Cultural Textile Exhibition

The air was rich with the scent of sandalwood and jasmine oil. The old haveli’s courtyards were draped in embroidered curtains that swayed with the monsoon breeze slipping in through carved jharokhas. Folk music from a distant dholak hummed in the background, mixing with the murmur of cultured voices admiring the handwoven saris and intricate zari work. Diyas flickered along the walls like whispers of forgotten stories.

Arnav Singh Raizada stepped onto the marble floor, its chill climbing up through his bespoke Italian leather shoes. His jaw was taut. His eyes, hawk-sharp. Everything about him screamed precision—he was a man carved out of deadlines and silence. These exhibitions weren’t his scene. Too much noise. Too much color. Too many fake pleasantries wrapped in glitter.

But Akash had insisted.

“It’s for our heritage line, Bhai. One walkthrough. That’s it.”

Arnav didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His silence was loud enough.

His gaze swept across the room dispassionately—until something moved. A streak of red soared across the hall. A dupatta, midair. It fluttered like a banner in battle, catching the golden glow of a diya, the embroidery on its edge a glinting trail.

And then she appeared.

A girl in a cream anarkali with red threadwork along the hem, juggling a brass tray filled with diyas. One flame tilted precariously.

“Oh no no no—Hai Devi Maiyya, ab yeh bhi gir gaya!” she gasped. “Sorry, sorry!”

Khushi Kumari Gupta spun sideways to catch the falling diya, her ankle slipping slightly on the polished floor. She twisted—straight into a wall of human steel.

The tray clattered to the floor. Diyas rolled. One guttered out. One sizzled. A diya’s flame kissed the hem of her dupatta.

Arnav instinctively stepped forward, his hand darting to brush the cloth away from the fire.

Time paused.

Her face tilted up, lips parted, eyes wide. Honey-brown eyes. Unfiltered panic and warmth in equal measure.

“I—I didn’t see you there!” she said, breathless, cheeks flushed.

She stumbled back.

Her dupatta didn’t.

It clung stubbornly to the button on his sleeve—caught, like the moment itself.

He didn’t speak. His fingers twitched, halfway to her cheek. Something inside him—something long buried—almost reached for her. But he stopped. Instead, he stared at the red fabric caught like a secret between them.

“It’s… stuck,” she whispered, crouching slightly to untangle it, her fingers brushing against the fine weave of his charcoal grey suit.

“Let it be,” his voice came out rough. Unintended. Deep. Possessive?

She blinked up. His tone startled her.

“I’ll do it,” he added, more controlled this time.

She stilled. He knelt halfway, unhooked the thread from his button with practiced ease. But his eyes didn’t move from her face.

There was too much in her expression. Chaos, apology, defiance, innocence—wrapped in one ridiculous girl.

Finally free, she stepped back. Flustered. Embarrassed.

“Anyway,” she mumbled, smoothing her dress. “Thank you… Mr.—?”

“Raizada. Arnav Singh Raizada.”

Her eyes widened. Recognition bloomed.

“Wait... The Raizada? As in the AR Designs Raizada? The big fashion house?”

He inclined his head, noncommittally.

“Oh no,” she gasped. “I nearly set a diya on you!”

“You set something on fire, alright,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” she blinked.

“Nothing.”

He looked at her again. Not just at her, but into her. “Do you… work here?”

“Me? No no, I was just helping. My Jiji manages some of the embroidery showcases, and I always get diya duty because apparently I’m ‘full of light.’” She rolled her eyes.

He didn’t smile, but something shifted behind his eyes. “Of course.”

Of course she wasn’t just a staffer. She had presence. A strange mix of clumsiness and poise, like a dance choreographed by chaos.

Across the room, a sudden wave of applause broke the spell. A folk dance had begun. Arnav’s phone buzzed. Akash. He ignored it.

She bit her lip. “Well… I should go before I knock over a curtain or set someone else on fire.”

She turned. He didn’t stop her.

But he watched her leave.

As she disappeared into the crowd, her dupatta caught the breeze one more time.

Red. Like memory. Like fate.

He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

And deep inside his mind, where numbers and strategies usually lived, a single word settled:

happiness

---

Across the Hall

Akash Singh Raizada stood with a museum program in one hand and a phone in the other, scrolling through the list of artisanal collaborators his assistant had just messaged. He wasn’t paying much attention to the crowd anymore—at least not until he looked up and realized one very specific, brooding, controlling, suit-wearing presence had vanished.

