Intro

The Malhotra haveli stands resplendent, adorned like a blushing bride on her wedding day. A tapestry of vibrant flowers, twinkling lights, and shimmering decorations drapes every corner, transforming the already grand mansion into a spectacle of beauty and celebration. Delicate ribbons flutter in the gentle breeze, their soft rustling a whisper of the joyous occasion to come.

This auspicious day holds double significance for the Malhotra clan. The air thrums with anticipation, for today marks not only a grand maha yagya within the haveli's sacred walls but also serves as a prelude to tomorrow's momentous event - the oath-taking ceremony of Abhimanyu Rajveer Malhotra as the state's new Chief Minister.

The haveli buzzes with activity, reminiscent of a well-orchestrated symphony. Workers move with purpose, their synchronized efforts reminiscent of an industrious ant colony. The usually serene corridors echo with hurried footsteps and hushed instructions as final preparations reach a fever pitch.

Despite the grandeur of the occasion, the puja itself is an intimate affair, reserved solely for family members. Rajveer Malhotra, the family patriarch, has issued strict instructions to his sons - no drama or chaos will be tolerated on this sacred day. His firm stance casts a subtle tension over the proceedings, a reminder of the family's public stature and the need for decorum.

In the sprawling kitchen, the Malhotra daughters-in-law are engrossed in preparing the prashad, their hands moving with practiced efficiency. Overseeing their efforts is the family matriarch, Meera, a picture of grace as she cradles young Rudra in her arms. Her seasoned gaze misses nothing, offering gentle guidance where needed. The younger women work diligently, their admiration for Meera's household management skills evident in their deferential nods and quick responses to her soft-spoken instructions.

Yet, a notable absence hangs in the air - the Malhotra brothers are nowhere to be seen.

Meera's brow furrows slightly as she attempts to feed Rudra his cereal. The toddler, blissfully unaware of the day's importance, makes a delightful mess. With infinite patience, Meera wipes his cherubic face, her love for her grandson momentarily overshadowing her concern.

"I wonder where those three have disappeared to on such an important day," Meera muses, her voice a mix of exasperation and worry. "Raj will be upset, and I won't say a word in their defense this time."

Her words elicit varied reactions from her daughters-in-law. Shraddha offers a sympathetic smile, while Drishti's face clouds over with barely concealed anger. Kiara's response is a childlike pout as she holds up a plate of meticulously chopped dry fruits.

"Maa, are these dry fruits chopped finely enough?" Kiara asks, seeking approval.

Meera glances at the plate, her experienced eye assessing the work. "A little more, dear," she replies gently. Kiara nods, returning to her task with renewed determination.

Turning to Shraddha, Meera's voice carries a hint of anxiety. "Did Abhimaan mention anything before leaving?"

At the mention of his father's name, little Rudra perks up. "Papa!" he exclaims, his eyes brightening.

Meera's heart melts at her grandson's innocent joy. "Yes, my darling," she coos, planting a kiss on his chubby cheek. "Your Papa, who gives your grandmother so much trouble." Rudra giggles, oblivious to the underlying tension.

Shraddha's calm voice cuts through the moment. "Maa, Maan mentioned a crucial deal signing at the company. He assured me he'll return before the puja begins."

Meera sighs, her worry not entirely assuaged. "I just hope these three don't end up being late," she murmurs, more to herself than the others. With a final kiss to Rudra's forehead, she rises gracefully, intent on inspecting the decorations and overall preparations.

___________________________

Kiara

I stand before the ornate, full-length mirror in our lavishly appointed bedroom, my eyes fixated on the woman reflected back at me. The plush carpet beneath my feet muffels the world outside, creating a cocoon of silence around me.

I'm adorned in a stunning deep red saree, its fabric as light as a whisper, draping elegantly over my form. The intricate folds cascade around me like a crimson waterfall, each movement creating a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow. My matching long-sleeved blouse, with its alluring sweetheart neckline, complements the saree perfectly, accentuating my figure with grace.

Around my neck rests an exquisite diamond and emerald choker, its brilliance catching the soft light of the room, casting miniature rainbows across my skin. My hair, a dark cascade of silk, is simply parted down the middle, framing my face and falling straight down my back.

Yet, beneath this veneer of beauty, a storm of emotions rages within me. My fingers unconsciously trace the outline of the burn mark on my waist, hidden beneath layers of fabric - a cruel reminder of my father's brutality. The memory of that punishment, for the simple transgression of not serving his drink on time, sends a shiver down my spine. I hate him with every fiber of my being, despising the very blood that courses through my veins.

