MEET THE SRIVASTAVA's👨👩👦👦
Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you the Srivastavas, a family that stands as a shining testament to the embodiment of nobility and regal stature. In their presence, you will find a blend of prestige, opul...
The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting long golden streaks across the polished wooden floor. Hariday sat in his armchair, his fingers loosely clasped around the armrest, his thoughts heavier than he cared to admit. Mahalaxmi's words echoed in his mind—calm, unwavering, laced with the kind of quiet dignity that made his careless remarks seem even more pitiful in hindsight.
Apologies were foreign to him, a language he had never been required to speak fluently. He had grown up with the belief that words could be bent, twisted, manipulated—but never taken back. And yet, for the first time, he found himself contemplating the weight of his own.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his tousled hair. Writing a note? Too impersonal. Rehearsing an apology? It felt insincere. Nothing he planned seemed enough. Mahalaxmi was not the kind of woman who would be swayed by hollow words or theatrical gestures. She had already seen through him once, had stood tall while his own arrogance had cracked at her feet.
The restlessness was unbearable. He needed air.
Rising to his feet, Hariday strode toward the balcony, the cold marble beneath his feet grounding him. The early morning air met him in a whisper, carrying the faint scent of incense and damp earth.
And then he saw her.
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Rising to his feet, Hariday strode toward the balcony, the cold marble beneath his feet grounding him. The early morning air met him in a whisper, carrying the faint scent of incense and damp earth.
And then he saw her.
Below, in the courtyard, Mahalaxmi stood before the sacred Tulsi plant, her frame draped in a simple red saree that clung to her with the elegance of something unforced, unassuming. Her wet hair, loosely tied with a white towel, sent dark rivulets down the curve of her back. The golden morning light seemed drawn to her, bathing her in an ethereal glow, making her appear almost otherworldly.
Hariday's breath caught.
He had always known Mahalaxmi was beautiful—there was no denying that. But this beauty was different. It wasn't the kind that demanded attention; it was the kind that existed quietly, effortlessly, whether someone was watching or not. The kind that had nothing to do with vanity and everything to do with essence.
She moved with a reverence that unsettled him, her fingers gently scattering petals over the Tulsi as her lips moved in silent prayer. She wasn't performing; she wasn't trying to prove anything. She simply was.
And for the first time, Hariday felt small.
The weight of his guilt pressed deeper into his chest. He had dismissed her, hurt her, spoken as though she were nothing more than a footnote in his story. And yet, here she was, untouched by his cruelty, standing in the light like she had been carved from it.
Unconsciously, he descended the steps, drawn to her as if by an invisible thread.