He frowned. “Where did Bhai go?”

Lavanya Kashyap popped a grape into her mouth from a platter she'd stolen from the hospitality counter. “Probably brooding in a corner. Or threatening a mannequin. Or correcting some poor artisan's color palette.”

Akash chuckled, eyes scanning the crowd. “No seriously. He said fifteen minutes. Tops. It’s already been twenty.”

Lavanya, in a wildly impractical sequined jumpsuit and hot pink heels, was scrolling through her Insta stories. “Ten bucks says he found someone worth glaring at.”

Akash raised a brow. “He doesn’t glare at people. He glares through them.”

“Exactly.”

She leaned against the column, tossing her sleek ponytail behind her. “God, I love this setting though. These curtains. That chandelier. Someone tell Vogue to do a shoot here.”

Akash sighed. “We’re here for the textiles, La.”

“And what do you think Vogue is for, darling?” she retorted.

Akash smirked. “I still can’t believe he came.”

Lavanya folded her arms. “Well, he did. And I think we should mark the calendar. You know it takes either a national emergency or a serious profit pitch to drag ASR to a cultural mela.”

“More like blackmail.” Akash nodded. “I told him the board needed visuals. Heritage line authenticity. A presence.”

“And what do you think happened?” Lavanya tilted her head thoughtfully. “Maybe he saw some khadi silk and fell in love?”

Akash deadpanned. “Do you hear yourself?”

Lavanya laughed. “Oh come on. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed the vibe shift. He walked in like Darth Vader, but he’s been missing for twenty minutes. Either he left—or someone made him pause.”

Akash checked his phone again. Still no reply.

Lavanya leaned toward him conspiratorially. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“Not for Bhai.”

“But what if,” she said dramatically, “fate wrapped up one of those handloom dupattas and flung it directly into his face?”

Akash paused, thoughtful. “Honestly? If any dupatta dared touch ASR, he’d incinerate it with a look.”

Lavanya snorted. “Unless… it came with a girl. A girl with clumsy feet. And loud bangles. And eyes like sweet sugar.”

Akash slowly turned to look at her. “That’s weirdly specific.”

She winked. “I’ve watched a lot of Yash Raj films, darling.”

Just then, a shadow fell over them. They both turned.

Arnav.

Perfectly composed. Back in his full form—stiff shoulders, poker face, and those unreadable eyes.

“You two are wasting time,” he said flatly.

Lavanya grinned like a cat. “Where were you, Mr. Raizada?”

“Looking at embroidery.”

Akash narrowed his eyes. “You hate embroidery.”

Arnav walked past them. “I like patterns.”

Lavanya called after him, sing-song. “What kind of patterns, ASR?”

He didn’t answer.

But Akash watched him go, then looked at Lavanya.

“I think we just witnessed the impossible.”

Lavanya raised her brows. “The beginning of a love story?”

“No,” Akash said, shaking his head slowly.

“The beginning of Arnav Singh Raizada’s existential crisis.”

---

Gupta House after exhibition

The Gupta house smelled of mustard crossed, glaring at a pot of dal like it had personally insulted her. “Khushi! Did you add salt or sugar to the dal? Because this tastes like chemistry experiment!”

From the kitchen came the unmistakable clatter of pots, followed by a rushed, “Hai Devi Maiyya!”

Khushi tumbled into the dining area, apron askew, dupatta wrapped around her head like a bandana, and jalebi batter splattered across her cheeks like war paint.

She darted to the stove, grabbed a spoon, and tasted the dal.

“Oh no! I was thinking about something—I mean, nothing—and I must have grabbed the wrong jar!”

Buaji narrowed her eyes, arms akimbo. “Arey titaliya, your brain has clearly gone on vacation. And you’ve been floating around like a love balloon since you came back from that exhibition!”

Khushi flushed and glanced guiltily at the jalebi batter bowl.

Payal peeked in from the hallway, half-amused, half-curious. “Or should we say… someone?”

“Jiji!” Khushi’s voice squeaked a bit too loudly. “Don’t start!”

Payal walked in fully, leaning against the fridge. “I knew it. You met someone. Admit it.”

“I did not!” Khushi insisted. “Well… I mean yes. But not like that! He was just a man. A man I bumped into. Literally. And I ruined his suit.”

Buaji perked up instantly. “Handsome?”

“Dangerous.”

“Rich?”

“Scary!”

