The morning sun filtered into the Rathore mansion, golden light falling on polished wood and framed portraits. Veeresh sat stiffly in the living room, his father’s voice carrying with authority.

“Veeresh, this is Meera.”

A glossy photograph was slid across the table.

Veeresh’s eyes fell on it — a smiling girl, eyes filled with innocence, draped in tradition. But as he stared, another face bled into his vision.

Poornima.

Her laughter. Her soft scolding. Her presence that haunted him in ways he could never confess. For a heartbeat, it was her in the picture, not Meera.

He blinked once, rubbed his temple, and forced the thought away. He wasn’t a man who entertained illusions. Not in boardrooms, not in life.

“Hmm,” he said simply, leaning back in his chair.

His mother smiled in relief, her voice gentle. “You should talk about marriage now, Veeresh. About life. About settling down.”

They chatted — about timelines, about families, about what the world expected of a man like him. But all the while, every word felt hollow, drowned out by the echo of her name.

---

Meanwhile, at Bharat Electronics, Poornima sat hunched over her files. The glow of the screen reflected in her eyes as she flipped through budgets, deadlines, and proposals. She was lost in the world of numbers — until her phone buzzed.

Veeresh: I agreed for marriage.

Her breath caught. Fingers paused over the keyboard. For a second, she stared at the message, emotions tangling in ways she didn’t want to name. Finally, she typed back:

Poornima: Congratulations, Lucifer.

She tried to focus again, burying herself in work, but another notification lit up her screen.

Veeresh: Meet me at Jayanagar juice centre.

Her lips curved despite herself.

Poornima: Ok.

And just like that, her day — her thoughts — were no longer her own.