AUTHOR'S POV — 

Mussoorie..

Mussoorie felt... lighter.

The cold breeze brushed past Jhanvi's cheeks as she stood near the hotel's garden, watching Aryan crouched on the ground, 

completely focused on drawing patterns in the mud with a stick.

He looked peaceful.

Too peaceful for someone who had once carried so much inside him.

Jhanvi didn't know why, but watching him like this made something inside her chest loosen—

like a knot she didn't even know she had been holding.

"Aryan," she called softly.

He looked up instantly, eyes lighting up when he saw her."Haan?"

"Thand lag jayegi. Andar chalo?"

He nodded obediently, standing up and brushing his hands on his jeans like a child caught doing something silly.

She walked beside him—slowly, matching his steps without realizing it.

It felt natural.

Not forced.

Not awkward.

Just... right.

Inside the hotel lounge, Aryan sat near the window while Jhanvi handed him a cup of hot chocolate.

 He wrapped both hands around it, inhaling the steam happily.

"Yeh achha hai," he said seriously.

Jhanvi smiled.

"Tumhein sweet cheezein pasand hai na?"

He nodded again.

"Hamesha se."

That word made her pause.

Hamesha.

She didn't ask further.

She never did.

Because every time Aryan spoke like that—so sure, so instinctive—it felt like stepping on fragile glass.

She sat across from him, watching him sip carefully. Sometimes he hummed softly, sometimes 

he stared outside, sometimes he looked at her... just to make sure she was still there.

And every time their eyes met, her heartbeat skipped.

Later, while walking through Mall Road, 

Aryan suddenly stopped near a small toy shop. He stared at a wind chime hanging outside.

"Pasand hai?" Jhanvi asked.

He nodded slowly.

Without thinking, she bought it.

When she handed it to him, he looked at her like she had given him the world.

"Mera?" he asked, unsure.

"Haan. Tumhara."

He smiled—wide, unguarded, pure.

Something tugged painfully inside her chest.

She reminded herself quietly—

He is someone's husband.

Yet that night, while walking back, Aryan stumbled slightly on the uneven road.

Before Arushi or Ahaan could react, Jhanvi's hand shot out—grabbing his wrist instinctively.

Not thinking.

Not hesitating.

Aryan froze at the touch.

So did she.

Their eyes met.

Her fingers tightened unconsciously, grounding him.

"I'm here," she said softly, not even realizing what she was saying.

Aryan's breathing slowed.

He nodded.

"I know."

From behind, Arushi noticed it—the way Aryan calmed only when Jhanvi was close. The way he 

responded to her voice.

Healing wasn't loud.

It wasn't dramatic.

It was quiet moments like this.

A shared cup.

A held wrist.

A calm breath.

And Jhanvi?

Her heart was recognizing someone her mind had forgotten.

And somewhere far away—

In Rishikesh—

A storm was preparing to break.

Because while Mussoorie was giving them peace...

Someone else was counting steps.

Waiting.

Plotting.

And this fragile calm?

It was about to be tested.

Jhanvi's POV — (Late Night)

I turned onto my back again, staring at the ceiling.

My chest felt... heavy.

Like something was sitting there, unmoving.

His face came back uninvited.

The way he went silent when things got too loud.

The way his hands trembled when he felt overwhelmed.

The way he looked at me—as if I was something familiar he was scared to lose.

And then another thought crept in.

He didn't just lose his wife.

He lost himself... losing Her.

The realization hit me slowly.

Painfully.

He wasn't just grieving a person.

He was grieving who he used to be with her.

My throat tightened.

Maybe that's why he feels so fragile.

Maybe that's why his smiles feel borrowed.

Maybe that's why every small moment of happiness feels like it costs him effort.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

You must have loved him a lot.

Enough that when you left, he fell apart.

Enough that even now... he is still trying to find pieces of himself.

And then—

Reeva's voice echoed in my head, casual and teasing, like she had said it without knowing it 

would hurt this much.

"You like him, idiot."

I swallowed.

No.

That's not—

My heart skipped.

I went still.

Do I?

The question sat there.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

I thought about how my eyes always searched for him without meaning to.

How his absence felt noticeable.

How his presence calmed me in a way I couldn't explain.

My lips parted slightly.

Maybe... I do.

The admission came quietly.

Not dramatic.

Not loud.

Just... honest.

And that scared me more than anything.

I turned my face to the pillow, pressing it hard, as if it could silence my thoughts.