“You liked him.” Payal grinned, arms folded.

“No, I didn’t! I mean—I don’t know! He had this… presence. He didn’t even say much, but it felt like he could read my whole life just by staring!”

Buaji smacked the side of the dal pot.

“Oho! He stared?

You let him stare?

And he still alive?

Maybe it’s true what they say—miracles happen when diyas fall.”

Khushi groaned and buried her face in her dupatta. “It was one diya! And an accident!”

Payal leaned forward, teasing. “What was he wearing?”

“Uh… suit. Charcoal gray. Expensive. He looked like he belonged in a boardroom, not an exhibition.”

“Name?”

Khushi hesitated.

“Arnav Singh Raizada.”

There was a pause.

Buaji straightened like she’d been hit by lightning. “Arnav… Singh Raizada? The fashion Raizada?”

Khushi nodded meekly.

Payal's eyes widened. “You bumped into that Raizada?”

“And knocked a tray of fire at him,” Khushi added helpfully.

Buaji gasped. “Hai re Nandkishore! You tried to kill a millionaire!”

“I did not!”

“He’s a businessman, na?” Payal asked.

“What did he say?”

“He said… ‘Let it be. I’ll do it.’”

Buaji blinked. “He untangled your dupatta himself?”

Khushi stared at the floor. “Yes.”

Buaji dramatically collapsed into a chair. “It’s a proposal!”

“It is not!” Khushi cried. “He was just… being polite. And weird. And he stared. And I babbled. Oh God, I babbled so much. I told him about Buaji, the diya tray, my Jiji—why do I talk like that?!”

Payal giggled. “Because you’re Khushi.”

Khushi sighed, grabbing the jalebi batter bowl and stirring with too much force. "You’re hopeless.”

Buaji watched her carefully. “You’ve been smiling into that batter for the last half hour like it’s Salman Khan’s photo.”

Khushi glared. “It’s not Salman Khan. It’s just… he looked at me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just a girl with clumsy feet and a loud mouth.”

Payal’s voice softened. “He saw you.”

Khushi nodded slowly. “And I saw him.”

Buaji sat up straighter. “Then call him!”

Khushi choked. “What?! No! Why would I—? We don’t even have each other’s numbers!”

Buaji pointed a spoon at her. “You go back to that exhibition and you find him. Or better—invite him here. For tea!”

Khushi turned a deeper shade of red. “Are you trying to give him a heart attack?”

Buaji nodded solemnly. “If he likes chaos, he’s come to the right place.”

Payal burst out laughing. “Poor man won’t know what hit him.”

Khushi stirred the batter, eyes distant. “He already doesn’t.”

And somewhere deep inside her chest, that flutter returned.

Something had shifted. Something she couldn’t name.

A spark. A thread. A magnetic pull that had nothing to do with dupattas or diyas or drama.

Just… him.

Arnav Singh Raizada.

The man with fire in his eyes.

And her red dupatta still clinging to his memory.

---

Raizada Mansion

The Raizada Mansion was silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional clink of the city in the distance—horns, footsteps, echoes of Delhi that never quite slept. But inside, the world was hushed.

Arnav sat on the edge of his bed, collar undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The room was dim, lit only by the soft golden pool of light from the antique desk lamp across the room. His laptop sat open on the desk—but untouched for nearly an hour. Emails unread. Notifications ignored.

The coffee beside it had gone cold. Forgotten.

In his hand was a pencil. Thin. Mechanical. Not his usual weapon of choice. Arnav Singh Raizada didn’t draw. He didn’t sketch. That had been his Di’s thing, his mother’s thing—people who felt things. He built things. Empires. Strategies. Power plays.

And yet.

The paper before him was no longer blank.

A line. Then another. The curve of a cheek. A flutter of fabric. Fingers reaching upward, tangled in red. A diya tray slipping from a nervous grasp. That look—the startled, raw expression in her eyes when she spun into him.

Khushi.

He whispered the name under his breath like it was a foreign word he was trying to pronounce correctly. Like a language he didn’t know he was learning.

What are you doing?

He dropped the pencil, leaned back against the chair, exhaling slowly.

You don’t draw women. You don’t even look at them. Not really. You’ve been surrounded by models, executives, debutantes, heiresses—and none of them ever clung to your thoughts like static.

So why her?

Why the chaos?

Why that voice—breathless and full of panic, stammering apologies, then cracking jokes in the same breath? Why did the memory of her dupatta brushing his wrist feel more vivid than any business deal he’d struck in the past year?

