When I say Samaksh Rathore and Dhvani Shukla hate each other, I don't mean a little eye-roll or silent treatment kind of hate. I mean absolute, hard-core, blood-boiling hate. She's from Uttar Pradesh, daughter of a powerful political family-full of drama, chaos, and zero fear. He's from Rajasthan, heir to a wealthy business empire-swagger, charm, and sharp one-liners. Their worlds collided like firecrackers on Diwali. Their first meet? Vani stormed right in front of Samaksh's brand-new car, screamed at him like he was the villain of her movie, and-just to seal her point-she threw a stone straight at his ride. Sam, of course, didn't stay quiet. He roasted her so bad that the air was filled with insults louder than traffic horns. Their second meet? Worse. Another argument, another war. This time Sam threw the word "Bhagodi" at her, mocking the fact that she had run away from home. And Vani? She didn't waste a second-her hand flew, and the slap echoed louder than their shouting. Now, just the sight of each other makes their blood boil. If looks could kill, Sam and Vani would have destroyed each other long ago. Enemies isn't even the word... these two are living, breathing disasters waiting to explode.

In a time when radios played Lata's songs and letters carried feelings deeper than words ever could, she met him-on the first day of college, twenty years after India gained independence. He wasn't a freedom fighter, but he freed something in her. A smile. A feeling. A love she never dared to name. He loved sitars when the world had moved on to guitars. He loved books, children, music... and she? She loved him. Quietly. Completely. From behind the veil of silence every sanskaari girl was taught to wear back then. He was the boy every girl admired. She was that quiet girl-who changed herself, little by little, just to be noticed. While he chased dreams and disappeared into the world, she stayed behind-with ink-stained fingers and a heart that beat only for him. She doesn't know where he is now. But she remembers the way he once looked at her, like she mattered. And now, decades later, all she has are her memories... and a diary that was never really about her. It was always about Him.

"Do you regret kissing me, Ishika?" His voice dropped-dark, low, and possessive enough to steal the air from my lungs. My entire body froze. Not because I didn't know the answer- But because I did. My breath hitched, sharp and aching. Regret? God. If only he knew what that kiss did to me. His grip didn't loosen. His fingers dug gently into my wrist, grounding me to him, to the heat of his body pressed against my back. I could feel every inch of him-dangerous, intoxicating, magnetic. "Ishika," he rasped again, each syllable laced with something desperate. Something real. "Do. You. Regret. It?" I should lie. Say it meant nothing. That it was a mistake. But my heart? It was screaming. Screaming for him. No. No, I didn't regret it. I couldn't. If I had, I wouldn't still feel his taste on my lips. I wouldn't still be burning from the ghost of his touch. I wouldn't still be aching for more. "We wouldn't be kissing for so long...and still not want to let go...if I regretted that," I whispered-my voice trembling, My voice trembled. "If I regretted it, Veer..." I whispered, "...I wouldn't be standing here, craving your mouth on mine again." And that's it- I felt the pull.