His Side OF The Storm

— Veer —

She still looked like destruction wrapped in marigolds.

Aaradhya Rathore.

The name tastes like rust on my tongue.

It’s been four years. Four long, bleeding years since I last saw her. Since I watched her walk out of my life with tears in her eyes and betrayal in her silence.

Now here she was… standing like a goddess sculpted from fire and ego, her mehendi-stained hands wrapped around a glass, her eyes spitting the kind of hatred only a lover could master.

And me?

I smirked.

Because what else do you do when the girl you once burned for looks at you like she’s planning your funeral?

I didn’t plan on attending the engagement. But when Riyan called, saying his fiancée’s family was hosting the ceremony at their ancestral haveli in Udaipur—and that he wanted me there as his best man—I couldn’t say no.

Not because of him.

Because of her.

I knew it was her.

I recognized her name immediately.

Aaradhya Rathore. My Aaradhya.

Except… she was never really mine, was she?

“College friends,” I’d said when Riyan asked.

A half-truth. A comfortable lie.

We were so much more than friends.

We were war and worship.

Lust and loyalty.

Chaos and comfort.

Until it ended.

And I ended her.

The guilt had been buried beneath deals, women, alcohol, and deadlines in Delhi. But the moment I stepped into that palace, every suppressed memory came crawling back like smoke in a locked room.

She hadn’t changed much. Just… sharpened.

Eyes more guarded. Spine straighter. Smile faker.

But she was still her.

Still the girl who once waited outside my hostel at 2 AM because I forgot my wallet.

Still the girl who kissed me under the library stairs after calling me insufferable.

Still the girl who disappeared without saying goodbye.

Except, this time… I would not let her walk away first.

As I walked toward her, I expected fire.

I got hell.

“Hello, Aaradhya,” I said. Smooth. Cold.

Her eyes narrowed. “Veer.”

God, the way she said my name—like it was a slur.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” she added.

Clearly. Her pulse had stuttered. I still knew that look.

“Still like lotus patterns, I see,” I muttered, glancing at her palm.

She stiffened. Good.

I remember everything about her. The way she hated coffee but loved the smell. The way she got furious when someone interrupted her mid-sentence. The way she always scribbled hearts in her diary… around my name.

But this Aaradhya?

She was steel.

“You still deserve it,” she replied, voice low.

Damn. She didn’t miss a beat.

Riyan’s interruption gave us a moment to breathe. I smiled at him. He was a good guy. Harmless. Trusting.

But naive.

He didn’t know the storm brewing in her eyes wasn’t nerves—it was a love story gone rancid.

“College friends,” I said again, to fill the air. Aaradhya didn’t deny it, but she didn’t confirm it either. Her fake smile didn’t reach her eyes.

I wonder if Riyan knows his bride once kissed her enemy.

And moaned his name.

And left him bleeding.

No. He doesn’t.