He stood abruptly, as if motion would exile the thought of her. He crossed to the window and drew the curtain open. Delhi stretched before him like a constellation of flickering lives. But it wasn’t the city he was seeing.

It was her eyes.

You look like a dream I forgot I had.

He’d said that. Hadn’t he? Or thought it?

Either way, it haunted him.

He paced. His hand ran through his hair. He paused at the desk again and looked down at the paper.

There it was.

A sketch. Rough. Barely formed. But undeniably her.

Not perfect. Not polished.

Just real.

He reached into the drawer of the desk and retrieved something. A small object. Metallic.

A button.

The same one that had popped from his sleeve when her dupatta snagged on it. He’d meant to toss it. But instead, it had ended up in his drawer. His pocket. His palm.

And now, here it was again. Still hers. Somehow.

He turned it over in his fingers like it was a talisman.

What are you doing to me, Khushi?

He didn’t believe in magic. Or fate. Or destiny. He believed in precision. Structure. Numbers.

But that moment—when she had looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes wild, and said, “I—I didn’t see you there”—that had felt like… something else.

He closed the sketchbook, pushed it away.

This is ridiculous.

He should be thinking about the heritage line’s international rollout. The Paris collaboration. The quarterly board meeting. Not a girl who smelled like rosewater and disaster.

Still.

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t even lie down.

He sat there. In the dark. Staring at a red thread caught in the hinge of his desk.

Khushi.

He wasn’t in love. He didn’t do love.

But something had begun.

Something irreversible.

And for once, Arnav Singh Raizada wasn’t sure what to do next.

Raizada Mansion

The Delhi skyline blinked with lazy city lights. Horns had gone quiet, the breeze carried the scent of dust and distant rain, and the whole world seemed to have surrendered to sleep.

Everyone-except Arnav Singh Raizada.

He was wide awake.

Pacing.

Restless.

There was a sharp elegance in the way he moved-measured strides, jaw clenched, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his navy trousers, the other absently flipping a silver Montblanc pen between his fingers.

The same pen he'd used an hour ago...

To sketch her.

Khushi’

The name itself sparked something raw in his chest. A low, slow ache that had no medical explanation.

> "Ridiculous," he muttered under his breath, shooting a look at the untouched laptop on his desk.

Emails blinked silently. The Jaipur merger pitch was open. The numbers were waiting. Aman had even texted.

> "Sir, should I postpone tomorrow's call? You seem... distracted."

Distracted?

No.

He was consumed.

Her image had taken up permanent residence in his head. The sway of her braid. The chaos in her hands. That sharp, untamed mouth that had no filter and no fear.

> "She spilled ghee on my shoes."

He stopped pacing.

> "She insulted my attitude."

His lips twitched. Almost a smile.

> "And now I can't stop thinking about her?"

The absurdity of it stung. He-ASR-was spiraling over a girl who made jalebis, called him 'Laad Governor,' and looked like mischief wrapped in a dupatta.

He turned toward his desk.

The sketch was still there.

A rough pencil drawing. Half-finished.

Her, mid-turn-hair caught in a breeze, dupatta lifting like a banner, one eyebrow arched in rebellion. Her lips slightly parted, like she was about to scold him again.

> Why do I remember her expression better than I remember merger numbers?

He sank into the leather chair and rested his elbows on the table, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

This was madness.

He'd never been the type to doodle.

He signed contracts, not portraits.

But tonight?

He'd started sketching her without meaning to. First her eyes. Then the slight curve of her cheek. Then he'd tried to erase it. Crumpled the page.

Only to draw her again.

> What is wrong with me?

He leaned back in the chair, arms crossing, eyes dark.

This wasn't how he did things.

He was ruthless. Composed. Calculated. He'd built an empire on logic, not longing.

But here he was-fingers itching to know what her hair smelled like. Wondering if she laughed in her sleep. If she wore anklets. If she ever slowed down.

> "She's chaos," he murmured.

His voice was rough in the quiet room.

> "And I... crave it."

The admission was bitter and addictive.

He stood up again, crossing the room to the window. The city stretched before him, endless and uncaring. But in his mind, all he could see was her-standing in the middle of that crowded exhibition hall, eyes wide, voice fierce, looking at him like he wasn't a tycoon... but a problem to solve.

And God, he wanted to be solved.

