slept.”

Priyal placed the plate in front of her. “Eat.”

Kritika smiled, immediately picking up the paratha. “You made breakfast again.”

“You were going to skip it,” Priyal said flatly.

Kritika laughed. “You know me too well.”

They ate in silence for a while, the comfortable kind that didn’t demand conversation. Outside, the city continued its relentless pace, but inside the penthouse, time felt momentarily contained.

Then Kritika cleared her throat.

“So,” she said carefully.

Priyal looked up. “So?”

“Chachi called,” Kritika said.

Priyal’s fingers tightened briefly around her mug, though her expression didn’t change. “About?”

“A wedding,” Kritika continued. “One of our relatives. Distant, but… family enough.”

Weddings had a way of reopening doors Priyal preferred closed. Questions. Looks. Pity disguised as curiosity.

“When is it?” she asked calmly.

“Tonight. Ceremony in the evening. Reception later.”

Priyal nodded once, absorbing it.

“And you told her?” she asked.

“That we’d come,” Kritika said quickly, then softened. “If that’s okay.”

Priyal studied her sister for a moment. Really studied her. Kritika didn’t carry the same armor. She wasn’t meant to.

“We’ll go,” Priyal said finally. “Stay long enough to be respectful. Leave before it turns uncomfortable.”

Kritika visibly relaxed. “I knew you’d say that.”

“Don’t assume,” Priyal replied.

Kritika smiled anyway. “You always do what’s right.”

Priyal’s lips curved faintly. “I do what’s necessary.”

Breakfast ended quietly. Kritika stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder again, checking the time.

“Di,” she said, pausing near the door. “I’m leaving for college. Will meet you at 6, then we’ll go to the wedding together.”

Priyal reached for her keys without hesitation.

“Ok,” she said, then added, “but stop. Let’s go together. I’ll drop you to your college on the way to my office.”

Kritika’s face lit up instantly. “Really?”

Priyal nodded. “Come on. You’re already late.”

As they walked out together, the penthouse fell silent once more—but it no longer felt empty.

📍 Shekhawat Residence

The dining table was louder than Neel liked in the mornings.

Steel cutlery clinked against plates, the smell of fresh aloo parathas filled the air, and the ceiling fan hummed lazily above. Neel sat at his usual spot, scrolling through his phone with one hand while absentmindedly stirring curd with the other. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and beige trousers checking the meeting schedule.

Across from him, his dadu sat upright, glasses perched low on his nose, newspaper folded neatly beside his plate. Calm. Observant. Always five steps ahead of everyone else.

“Neel,” dadu said suddenly, voice steady but firm enough to command attention.

Neel looked up. “Haan, Dadu?”

Dadu took a sip of his tea before speaking again, deliberately slow. “We have a wedding to attend today.”

Neel blinked. “Wedding?”

His bua, seated diagonally across, didn’t even look up from buttering her toast. “Of course wedding,” she said dryly. “You think families gather only for funerals these days?”

Neel shot her a look. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, but your face did,” she replied sweetly.

Dadu ignored them both. “It’s a family wedding. Evening ceremony. Reception later.”

Neel leaned back slightly. “Today’s a bit—”

“Busy?” bua cut in, finally looking at him now. “You’re always busy, beta. Funny how weddings only become inconvenient when you’re unmarried.”

Neel sighed. “Bua—”

“What?” she said innocently. “I’m just saying. Everyone your age will be there. Dressed well. Settled. Some even married.”

Dadu hid a smile behind his teacup.

Neel muttered, “This is emotional blackmail before 9 a.m.”

His mother laughed softly. “She’s not entirely wrong.”

Dadu placed his cup down. “You’ll come,” he said—not a question.

Neel met his gaze. That look. The one that meant discussion was over.

“…Okay,” Neel said finally. “I’ll come.”

Bua’s eyes sparkled. “Good. Maybe this time you’ll notice someone other than your phone.”

Neel stood, grabbing his coffee. “Or maybe I’ll just survive the evening.”

Dadu smiled, satisfied. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Somewhere between the noise, the taunts, and the calm authority at the head of the table, Neel had a feeling this wedding wouldn’t be as ordinary as it sounded.

📍Khanna Penthouse

Priyal returned home earlier than expected.

