The Rathore mansion was silent except for the soft clinking of cutlery in the dining hall. Veeresh stepped inside, his footsteps echoing against marble floors. His parents looked up, and his mother’s voice broke the quiet.

“Veeresh… it’s time. You have to think about marriage now.”

He paused, his jaw tightening. Most men would argue, throw reasons, or delay. But he only gave a curt nod.

“Ok.”

No protest. No emotion. Just one word that carried more weight than anyone at the table realized.

Minutes later, in his room, the mask fell.

He loosened his tie, discarded his blazer, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. From the nightstand, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and let the smoke curl into the dim air.

His eyes darkened, fixed on nothing, yet in his mind there was only her.

Poornima. His best friend. His anchor. The one person who knew the boy beneath Lucifer.

He exhaled slowly, the thought clawing through him. Marriage? To someone else? Impossible.

---

Meanwhile, across the city, the Rao household was alive with warmth.

Poornima had changed out of her saree into a simple kurta, her hair loose, her face glowing under the yellow kitchen light. She sat between her parents, laughter spilling into the small dining room as they shared stories over steaming bowls of dal and rice.

It was simple. It was home.

And it was everything Veeresh’s world wasn’t.

Later, she carried her book upstairs — a dog-eared copy of Twisted Love. Curling into her bed, she flipped through the pages, her lips curving faintly at the romantic chaos written within.

But her eyelids grew heavy, and soon the book slipped from her fingers.

She drifted into sleep, unaware that in another part of the city, a man sat awake in the dark, smoke trailing from his lips — and her name haunting every beat of his heart.