A solitary tear escapes, trailing down my cheek. I hastily wipe it away, unwilling to let the ghosts of my past mar this moment. The true Kiara, the innocent child I once was, perished long ago - on that fateful day when my father's hand first struck my mother. It marked the end of my childhood and the beginning of a life overshadowed by fear and pain.

But now, standing here in this room that represents my new life, I feel a glimmer of hope. My new family - the Malhotras - have shown me what love and acceptance truly mean. They've embraced me, nurtured me, and elevated me even above their own son. Their kindness has begun to heal the deep wounds of my past.

The tranquility of the moment shattered as the bedroom door flew open with a resounding thud. My heart leapt into my throat, years of ingrained fear causing me to whirl around, wide-eyed and trembling.

Veer stood there, a vision in a crisp white shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders and toned physique. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto mine, drinking in every detail of my appearance. I felt exposed, vulnerable, yet strangely empowered under his unwavering gaze. Unconsciously, I caught my lower lip between my teeth, a nervous habit I'd never quite overcome.

The air between us crackled with electricity as Veer began to move towards me. Each step he took seemed to stretch into eternity, the tension building with every passing second. My cheeks flushed with heat, and I dropped my gaze, suddenly shy in the face of his open admiration.

When he finally stood before me, the world seemed to fall away. With infinite gentleness, Veer placed a finger under my chin, tilting my face upward until our eyes met once more. He lowered his head to my level, his breath warm against my skin.

"Fuck, woman," he whispered, his voice husky with desire, "you're looking absolutely ravishing." The raw emotion in his words sent a shiver down my spine.

"Kiara," he murmured, his tone softer now. Noticing my shallow breathing, he added with concern, "Breathe, baby." I inhaled deeply, realizing I'd been holding my breath. His lips curved into a tender smile that made my heart skip a beat.

Leaning in close, his lips brushed against my ear as he whispered, "You have no idea how much control it's taking right now." His words were followed by a gentle kiss on my earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. A tremor of pleasure coursed through me.

In one fluid motion, Veer's hand found my waist, pulling me flush against him. I grasped his shirt, the fabric bunching in my fist as I sought to steady myself. The warmth of my cheek against his cooler one sent sparks flying through my body.

"Cat got your tongue?" he teased gently. "Won't you say anything?"

I opened my mouth, but words failed me. Taking a deep breath, I gathered my thoughts and managed to ask, "Where were you?"

His smile widened, a mix of affection and amusement dancing in his eyes. "I love it when you care, wifey," he said, his tone playful yet sincere. "Your husband was out sealing a shipment deal from Russia."

Confusion must have shown on my face because he chuckled softly, placing a tender kiss on the tip of my nose. "You didn't catch that, did you?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

I shook my head, still lost in the whirlwind of emotions his presence evoked. The way he looked at me, touched me, spoke to me - it was as if he could see past all my scars, both visible and hidden, and still find me beautiful. I feel beautiful in his arms.

I hesitated, reality intruding on our intimate moment. "We have to leave for the Yagya," I reminded him softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "And Maa specifically asked you to wear traditional attire."

Veer's sigh was a mix of resignation and amusement. "Fine," he conceded, but made no move to release me from his embrace.

"Veer," I pressed gently, " let me go "

His face darkened momentarily, an intensity flickering in his eyes that both thrilled and unnerved me. "Never," he growled, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

A flicker of fear, born from old wounds, gripped my heart. Sensing my tension, Veer's expression immediately softened.

"Just for now," I amended, my voice trembling slightly. "You really do need to change."

Nodding in understanding, Veer reluctantly loosened his hold. As he turned to walk away, I faced the mirror once more, adjusting the intricate pleats of my saree with trembling fingers.

Suddenly, a strong hand grasped my arm, spinning me around. Before I could react, I found myself pressed against Veer's chest, his lips claiming mine in a searing kiss. My eyes widened in surprise, but quickly fluttered closed as I surrendered to the passion of his embrace.

Veer kissed me with a fervor that left me breathless, his expertise evident in every movement of his lips against mine. I responded tentatively at first, then with growing ardor, losing myself in the intoxicating sensation.

When we finally parted, both gasping for air, Veer rested his forehead against mine. His eyes, dark with desire, bore into my soul as he whispered huskily, "I can't survive without this - without you."

A deep blush colored my cheeks at his words, and a shy smile tugged at my lips. Veer's answering grin was radiant as he reluctantly pulled away, heading to change into his traditional attire.