The gates opened into the quiet elegance of the Khanna Penthouse, and she stepped out, still dressed in her office attire—tailored trousers, a crisp blouse, and a structured blazer draped neatly over her shoulders. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she walked in, loosening her grip on her phone for the first time since morning. The day had been relentless—meetings, decisions, numbers—but tonight was different. Tonight, she had allowed herself to leave early.

As she entered the living area, she slowed.

Kritika was already there.

Seated comfortably on the couch, her legs folded beneath her, Kritika looked nothing like a college-going girl rushing through deadlines. She was already dressed for the wedding, and the sight made Priyal pause without realizing it.

Kritika wore a lavender lehenga that shimmered gently under the soft lighting. The skirt flowed in elegant layers, each movement catching light like scattered stardust. The blouse was delicately embellished, fitting her perfectly, while the matching dupatta rested loosely over her shoulder, embroidered with subtle detailing that added a dreamy softness to her look. Her hair was left open, neatly parted, falling smoothly down her back, and her jewelry was minimal—just enough to complement, never overpower.

Priyal took a breath. Her little sister looked beautiful.

“You’re back early,” Kritika said, looking up and smiling.

Priyal slipped off her heels and set her bag aside. “I planned it.”

Kritika raised an eyebrow. “That’s new.”

Priyal ignored the comment, her gaze still fixed on her sister. “You’re already ready?”

Kritika nodded, standing up and giving a small spin. The lehenga flared around her gracefully. “Didn’t want to panic later.”

Priyal crossed her arms slowly, studying her. “You look nice.”

“Nice?” Kritika repeated, mock-offended. “That’s all?”

Priyal’s lips curved slightly. “You look beautiful.”

The teasing vanished from Kritika’s face, replaced by a softer smile. “You still look like you’re about to attend a board meeting.”

Priyal glanced down at her blazer. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Go change,” Kritika said immediately. “You’re ruining the wedding vibe.”

Priyal shook her head, amused, and headed upstairs.

In her room, the city noise faded into silence. She slipped out of her office clothes, setting the weight of the day aside, and reached for the outfit laid out carefully on the bed.

The lehenga was nothing short of breathtaking.

The ivory and silver ensemble carried an ethereal, almost celestial presence. The voluminous A-line skirt was crafted from a delicate sheer base, light as air, yet rich with intricate vertical panels of shimmering sequins, mirror work, and crystalline beads. Each step promised movement, reflection, and quiet drama. The hemline was finished with a grand scalloped border, densely embroidered with fine cut-work that gave the skirt a regal weight and a sense of timeless luxury.

The sleeveless choli was a masterpiece on its own—fully encrusted with silver hand embroidery that caught the light effortlessly, structured yet elegant, striking a perfect balance between modern glamour and traditional craftsmanship. She draped the translucent dupatta over her shoulder, its fine motifs echoing the skirt’s design, the finished edges falling softly against her arm.

When Priyal finally looked at herself in the mirror, she barely recognized the woman staring back.

She adjusted her earrings, let her hair fall into soft waves, and took a steady breath.

Downstairs, Kritika looked up—and froze.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Wow.”

Priyal raised an eyebrow. “That good?”

“You look unreal,” Kritika said, stepping closer. “Like… celestial unreal.”

Priyal smirked. “I’ll take that.”

They stood side by side now, reflected faintly in the glass panels of the living area. The contrast was striking—Priyal’s ivory-silver lehenga radiating composed, regal elegance, every detail controlled and luminous; Kritika’s lavender lehenga soft, youthful, and playful, glowing in its own quiet way.

“You know,” Kritika said thoughtfully, adjusting her dupatta, “we actually look like we belong together today.”

Priyal smiled. “We always did.”

Kritika glanced at her sister. “You’re not going to disappear early, right?”

Priyal met her gaze, steady and sincere. “I’m staying. With you.”

Kritika nodded, reassured.

They moved toward the door together, fabrics whispering softly with each step, silver and lavender catching the light—two sisters ready to step into an evening full of relatives, questions, and celebration.

But for now, it was just them.

And that was enough.

📍 Shekhawat Residence

Neel reached the mansion earlier than anyone expected.

