The vivid reds in wedding symbols of celebration , Happiness and Joy . But what will happen if the same red colour change into the colour of blood betrayal and the symphony of despair.
Meera sweet little innocent girl end up being the pawn in the d...
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There's something about fairy lights. The way they twinkle like a sky full of stars... like they know tonight is not just another night. It's a celebration. A beginning. A moment that will be remembered forever.
And tonight... everything around us shimmered like magic.
The Rajvansh haveli had transformed. Drapes of soft ivory and pastel roses hung from every corner, twirling in the breeze. Strings of marigolds and jasmine swayed lazily above golden lamps. The air carried a mix of rosewater, fresh mogras, and warm vanilla candles. It felt like we had stepped right into a Sanjay Leela Bhansali dream.
I stood near the grand staircase, adjusting the last of my bangles, when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror.
My lehenga was a delicate blush pink, embroidered with intricate gold vines and sequins that shimmered every time I moved. The soft net dupatta was draped over one shoulder, pinned in place with a tiny brooch shaped like a crescent moon — a gift from Ira. My hair was in soft curls, pinned to one side with real baby's breath, and a small maang tikka rested just above my forehead. My kohl-lined eyes searched the crowd... until they froze.
There.
He stood at the entrance.
Arjun.
And... oh God.
He was wearing Indian clothes.
Arjun Singh Rajvansh — in a pastel sherwani with golden detailing along the collar, the cuffs, and buttons. It fit him like second skin, accentuating his broad shoulders and tall frame. His hair was perfectly styled, and a few stubborn strands had fallen on his forehead, just the way I secretly loved. He wasn't smiling. No. That signature intense expression, like he owned the ground he walked on, was firmly in place.
But his eyes — those dark, unreadable eyes — scanned the room with practiced ease until they locked with mine.
And I swear, my heart missed a beat.
No. Maybe three.
I forgot about the engagement. About the music. About the hundreds of people around.
He looked like... trouble. Beautiful, arrogant, sinful trouble. And I was completely gaga.
He raised an eyebrow slightly, like he knew what I was thinking. Like he had expected this reaction. And God help me, I blushed.
"Control yourself, Meera," I whispered under my breath. "This man is your husband, not Hrithik Roshan."
He walked toward me slowly, hands tucked behind him. His eyes never left mine.
"You're staring," he said softly once he was close enough. Close enough that his cologne — expensive, smoky and maddeningly him — wrapped around me like a drug.