The city outside had gone quiet. Not a single honk, not even the restless flutter of curtains. But sleep? It evaded him like Khushi avoided logic.

Arnav lay back against the headboard,

Gripping a sketch of her he'd never admit to drawing.

Khushi Kumari Gupta

Tornado in a salwar suit, Serial eye-roller and shoe critic.

A smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth.

Flashback:

Empty Corner of the Exhibition Hall -

The exhibit had slowed for the evening. Most guests had drifted toward the food court or parking lot, leaving behind only echoes of clinking glasses and the soft murmur of a flute.

Khushi stood by a moody abstract painting that looked like a tomato had fought with a paintbrush and lost. Her expression said exactly that.

> "This one's called 'Capitalism and Chaos'," Arnav's voice came from behind her, deep and smooth.

She didn't turn. "Hmm. I thought it was called 'Overpriced Mess No. 7'."

He chuckled, just a breath.

> "Much like your opinions. Loud. Messy. Unfiltered."

Now she turned, slowly. Arms crossed. Eyes sparkling.

> "Still better than your shoes."

He blinked.

> "My what?"

> "Your shoes," she repeated, eyes dropping deliberately to the sleek Italian leather. "They look like they're here to fire someone. Or sue a employee."

A pause.

Arnav raised an eyebrow. "They cost more than entire exhibition ."

Khushi leaned in a little. "Then they must be very sad. All that money and still so... soul-less."

> "That's because they don't scream every time they hit a pebble."

> "They don't scream because they're dead inside," she snapped, then blinked, surprised at herself.

He took a step forward.

She didn't move.

> "Funny," he murmured. "You've been staring at them for a while now."

> "Please. I was just wondering how they haven't burst into flames from the sheer amount of attitude they carry."

> "They're used to heat," he said quietly. "They walk into fire daily."

Their eyes locked.

His voice dropped just a little lower. Silkier. More dangerous.

> "Especially when the fire wears red and stares like she's trying to roast me alive."

Khushi's mouth opened-then closed.

Her heart? Somewhere doing bhangra with the tabla in the background.

> "You're impossible," she muttered, stepping back, cheeks a little too warm.

> "And yet... here you are," he replied, one brow arching. "Still standing in front of me. Still talking about my shoes."

She huffed, turning away-too fast-and caught her dupatta on a nail.

Arnav stepped forward instinctively, untangled it in silence.

His fingers brushed hers for a second too long.

She didn't breathe.

He didn't blink.

And then she walked away, fast.

Leaving behind a very still, very smug Raizada... and a pair of very insulted Italian shoes.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Why was she living rent-free in his head?

Why did her words echo louder than Aman's reports?

Why did the mental replay of her mocking his Prada shoes feel... enjoyable?

Disgusting.

Infuriating.

Weirdly addicting.

He picked up his phone, stared at the screen. Debated texting Aman:

> "Find out her shoe size."

But deleted it.

Got up. Poured himself a glass of water. Didn't drink it.

he mumbled

> "Who insults a man's shoes to his face?"

A pause.

His lips curved.

> "And still walks away with her dupatta caught... poetic."

He dropped onto the bed again, resting one arm over his eyes.

The image of her, eyes blazing, lips smirking, dupatta fluttering in rebellion-

It wouldn't leave him.

And sleep?

Yeah. That wasn't showing up tonight.

---

Gupta House,

The same night. The same moon. But a different kind of storm.

Khushi was arguing with her blanket. Again.

"Stop wrapping around my leg like you're ASR's attitude!" she muttered, wrestling it into submission.

The fan above creaked lazily. Her tiny room was flooded in moonlight. The clock ticked like a countdown to madness, and every few seconds... Khushi turned.

Left.

Right.

Back.

Left again.

> "Uff, what is this? Is my brain the new Rajdhani Express? Why won't it slow down!"

She flopped dramatically on her stomach and buried her face into the pillow.

But it was no use.

His face kept appearing behind her closed eyelids.

That frown.

Those dark, serious eyes that made her feel like she was being seen-not just looked at, but actually seen.

And that moment.

How his fingers had brushed her arm when she nearly fell. How their eyes locked as if Devi Maiyya herself pressed the pause button on time.

How he hadn't said a word... but something inside her shivered.

> "Laad Governor," she whispered, like it was a spell or a curse or maybe... something in between.

She sat up with a jolt.

Her dupatta was tangled around her waist. Her diary peeked from under the pillow. She snatched it, flipped to a blank page, and began furiously writing:

---

"Dear Devi Maiyya,"

I don't like him.

