Four best friends.
One wedding.
A reunion that was never meant to happen.
Time changed everything. But not their pasts. Not the glances that still sting.
Not the love that never really left. One waits for her, clinging to a love that never faded. O...
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The air in the courtyard hung heavy with the scent of jasmine and henna, an intoxicating veil that wrapped around the impending Mehndi ceremony like a lover's promise.
I, Raina Rajawat, had orchestrated every detail with the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. The low tables groaned under silver platters of sweets, the embroidered cushions arranged in perfect symmetry, the mehndi artists' stations a riot of crimson powders and intricate brass bowls. Perfection wasn't a luxury, it was my armor, forged in the fires of too many shattered illusions.
I straightened an errant ornament, its brass filigree catching the dying sun like a captured flame, when Rohan's shadow fell across the stone tiles. He loomed there, uncharacteristically early. The man who'd once treated time like an optional guest had transformed, it seemed, into something almost reliable.
"Since when did you start respecting the clock?" I teased, arching a brow as I dusted my hands on my emerald lehenga, the silk whispering against my skin like a conspirator's breath.
He scowled, but it was half-hearted, the corners of his mouth twitching with that boyish grin he reserved for old wounds. "People change, Raina. Or haven't you heard? Tani's been... persuasive." His voice dipped, a rare vulnerability cracking through the facade.
"Much better, then?" I smirked, leaning closer. His grin widened, genuine this time, a flash of teeth that spoke of stolen kisses and mended fences. "Better than I deserve." We lingered in that moment, until I dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "If you ever need backup, a real backup. I'm your shadow. But don't think for a second I'll make it easy on you."
Rohan's laugh was a low rumble, warm as aged whiskey. "What a saint you are." He rolled his eyes, but his gaze softened, the kind of look that bridged the chasm between us.
Then his phone buzzed, a shrill intruder, and he stepped back with a nod. "Have to take this. Don't burn the place down without me."
Alone again, I turned back to the decorations. That's when I felt it. The weight of eyes on me, not curious or kind, but ravenous. Predatory.
My skin prickled, a shiver racing down my spine like ice water in my veins. I didn't need to look to know who it was. Him. The shadow from last night's Sangeet, the one whose touch had ignited something feral in me before his crude advance doused it in disgust.
At first glance, he'd been a temptation carved from midnight—tall, broad-shouldered, with ink-black hair that fell in reckless waves over a jawline sharp enough to draw blood. Eyes like smoked obsidian, promising sins I'd only dreamed of in the dark hours.
For a heartbeat, I'd felt alive, desired in a way that terrified me. But then his hand had lingered too long, and my palm connecting with his cheek in a crack that echoed louder than the music. Now, here he was again, striding toward me.
I ignored him at first, forcing my focus on the decor'. But his gaze bored into me, unrelenting, a brand that seared through the layers of my resolve. Heat bloomed low in my belly, unwanted, treacherous.