The iron gates slid open as his car pulled in, headlights cutting briefly through the late afternoon calm before settling into stillness. He stepped out, adjusting his watch, the air already carrying that familiar wedding-day buzz—too many voices, too much anticipation, not enough time. The house looked alive in a way it usually didn’t. Lights were on in rooms that were otherwise quiet. Somewhere inside, laughter echoed, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone being scolded for no reason at all.

He walked in just as his cousins were arguing about who had stolen whose sunglasses.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” one of them called out.

Neel shook his head lightly. “I’m early.”

“That’s a first,” another cousin replied, grinning.

Before he could say anything else, his bua’s voice cut through the noise. “Don’t just stand there. Go get ready. You’re already late in my head.”

Neel smiled despite himself and headed upstairs.

In his room, the chaos faded into something calmer. The outfit was laid out with deliberate care, untouched, waiting. He stood for a moment, just looking at it, before changing.

When he stepped out again, the shift was unmistakable.

The ivory kurta hugged him in a way that was both structured and effortless, its sherwani-style silhouette lending him a quiet authority. The fabric itself seemed alive under the light—soft, refined, almost glowing. The Lucknowi Chikankari embroidery ran across the length of the kurta in delicate floral and geometric patterns, each stitch precise, each motif speaking of patience and heritage. The embroidery was tonal, blending seamlessly into the off-white base, creating depth without shouting for attention.

What truly elevated it, though, was the subtle shimmer.

Tiny Mukaish elements—minute metallic accents—were stitched into the fabric, barely visible until the light caught them. With every movement, they reflected softly, like restrained sparks, giving the ensemble a quiet grandeur. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be.

Neel draped the matching stole over his right shoulder. The ivory fabric complemented the kurta perfectly, but the border told a different story—heavy sequin and gota patti work framing it sharply, adding definition and contrast. It was the kind of detail that drew attention only when someone looked closely.

Minimalist luxury.

When he walked back downstairs, the reaction was immediate.

Conversation stopped.

“Well,” his cousin said slowly, folding his arms, “now you’re just showing off.”

Another one circled him, openly inspecting. “This is unfair. You can’t look like this and still complain about weddings.”

Neel raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t complain.”

“You always complain,” someone muttered.

His bua stepped forward, eyes sharp, assessing him from head to toe. For once, she didn’t have a taunt ready.

“Hmm,” she said. “At least you didn’t embarrass the family today.”

Neel smirked. “High praise.”

His dadu, seated quietly nearby, looked up and smiled—soft, proud, unmistakable. “You look good,” he said simply.

That was enough.

The house grew busier as everyone gathered—relatives adjusting jewelry, cousins fixing collars, someone arguing about shoes again. Neel stood among them, calm in the middle of the noise, the ivory of his outfit catching the chandelier light as people moved around him.

“Ready?” his cousin asked, grabbing the car keys.

Neel nodded, glancing once more at the house before stepping out with his family.

As they headed toward the wedding venue, laughter filling the cars, Neel leaned back slightly, watching the city blur past the window. The day had only just begun, and already it felt like something was shifting—like the evening ahead wasn’t going to be just another wedding.

But for now, he adjusted his stole, straightened his posture, and let himself be exactly where he was supposed to be.

On his way.

Toward the wedding.

In The Wedding

The wedding venue glowed the way only old money celebrations did—effortless, extravagant, and impossibly warm.

Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light over ivory drapes, marigold strings, and fresh white roses arranged with meticulous care. The air buzzed with layered sounds—laughter, music, bangles clinking, distant shehnai notes melting into conversations. It was festive, overwhelming, alive.

Priyal stepped inside with Kritika beside her, the hem of her ivory-and-silver lehenga brushing the marble floor with every measured step.

She felt it before she saw it—the familiar awareness.

Then she looked up.

Neel.

He stood near the center of the venue, surrounded by family, his posture relaxed yet unmistakably commanding. The ivory Lucknowi Chikankari kurta he wore looked regal without trying. Tonal embroidery traced floral and geometric patterns along the fabric, the Mukaish work catching the chandelier light in fleeting glimmers. His stole rested over one shoulder, its gota patti border sharp against the softness of the kurta.

This wasn’t the first time she had seen him like this.