I swear I don't.

I don't care about his intense stares or his ridiculously perfect cheekbones or the way he looks like he hasn't smiled in centuries.

Or how he looked at me like... like I wasn't just some random girl who spilled ghee.

Okay?

I'm not thinking about him.

I'm thinking about jalebis.

Sweet, safe, round jalebis.

Sincerely,

Definitely Not In Love,

Khushi Kumari Gupta."

---

She slammed the diary shut and hugged it to her chest.

> "Why is my stomach doing somersaults like it's the Olympics?"

She walked to the window, peeking out at the dark quiet street.

Everything was still.

Yet her heart was doing bhangra.

> "No, . You're not falling for some broody tycoon with more buttons on his suit than expressions on his face."

And yet.

That same broody tycoon had smiled when she'd snapped at him. Actually smiled! Like she'd surprised him.

And that second...

...was living rent-free in her brain.

> "Ugh! You know what?" she told the night. "Maybe I'll see him again. Maybe not. It's not like he's following me to a mandir or anything."

She laughed nervously.

Because that was absurd.

Right?

Just then, from the next room, Buaji snorted in her sleep like a buffalo with sinus.

Payal groaned and muttered, "Khushi, stop talking to your blanket."

> "Mind your business!" Khushi whispered.

And then she turned over again, eyes wide open, heart thumping.

She didn't want to admit it.

But somewhere deep inside her chest...

A soft voice whispered:

> "What if he's not a coincidence? What if he's... meant to be?"

---

Because even dreams can't separate Khushi from her true loves: Arnav Singh Raizada... and sugar syrup.

Khushi was running.

Not the "he's-chasing-me-through-a-mango-orchard" Bollywood kind of running.

No.

She was running with a giant varmala made of jalebis.

And it was melting.

> "Hai Devi Maiyyaaaa! Why is it sticky?!"

She screeched as sugar syrup dripped down her wrist. The mandap loomed ahead, glowing like some holy spaceship. Marigolds rained from the sky. Dhols were playing.

And there he stood.

Arnav Singh Raizada.

Dressed in cream and gold sherwani.

Looking... edible.

And extremely confused.

> "Khushi... what the-are those jalebis?" he asked, blinking as she stumbled to the mandap.

> "It was supposed to be a flower varmala!" she gasped, waving the orange swirl-necklace . "But then Buaji said sweets are more auspicious and somehow the florist became a halwai and now it's... THIS!"

Arnav opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

> "Why are the pandit's mantras in Marathi?" he muttered.

> "He was cheaper!" Khushi whisper. "Budget wedding, okay?!"

Suddenly, Lavanya popped out from behind the mandap with a camera.

> "Say 'rabba veeeee!'" she chirped.

Anjali stood beside her, holding a laddu platter.

> "My chhote's getting married. I knew this day would come. I bribed Devi Maiyya with 11 coconuts."

From the side, Buaji shouted, "Arnav bitwaa! Put sindoor like you mean it, haan? Don't just dab it like ketchup on samosa!"

Arnav looked at Khushi.

She looked at him.

And then, without warning-

SPLAT.

The jalebi varmala broke in half and smacked him right in the face.

> "OH MY-LAAD GOVERNOR!" she yelped, trying to wipe syrup off his sherwani with her dupatta. "I am so sor-wait, did I just MARRY YOU WITH A JAL-?"

He caught her hand.

Pulled her close.

Sugar smeared across his jawline.

> "Only you would turn a wedding into a dessert disaster."

> "Well," she sniffed, "at least it's a sweet start."

He chuckled. Actually chuckled.

> "You're stuck with me now, Mrs. Jalebi Singh Raizada."

She blinked.

> "Wait-am I dreaming? Is this a dream?!"

Arnav smirked.

> "Would it matter if it was?"

And just as he leaned in to kiss her, the dhols rose to a dramatic Dhun-dhan-na-naaaaaaaa-

---

WHAM.

She jolted awake.

Sitting up in bed, heart racing, hair a mess, mouth dry .

Buaji's snores from the next room.

Payal peeked through the blanket, rubbing her eyes.

> "Were you laughing in your sleep... or crying?"

Khushi just stared at the ceiling.

> "...I married him with jalebis," she whispered.

Payal: "...what?"

Khushi groaned and fell back onto her pillow, covering her face.

> "I need therapy. Or less sugar at night."

---