Left alone, I took a moment to compose myself, my heart still racing from our passionate encounter. With a deep, steadying breath, I made my way towards the main garden where the Yagya was to be held.

As I walked through the ornate corridors of the haveli, the scent of incense and flowers grew stronger.

__________________________

Shraddha

As I step into our room, a soft sigh escapes my lips. The morning light filters through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow across the plush carpet where our puppy, a bundle of golden fur, contentedly gnaws on his chew toy. His tail wags lazily, creating a rhythmic swoosh against the floor. The air is filled with a gentle mixture of sandalwood incense and the fresh scent of morning dew from the garden outside.

I make my way to the walk-in closet, my bare feet sinking into the carpet with each step. Maan is back . The sound of the shower running in the adjacent bathroom mingles with the distant cooing of Rudra, our precious little one, now safely in Maa's arms. The impending puja adds a sense of reverence to the air, spurring me to choose my attire with care.

As I enter the closet, my fingers trail along the array of fabrics until they find the perfect saree for today's occasion. I unfurl the deep crimson silk, marveling at how it seems to come alive in my hands. The fabric whispers as it unfolds, revealing intricate golden threadwork that dances across its surface like constellations in a ruby sky.

With practiced motions, I begin to drape the saree around myself. Each fold and pleat falls into place as if guided by an unseen hand, the fabric embracing my form like a lover's caress. The weight of the silk against my skin is both grounding and uplifting, a reminder of the day's significance.

As I stand before the full-length mirror, I'm struck by the transformation. The deep red saree isn't just a garment; it's a statement, a celebration of tradition and femininity. The color reminds me of the setting sun, of ripe pomegranates, of the sindoor that graces a married woman's hair. It speaks of love, of passion, of the life-force that runs through all things.

I adjust the pallu, draping it over my shoulder with a graceful sweep. The loose end cascades down my back like a waterfall of crimson silk, the golden embroidery catching the light and creating a mesmerizing play of shadows and gleams. Each tiny sequin is a star in this fabric galaxy, twinkling with every breath and movement.

The blouse, a masterpiece in its own right, hugs my curves perfectly. Its deep neckline is adorned with delicate golden beadwork that mirrors the saree's embroidery, creating a harmonious ensemble. The short sleeves reveal my arms, adorned with a series of gold bangles that chime softly as I move, their musical tinkling a counterpoint to the silence of the morning.

My fingers brush against the cool metal of a particularly exquisite bangle, its intricate filigree work a testament to the artisan's skill. The contrast between the cool gold and my warm skin sends a pleasant shiver down my spine, grounding me in the present moment.

I turn my attention to my hair, which falls in a sleek, obsidian cascade down my back. Its darkness provides the perfect canvas for the vibrant red of the saree, like the night sky cradling the setting sun. With deft fingers, I tuck a strand behind my ear, revealing a pair of chandelier earrings that sway gently with each movement, their diamonds catching and refracting the light.

As I delicately apply a touch of kohl to my eyes, accentuating their almond shape, I feel a subtle shift in the air. The vermilion, a vibrant streak of crimson, finds its place along my hair parting - a symbol of my married status, as sacred as it is beautiful. The room is quiet, save for the soft rustling of fabric and the distant sounds of the household stirring to life.

Suddenly, a warmth envelops me from behind, strong arms wrapping around my waist with a familiar tenderness. Maan's presence is like a sudden summer breeze, both invigorating and comforting. His scent - a heady mixture of sandalwood soap and something uniquely him - fills my senses. I feel myself stiffen momentarily, caught off guard by his sudden closeness, before melting into his embrace.

Maan's head comes to rest on my shoulder, his breath tickling my ear. Our eyes meet in the mirror's reflection - his, dark and intense; mine, wide and shimmering with unspoken emotion. A blush creeps across my cheeks, painting them a delicate pink that rivals the dawn sky outside our window. The effect he has on me, even after all this time, is both thrilling and overwhelming.

His lips, soft yet insistent, press against my cheek in a feather-light kiss. My eyes flutter closed, savoring the sensation, the world narrowing down to just this moment, just us.

"You look just like mine," Maan's voice rumbles low, the possessiveness in his tone sending a shiver down my spine. I blink, coming back to myself, suddenly aware of the ticking clock and the responsibilities that await us.

"Maan, wear something," I manage to say, my voice slightly breathless. "We need to leave for puja." My eyes can't help but trail over his form, still wrapped only in a towel, droplets of water clinging to his broad chest. The sight is as distracting as it is enticing.