Her mind flickered—briefly, unwillingly—to their first meeting. A quieter setting. Fewer people. An exchange that had been polite, restrained… and yet oddly memorable. They hadn’t spoken long then. Just enough to register each other. Enough for him to linger somewhere at the back of her mind longer than she cared to admit.

This time, there was no novelty.

Only recognition.

Their eyes met again.

The difference this time?

They didn’t hesitate.

Neel felt it instantly.

He recognized her the moment she entered—before she even fully stepped into the light. The ivory silver palette, the composed walk, the calm confidence she carried like second skin.

Priyal.

The woman he had met once before—and thought about more than he should have afterward.

This time, when their gazes locked, there was no uncertainty. No question of who the other was.

Just awareness.

Kritika leaned closer. “He’s looking again.”

Priyal didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes remained on Neel for half a second longer before she looked away. “Let him.”

But her heartbeat had already shifted.

They didn’t approach each other right away.

The wedding did what weddings always did—pulled people in opposite directions. Elders demanded greetings. Cousins intercepted conversations. Rituals created interruptions that felt deliberate, almost cruel.

Neel caught sight of Priyal across the venue more than once.

She was speaking to elders with quiet respect, listening attentively, smiling softly when required. She wasn’t animated. She wasn’t loud. Yet people gravitated toward her naturally.

It reminded him of their first meeting—how she had spoken less but noticed more.

Priyal felt his presence too.

Every time she laughed with Kritika, she was aware of his gaze flickering toward her. Every time she turned, she half-expected to find him closer.

And eventually—she did.

They met near the refreshments again, like the universe had reused the setting on purpose.

“Looks like this counter is our meeting point,” Neel said lightly.

Priyal glanced up, recognition warming her expression just slightly. “Apparently.”

“Second time,” he added.

“Yes,” she said. “Second.”

A pause settled—not awkward, just… weighted.

“You look beautiful—” Neel smiled faintly. “The outfit suits you.”

“So does yours,” Priyal replied, composed. “And Mr. Shekhawat are you trying to flirt with me” priyal asked with a hint of smirk on her face.

“Am I?” Neel replied smirking while tilting his head.

“Yes you are” Priyal replied.

Neel’s smile deepened—not playful, but intrigued. “Then I’m glad we met again.”

Priyal didn’t answer that.

They spoke briefly, like before—familiar enough to feel comfortable, distant enough to stay safe. There was something unspoken between them now, hovering just beneath the surface.

And then—

The microphone crackled.

The music softened.

Conversations slowed.

Neel’s dadu stepped forward, smiling proudly, with his closest friend beside him.

Neel’s spine straightened.

Priyal’s intuition prickled.

“My dear family and friends,” his dadu began warmly, “thank you for being part of this joyous occasion.”

Neel already didn’t like where this was going.

“And before the evening continues,” the friend added, “we have a special announcement.”

The pause stretched.

“We are delighted to announce,” Neel’s dadu said, voice full of pride, “the upcoming engagement and marriage of our grandson, Neel—”

Priyal’s breath caught.

“—to Ashiwarya Raghuvanshi.The granddaughter of Divendra Raghuvanshi my closest friends”

Applause erupted.

Neel froze.

Priyal felt the impact like something physical—sharp, sudden, unwelcome.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table.

Marriage?

Engagement?

She didn’t look at Neel immediately. She didn’t trust herself to.

Across the venue, Ashiwarya stepped beside Neel, graceful and radiant in deep rose. She smiled at him, leaned in slightly, said something softly.

Neel turned to her automatically.

They spoke.

Not intimately—but privately enough.

Priyal watched despite herself.

She hated that she noticed how Ashiwarya’s hand hovered near Neel’s arm. How she laughed lightly. How natural it all looked.

Jealousy crept in quietly.

Uninvited.

Unreasonable.

And impossible to ignore.

Kritika leaned closer. “Di… you okay?”

Priyal nodded. Too quickly. “Fine.”

She wasn’t.

Neel, meanwhile, felt unsettled.

Ashiwarya spoke about families, expectations, timelines—her tone warm, familiar, assured. She was everything his family would want.

But his gaze drifted.

To where Priyal stood—still, composed, but distant now.

She wasn’t looking at him anymore.

And that bothered him more than the announcement itself.

The lights glowed brighter as the evening deepened. Music rose again. The wedding moved forward.