But immediately another thought followed—sharper, crueler.

What's the point?

I laughed under my breath.

A broken sound.

What's the point of liking someone who already belongs to someone else?

What's the point of feeling this way when his life is already written?

He has a past.

A family.

A child.

And I—

I am just a person passing through his life.

Nothing more.

Nothing permanent.

I felt my eyes sting.

This feeling is useless.

Pointless.

Selfish.

I shouldn't feel this.

I shouldn't even allow it.

I inhaled deeply, forcing myself to calm down.

You don't fall in love like this, Jhanvi.

You don't fall for someone you can never have.

You don't let your heart wander where it doesn't belong.

And yet...

My chest ached.

Not loudly.

Just enough to remind me that denial doesn't erase feelings.

I turned to my side again, curling up slightly.

If I do like him...

I whispered to myself,

...then I'll just keep it to myself.

Because some feelings are not meant to be acted upon.

Some feelings are meant to stay quiet.

Unspoken.

Buried.

Especially when loving someone means stepping back.

And somewhere deep inside—

I didn't know it yet—

But my heart had already chosen him.

Even if my life never would.

AUTHOR'S POV — 

BISHT HOUSE (PAST MIDNIGHT)

The doorbell rang.

Once.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Like a warning.

Mrs. Bisht's heart skipped.

"Itni raat ko... kaun hoga?"

Mr. Bisht frowned.

"Jhanu toh kal aane wali hai."

He walked toward the door. "Tum yahin ruko...maine dekhta hoon "

The door opened.

A tall man stood at the threshold, wrapped in a black overcoat, eyes cold enough to silence the night itself. 

Behind him—six bodyguards.

In their hands, something covered in a deep red chunni.

The man joined his palms, barely.

"Namaste, Mr. Bisht."

Mr. Bisht hesitated, then returned it out of reflex.

"Ji... aap—?"

"Dev Singhania."

The name crashed into the house.

Mrs. Bisht staggered a step forward.

"S‑Singhania industries?"

Dev didn't wait to be invited.

He stepped inside.

Claimed the space.

Claimed the silence.

He looked around once—slow, assessing—then sat down as if the house already belonged to 

him.

"I'll come straight to the point," Dev said, voice flat, lethal.

"I want Jhanvi."

A beat.

"To marry."

Mrs. Bisht's breath left her lungs.

"Y‑yeh kya keh rahe hain aap?!"

"No," Mr. Bisht said sharply. 

"Yeh mumkin nahi hai."

Dev tilted his head.

"Impossible?"

A faint smile touched his lips.

"Mr. Bisht... impossible sirf gareeb logon ke liye hota hai."

Mrs. Bisht snapped, shaking.

"Hum apni beti ki shaadi aise—"

"Woh aapki beti nahi hai."

Silence exploded.

Mrs. Bisht's face drained of colour.

Mr. Bisht clenched his fists.

Dev stood up slowly, towering over them.

"I know who she is."

One step closer.

"I know where she came from."

Another.

"I know whose wife she was."

Mr. Bisht shouted, breaking.

"Yeh bakwaas band kijiye—"

"She has a child."

The words landed like a bullet.

Mrs. Bisht collapsed onto the sofa.

"please bus kijiye..."

Dev crouched slightly, meeting her eye level, voice low and cruelly calm.

"And the most convenient part?"

"She doesn't remember any of it."

He straightened.

"Four years. Wiped clean."

A pause.

"Just like God wanted."

Mr. Bisht whispered, shaken.

"Aap... aap yeh sab kyun keh rahe ho?"

Dev picked up the red chunni from the bodyguard.

Because now came the real strike.

"Because agar kal usse yaad aa gaya—"

he flicked the chunni onto the table,

"—toh woh aap dono ko chhod degi."

Mrs. Bisht sobbed.

"Nahi... main use nahi kho sakti..."

Dev's eyes hardened.

"Then don't."

He leaned forward, palms on the table.

"Marry her to me."

Shock. Horror.

"Ya phir," his voice dropped into a whisper sharp enough to cut skin,

"main usse sab sach bata dunga."

Mr. Bisht roared.

"Tum blackmail kar rahe ho humein?!"

Dev straightened, unfazed.

"No."

A pause.

"I'm offering choices."

He turned toward the door, then stopped.

"Ek baat yaad rakhna," he said over his shoulder, voice icy authority.

"Jhanvi kisi aur ki thi—yeh uska past hai."