He huffs, a sound of playful frustration. "Today, your son is not here to get all your attention, so please let me have my wife for myself," he murmurs, his fingers gently sweeping my hair aside, exposing the sensitive skin of my neck. His lips find purchase there, kissing and sucking with a hunger that makes my knees weak.

The room around us seems to pulse with an electric energy, the air thick with unspoken desires.

"Maan, don't please," I plead, my voice a mixture of desire and hesitation. "He is yours as well, and we have puja to attend." The words come out in a breathless hiss as Maan's teeth graze the sensitive skin of my neck. The sensation sends shivers down my spine, a delicious contrast to the warmth of his body pressed against mine.

His voice, when he speaks, is low and husky, tinged with a frustration that tugs at my heart. "Don't you think your husband also needs some of your attention and time like everyone else?" The words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning. I can feel the tension in his body, the barely contained need for connection.

A shiver runs through me, not just from his touch, but from the raw emotion in his voice. "Maan, yes you do," I concede, my tone softening with understanding. "But after the puja, please. Papa will be angry." With great reluctance, I gently disentangle myself from his embrace, immediately missing his warmth.

I move towards the neatly laid out clothes, my fingers trailing over the soft fabric of his kurta. The crisp white material seems to glow in the morning light, a stark contrast to the deep red of my saree. As I turn back to Maan, I can't help but smile at the adorable pout on his face, so at odds with his usually composed demeanor.

Approaching him with the kurta, I reach out to help him dress, but he steps back, avoiding my touch. "Go, care about others, leave me," he says, his voice a mixture of petulance and genuine hurt. As I smiled shyly.

I pause for a moment, kurta in hand, studying his face. The morning light casts half his features in shadow, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the furrow between his brows. In this moment, I see not just my husband, but the old Maan who used to show his mischievous side.

With a soft smile that's equal parts exasperation and deep affection, I step closer. This time, instead of reaching for his arm, I lean in and press a gentle kiss to his chest, right where the kurta falls open. I feel him go rigid beneath my touch, surprise and desire warring in his body.

Emboldened, I rise on my tiptoes, bringing myself level with his face. Our eyes meet, a world of unspoken emotions passing between us in that gaze. Slowly, deliberately, I press my lips to the corner of his mouth, a promise of things to come.

"Is this okay for now?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. The tension in his body eases, and he nods, a small smile finally breaking through his stern expression. It's like watching the sun emerge from behind storm clouds, warming me from the inside out.

With practiced ease, I begin to button his kurta, my fingers working deftly even as I feel the weight of his gaze upon me. Each brush of my fingers against his skin feels charged, intimate, a reminder of the connection we share that goes far beyond the physical.

As I finish, I look up to find Maan's eyes still fixed on me, filled with a mixture of love, desire, and gratitude that takes my breath away. "I'm leaving," I say softly, my hand lingering on his chest for just a moment longer. "Come fast."

As I turn to leave the room, my heart swells with emotion. The words "I love him. I love my husband," echo in my mind, a mantra more powerful than any prayer we'll recite at the puja. In this moment, I'm acutely aware of the blessing that is our love - complex, passionate, sometimes challenging, but always, always worth it.

___________________________

Drishti

As the golden rays of the setting sun filter through the intricately carved windows, they cast a warm, ethereal glow across the bustling household. The air is thick with the heady fragrance of sandalwood incense and freshly strung jasmine garlands, their delicate white petals a stark contrast against the vibrant hues of silk and brocade that swirl through the rooms.

I stand before the ornate mirror, my reflection a paradox of beauty and frustration. The rich crimson of my saree seems to shimmer with a life of its own, each fold and pleat telling a story of centuries-old tradition. Yet, as I struggle with the stubborn string of my blouse, I feel my carefully cultivated composure beginning to unravel.

My fingers, usually so deft, now fumble clumsily with the thin cord. Each failed attempt to secure the blouse sends a fresh wave of irritation coursing through me, hot and insistent as the flames that will soon dance in the sacred lamps of our puja.

The absence of my husband is a palpable void in the room, as stark and unsettling as a discordant note in a beautiful raga.And Believe me or not but I'm not talking to my husband at all. The weight of his absence presses down upon me, heavier than the intricate golden jewelry adorning my neck and wrists.

I can feel the smooth fabric of the saree against my skin. The drape feels just right - not too tight, allowing me to move comfortably, yet hugging my curves in a flattering way. I love how the pallu falls gracefully over my shoulder, and I resist the urge to adjust it, knowing it's perfectly placed.