But something had shifted.

This wasn’t their first meeting.

And it wouldn’t be their last.

Because now, there were emotions involved.

And emotions—once awakened—never stayed quiet for long.

The terrace was quieter than the wedding hall below—muted music drifting upward, laughter softened by distance, fairy lights trembling gently in the night breeze. Priyal stood near the railing, fingers wrapped around the cool metal, staring at the city lights beyond the mansion grounds.

She hadn’t meant to come here.

Her feet had simply carried her away—from the applause, from the smiles, from the way Neel had leaned slightly toward Ashiwarya as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Second meeting, she reminded herself sharply. Second.

And yet her chest felt unbearably tight.

“You disappeared.”

The voice came from behind her.

She didn’t turn immediately. She didn’t need to.

“I needed air,” Priyal said calmly.

Neel stepped closer, careful, like he was approaching something fragile. The terrace lights caught the silver work of her lehenga, making it shimmer softly. She looked breathtaking—and distant.

“I was looking for you,” he said.

That made her turn.

“Why?” she asked, too quickly. Too sharp.

Neel paused. “Because you left.”

Priyal let out a small, humorless laugh. “I didn’t think you’d notice. You seemed… occupied.”

The words hung between them.

Neel understood instantly. “You mean Ashiwarya.”

Priyal’s jaw tightened. “I mean your fiancée.”

“She’s not—” He stopped himself, exhaled. “The announcement was… sudden.”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes steady but wounded. “Sudden for you. Not for your family, clearly.”

Neel ran a hand through his hair, frustration flashing across his face. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know tonight would turn into—this.”

Priyal looked away again, back at the city. “You don’t have to explain. It’s your life.”

“That’s not true,” he said quietly. “I do want to explain.”

She finally faced him fully now, emotion cracking through her composure. “Why?” she asked. “Why does it matter to you what I think?”

Because he didn’t have an answer that made sense.

Because saying because I care felt too dangerous.

Because it was only their second meeting—and yet it didn’t feel like that at all.

“You looked different after the announcement,” Neel said instead. “Like you’d shut a door.”

Priyal swallowed. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer—and that scared her more than anger would have.

“I shouldn’t have noticed anything in the first place.”

That was it.

The crack.

Neel took a step closer. “Priyal—”

“Don’t,” she said, raising her hand slightly. “Please don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it means something,” she whispered.

The honesty slipped out before she could stop it.

Her eyes glistened, just barely—not with tears, but with restraint. “I met you once. I told myself it was nothing. Then I met you again, and suddenly—” She stopped, laughing bitterly at herself. “This happens. Your engagement is announced, and I’m standing here feeling… jealous. Which is ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Neel said immediately.

She looked at him sharply. “It is. I have no right.”

“Feelings don’t ask for permission,” he replied, voice low.

That made her flinch.

“Then what about your feelings?” she asked. “Because from where I’m standing, you looked perfectly comfortable standing next to her.”

Neel’s expression hardened—not with anger, but conflict. “Comfortable doesn’t mean certain.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time.

Below them, fireworks burst in the sky—brief flashes of color reflected in Priyal’s eyes.

“I don’t want to be someone’s almost,” she said quietly. “Or someone’s confusion.”

Neel’s chest tightened. “You’re neither.”

“Then what am I?” she asked, finally letting the question out.

He couldn’t answer.

And that answer—his silence—hurt more than she expected.

Priyal took a step back, straightening her posture, rebuilding her walls with practiced ease. “I should go back inside. Kritika will be looking for me.”

She moved past him, but Neel reached out—not touching her, just enough to stop her with his presence.

“I don’t know how this will unfold,” he said honestly. “But tonight… wasn’t nothing to me. You weren’t nothing.”

Priyal met his eyes one last time.

“That’s the problem,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t make someone feel like something when you belong to someone else.”

Then she walked away.

Neel remained on the terrace long after she disappeared into the lights and music below—standing still, realization settling slowly, painfully.

This was only their second meeting.

And already, something had gone irreversibly wrong.

Or dangerously right.

Double Update. Today's chapter was a ultimate banger. The real fun starts from chapter 5. So stay tuned for Chapter 5.

Words Count - 5000+

Thank you

Author.