# 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐎𝐟 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬
Aayansh Agniwanshi a king of jaipur and CEO of Agniwanshi CO. Lit. A mafia king with ruthless, grumpy, cold.
'Love is a trap. When it appears, we see only its light, not its shadows.' A...
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Ishanvi stood in front of the mirror, mechanically brushing her hair, her mind anything but calm. Her eyes stared at her reflection, but all she could see was him. His lips, his eyes, his arms holding her together like she would break apart without him.
And then she remembered his words.
"It wasn’t supposed to happen."
Her chest tightened.
She wanted to scream. To cry. To drag him back into that moment and demand he tell her what it meant. But instead, she put on her soft cream saree, added a delicate bindi to her forehead, and dabbed a hint of gloss on her lips—hoping it would hide the storm brewing inside her.
Because if he was going to act like nothing happened, she could pretend too.
Even if her heart wasn’t ready for the act.
With her head held high and her heart in pieces, Ishanvi walked downstairs, her anklets chiming softly with every step. The aroma of parathas and freshly brewed coffee greeted her as she entered the lavish dining hall. Everyone was seated—Aayansh’s parents, grandparents, his uncle and aunt, Ahaan and Ayesha, even Avni, unfortunately.
But her Hazel eyes didn’t care about anyone else.
They found him.
Aayansh sat at the head of the table, dressed in a black casual shirt and trousers, scrolling through his phone like he had no idea she even existed.
No flicker of acknowledgment. No glance. Nothing.
He was doing exactly what she feared.
Avoiding her.
Ayesha waved excitedly as Ishanvi approached. “Good morning, bhabhi sa!”
“Good morning,” she replied with a soft smile, trying to mask the ache in her chest. She took the seat beside Ayesha, the only one left—conveniently, the one farthest from Aayansh.
Ahaan leaned in with a cheeky grin. “Lagta hai aaj koi bahut pretty lag rahi hai.”
“Shut up, mein roj hi pretty lagti hu.” Ishanvi whispered, unable to even muster her usual sass. Her eyes kept drifting to him.
He didn’t even look up.
Not once.
Not when she poured herself water.
Not when she offered his grandmother the chutney.
Not even when Avni, sitting way too close to him, tried laughing at something that clearly wasn’t funny.
It was like she was invisible.
And that hurt more than anything.
She picked at her food, unable to taste anything. Every sound in the room became muffled, distant—except the one echoing in her mind.