He looked back, eyes burning.

"Ab woh meri hogi..ye uski hakeekat aur aane wala kal hai"

And then, the final blow—

"Kyuki jise woh yaad nahi... us par haq sirf uska hota hai...jo usse chaahta hai."

The door shut.

Hard.

The house shook.

Mrs. Bisht sank onto the sofa, her hands trembling, eyes wet with unshed tears.

"Main use nahi khona chahti... woh meri beti hai, humari beti hai voh Manoj"

Mr. Bisht stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder, voice low but firm.

"Hum... hum use sach bata denge, yeh sahi raasta hai. Agar hum chup rahe, toh galat ho jaayega. Use apna asli parivaar ke pass jaana hoga."

Mrs. Bisht shook her head violently, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Nahi! Tum samajh hi nahi rahe manoj... agar sach bata diya, woh hume chhod degi.

 Hamesha ke liye! Aur main... main use khone ka dard bardasht nahi kar sakti..

dubara maine apni beti ko  kho nhi sakti !"

Mrs. Bisht was still shaking, tears slipping down silently, when Mr. Bisht suddenly laughed—

a hollow, broken laugh.

"Beti?" he said bitterly.

"Kaisi beti, Sharda?"

She looked up, confused.

"Humari beti... mar chuki hai."

Her breath hitched.

"Yeh... yeh humari beti nahi hai."

SLAP.

The sound echoed through the room.

Mrs. Bisht's hand trembled as it fell back to her side, her eyes blazing with rage and fear.

"PAGAL ho gaye ho kya?" she screamed.

"Tumhein hosh hai tum kya keh rahe ho?!"

Mr. Bisht touched his cheek slowly, eyes burning—not in anger, but in pain.

"Sach bol raha hoon," he said hoarsely.

"Hum jis bachchi ko kho chuke the... woh wapas nahi aayi. Yeh ladki kisi aur ki hai, Sharda. Kisi 

aur ki biwi hai. Kisi aur ki zindagi."

Mrs. Bisht rushed toward him and grabbed his collar.

"Bas! Bas karo!"

"Tum kyun use sach batana chahte ho, haan?! Kyun?"

Her voice cracked.

"Tumhe pata hai agar use pata chala toh kya hoga? 

Woh hume chhod degi! Ek pal bhi nahi sochegi! 

Aur phir... phir hum kaun rahenge?"

Mr. Bisht pushed her hands away gently.

"Hum jhooth ke sahare kab tak jeeyenge?" he asked quietly.

"Uska pati zinda hai. Uska baccha zinda hai. Aur hum...

 hum use kisi aur aadmi ke saath baandhne jaa rahe hain."

Mrs. Bisht's eyes filled again, but her voice turned desperate.

"Toh kya karoon main?"

"Kya karoon? Usse sach bata kar apni hi beti ko kho doon?"

She laughed hysterically.

"Tum kehte ho woh humari beti nahi hai... 

par main har subah use apni aankhon ke saamne dekhti hoon. 

Uski saans, uski awaaz, uski muskaan... sab kuch meri hai..voh meri beti hai!"

Mr. Bisht whispered, defeated,

He shook his head slowly.

"Dev Singhania jaise aadmi ke saath shadi... tum samajh rahi ho kya kah rahi ho?"

Mrs. Bisht wiped her tears harshly.

"Haan," she said firmly.

"Main samajh rahi hoon."

She looked straight into his eyes.

"Dev use bandh ke rakhega. Power se. Naam se. Shaadi se."

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Aur jab tak woh bandhi rahegi... tab tak woh meri yani humari beti bani rahegi."

Mr. Bisht's shoulders slumped.

"Ek din..." he murmured,

"Ek din woh sab yaad kar legi. Phir?"

Mrs. Bisht's lips trembled, but she didn't look away.

"Phir jo hoga... dekha jaayega."

A long silence followed.

Then she whispered, almost begging,

"Main use dobara nahi kho sakti... samjhe tum?"

Mr. Bisht closed his eyes.

Because somewhere deep down,

he knew—

She had already decided.

And this time...

love was more dangerous than truth.

Outside — Dev's Car

Dev sat back, calm.

Victorious.

He adjusted his ring—the same one that had bruised her skin.

A slow smile curved his lips.

"Gulab..." he murmured.

"Tumhare mrs.singhania bane ki ulti ginti chalu tick..tock..tick..tock"

The car pulled away.