The back of my blouse feels particularly special. The intricate crisscross pattern of the thin straps adds a subtle, sensual touch that I find both daring and elegant and now to forget a stubborn string.I can sense a gentle breeze on my exposed skin, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the heavy fabric.

My hand lingers on the embroidered sleeve of my blouse - each golden thread and sequin meticulously placed to create a stunning design.

___________________________

As I walked through the corridor, the soft fabric of my pallu draped elegantly over my back, its vibrant colors contrasting against the muted tones of the walls. I felt satisfied with my appearance; every detail was perfect, and soon I would ask my bhabhi to tie the doori for me. The gentle hum of the house was interrupted only by the soft rustle of my footsteps.

At the far end of the hallway, I caught sight of him. My husband stood there, his presence magnetic and compelling. The way his hair fell in disarray made him look even more irresistible, a captivating blend of charm and allure. For a moment, I allowed myself to admire him, but I quickly looked away, focusing on my path as I continued to walk past him, my heart racing in spite of my composure.

But he wasn't done with me yet. I could feel his gaze on me , heavy and filled with longing. As I tried to slip past him, he shifted, positioning himself right in front of me, a playful glint in his eyes. I attempted to sidestep him, but he reached out and grabbed my shoulders, holding me firmly in place.

"Drishti, please listen to me," he urged, his voice low and earnest.

I feigned indifference, wiggling my way to freedom. "I have work to do, Manyu," I replied, trying to sound firm, but my heart betrayed me.

His eyes darkened with determination as he pulled me closer. "You can't just ignore me like this. Let's talk."

But I wasn't ready to give in. As I attempted to wriggle free, he suddenly lifted me effortlessly into his arms, cradling me in a bridal style. Startled, I instinctively wrapped my arms around his neck for support, my breath hitching in surprise. He flashed a smirk, a victorious glimmer in his eyes, and began to walk toward our room, each step resonating with an undeniable sense of intimacy.

"Put me down, Manyu! I really have things to do!" I protested, my voice a mix of annoyance and something softer that I couldn't quite suppress.

He paused just outside our room, his gaze piercing and profound as he searched my eyes. "I need you more than anything right now," he confessed, his voice a gentle caress that sent shivers down my spine.

Despite my attempts to wriggle away, I found myself caught in the depths of his gaze. "I don't want to talk," I murmured defiantly, but my heart was racing, betraying the strength of my resolve.

Finally, we entered the room, and he gently set me down, but not before sliding his hand around my waist, pulling me closer as he held me captive in that enchanting moment. The air between us crackled with an electric tension, a magnetic force that neither of us could resist.

With the world outside fading away, I felt both vulnerable and cherished, enveloped in his warmth. My mind raced with thoughts of work, yet all I could focus on was the intoxicating closeness, the way his breath mingled with mine, and the promise of unspoken words that lingered in the air, waiting for us to give in.

"Don't forget, we have important things to discuss too," he said, a teasing smile dancing on his lips. I met his gaze, feeling a spark of mischief in the air. "Yes, but what I have to do is even more important," I replied, matching his playful tone. His smile widened, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes.

As I turned to leave, I felt a sudden tug on the back of my blouse, a sensation that sent a shiver down my spine. I glanced over my shoulder to find Manyu standing there, his fingers entwined in the delicate strings of my blouse.

"Come on, don't take your frustration out on this," he teased, stepping closer, his confidence radiating off him like warmth from a sunbeam. His eyes held a mix of playfulness and intensity as he held both strings in his hand, gently pulling me back toward him.

His fingers brushed against my bare back, igniting an electric thrill that made me gasp softly. The cool air contrasted with the warmth of his touch, and I felt goosebumps rise along my skin. He pushed a few strands of hair away from my neck, tucking them behind my shoulder, his fingers lingering as he tied the strings. Then, to my utter surprise, he pressed a soft kiss against my back, sending waves of heat cascading through me.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. A smile threatened to break free from my lips, but I held it back, wanting to maintain an air of composure despite the fluttering in my chest.

"Get ready; we need to head downstairs," I said, trying to regain my footing. "You've already kept me waiting long enough."

He flashed a boyish grin, a spark of charm that made my heart race. "I can't help it if you're so distracting," he replied, his voice playful, yet laced with sincerity.

With that, he turned and walked toward the closet, the muscles in his back flexing under the fabric of his shirt, a sight that made it difficult to look away. I shook my head, chuckling to myself as I stepped out of the room.