The wedding was grand—just as one would expect from the Rathores. The ancient haveli gleamed under a thousand lights, echoing laughter, traditional dhols, and the regal rhythms of Shehnai. Golden marigolds hung from carved arches, the scent of rosewater in the air. Servants bustled. Relatives gossiped. Guests admired. But Veeresh stood in the shadows, his sharp eyes observing more than participating.

He hadn't wanted to attend.

But it was his cousin Arjun's wedding, and despite everything—despite the silent war with his father, the distance from his family, and the weight of his past—he came.

And for once, he wore it.

The Rathore traditional attire.

A deep maroon achkan, embroidered in gold. A royal safa with an emerald brooch. A curved katar tucked at his waist. He looked like the prince his father had once dreamed him to be.

And everyone looked.

The whispers started.

"Isn’t that Professor Veeresh?"

"He never comes to weddings."

"He’s dressed like a true Rathore today."

"Finally embracing his roots, perhaps?"

But Veeresh didn’t care. He wore the clothes not to please his family, but to remember—for just a moment—what it felt like to belong. Even if it was a lie.

---

And then, she walked in.

Poornima.

His cousin. Barely 21. Sweet, soft-spoken, and untouched by the bitterness of family politics. She was the youngest daughter of his father’s sister and had always been kind to him, even when others weren’t. A girl with a heart full of warmth and eyes that held dreams too big for the small town she was raised in.

Tonight, she didn’t look like the quiet Poornima he remembered.

She wore a royal Rajput lehenga—deep green, with intricate mirror work. Her long braid was adorned with pearls, and her eyes were lined with kohl that made them shimmer like secrets waiting to be told. A delicate nath rested on her nose, and her bangles chimed softly as she moved.

Veeresh saw her across the courtyard. She was laughing with another cousin, her face glowing under the chandeliers.

And for the first time in a long while, he stared.

Not as a professor. Not as a broken man.

But simply... as a man who forgot to breathe.

---

Poornima noticed him moments later.

She paused mid-sentence, her smile faltering ever so slightly as her eyes locked with his. For a heartbeat, the wedding noise dimmed. Time didn’t stop—but it slowed just enough for two distant worlds to acknowledge each other.

She walked over.

“Veer bhaiya...” she greeted, using the cousinly title, though it felt formal tonight. “You look... different.”

Veeresh nodded. “I could say the same. You’ve grown up.”

Her smile returned. “And you’ve become... a mystery.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerous.”

She giggled softly. “Maybe. But good stories come from mysteries.”

Her words stayed with him longer than they should have.

---

That night, as the wedding rituals began, Veeresh stood beside his cousins, watching the groom perform the sacred rites. The fire reflected in his eyes, but his thoughts were elsewhere. On Poornima’s laughter. Her eyes. The way she looked at him—not with judgment like the others—but with genuine curiosity.

And deep down, something shifted.

He wasn’t sure what.

But he felt it.

What he didn’t know yet was that fate was cruelly clever. That soon, a twist of rituals, reputations, and revenge would make him stand not as a guest, but in front of the very fire... again.

This time, not as Veeresh Rathore, the professor.

But as the replaced groom.

And opposite him?

Would stand the girl with the softest smile and the fiercest fate.

Poornima.