# 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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The pooja had ended, diyas flickering softly against the cool night breeze. Plates clinked, laughter filled the terrace, and the women-still giddy with festivity-were not ready to let go of Ishanvi.
She was surrounded, the lime-green lehenga spreading like a soft halo around her as aunties and cousins pulled her close, teasing, talking, asking endless questions about shuruat (the beginning).
"Ishavvi, ab toh tumhe hamare tips chahiye hongi na?"
["Ishanvi, now you'll need our tips, right?"]
"Batao, Raja sa ne kya gift diya?"
["Tell us, what gift did Raja sa give you?"]
Giggles rippled as another chimed in, "Woh toh aapki aankhon mein hi dekh raha hai."
["It's already showing in your eyes."]
Ishanvi's cheeks burned crimson. She tried to respond, but every time her lips parted, another playful nudge or question shut her down.
Meanwhile-across the terrace, Aayansh stood silently.
His family, his guests, his world moved around him, but his gaze was fixed only on one thing-her. Arms folded loosely behind his back, posture regal yet tense, jaw tightening every time the laughter around her grew louder. He didn't interrupt, didn't speak. He simply waited.
Waited with the patience of a king but the impatience of a husband who wanted his wife beside him.
Every so often, Ishanvi's eyes flicked toward him through the veil of chatter-just a stolen second. But even that second was enough to unravel her. The way he stood, unmoving, eyes sharp and unwavering, made her heart pound harder than all the teasing around her.
And when her gaze lingered a little too long, she saw it-
The subtle lift of his brow. The silent command in his stare.
Her stomach flipped. She knew it instantly.
Her king wasn't going to wait forever.
The ladies were in full flow now, laughter bouncing off the haveli walls. They had cornered Ishanvi, asking her about rituals, teasing her about gifts, nudging her about pyaar-mohabbat.
Ishanvi's face was glowing brighter than the diyas, cheeks flushed pink, eyes darting every now and then toward him-her husband, her king-who stood across the terrace like a silent flame.
At first, Aayansh had waited. Patiently. Hands clasped behind his back, lips pressed tight, letting them have their moment.
But when the minutes turned to what felt like hours, and the ladies kept pulling her closer, kept laughing at her expense, something inside him snapped.
He strode toward them-measured steps, heavy presence making a few heads turn. But instead of his usual authoritative tone, what left his lips shocked everyone.
