In the ruins....I found you ❤️-A Prashiv ss - Page 5

Chapter 11: The Night They Stopped Pretending

It had rained that evening—hard and unrelenting, as though the sky had lost its temper.

The storm outside was a mirror of the one simmering within the Randhawa mansion’s marble walls. The house, too, seemed on edge. The air was thick with tension, the sort that presses down on your chest and refuses to let you breathe.

They had just finished dinner.

Shivansh was helping Prarthana clear the table, an unspoken rhythm now built between them. He’d started doing little things—cutting vegetables without being asked, wiping the counter when he thought she wasn’t looking. And though he never said it aloud, each act whispered, I’m trying. For you.

Prarthana saw it. Felt it.

But that fragile thread of peace was about to snap.

The doorbell rang. Loud. Urgent. Insistent.

Shivansh froze.

Prarthana felt it immediately—how his hand tensed around the water jug, how the warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced with an old stormcloud of unease.

Then came the voice.

"Shivansh? Beta, please open the door. It’s your mother."

The jug slipped from his hands.

It crashed to the floor and shattered, water and glass bleeding across the tiles like something sacred had been ruined.

Prarthana stepped forward instinctively, but Shivansh held up a hand—silent, trembling.

He walked to the door and opened it.

She stood there, dressed in pearls and piety, holding a designer umbrella and a face full of curated regret.

Smita Zaveri.,.His mother..

Prarthana had never seen him like this before—so visibly undone. The armor fell away in jagged fragments, replaced not by vulnerability, but by something colder: emotional frostbite.

"What do you want?" Shivansh asked, voice low.

Smita stepped in as if she belonged, ignoring the broken pieces of glass at her feet.

“I know it's your birthday,” she said with a tight smile. “I thought maybe this time, I could at least try.”

Shivansh laughed—a harsh, hollow sound. “Try what? To stitch together twenty five years of abandonment with one visit and a gift bag?”

She flinched.

Prarthana hovered near the dining table, uncertain whether to step in or stay out. Every cell in her body screamed to go to him. But this was not her fight to lead.

Smita looked at Prarthana briefly, then turned back to her son.

“Look, I made mistakes. But I—”

“You left me,” he said, his voice cracking now. “You chose to walk away from me. You let him send me away like I was a burden you could finally rid yourself of.”

“I was powerless—”

“No,” he snapped, stepping closer. “You were spineless. And then you played the grieving mother at Page 3 parties while I spent nights wondering why I wasn’t enough.”

Prarthana couldn’t take it anymore.

She walked up to him and gently placed her hand on his back.

He didn’t look at her.

But he didn’t pull away either.

Smita’s voice trembled. “I know I cannot change the past, Shivansh. But at least allow me to be part of your present.”

He stared at her.

Long.

Hard.

Then, in a voice so cold it could’ve frozen time, he said, “There is no place for you in my present. My mother died the day she turned her back on me.”

The room fell still.

Smita’s eyes welled with tears, but Shivansh stood unmoved. A lifetime of pain had finally found its words.

She left without another word.

And then, the silence descended again. Only now, it was louder than before.

Prarthana cleaned the broken glass as he sat on the couch like a man who’d just survived a battlefield.

When she joined him, she didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him, her shoulder brushing his.

He whispered, “Do you think I was too harsh?”

She shook her head. “No. You were honest. Sometimes, that’s the only kindness we owe.Though I feel that she must have had a reason to leave you but that doesn't take away the " more than two decades" of unbearable pain you went through bcz of her abandonment..and it would take time to heal.”

He looked at her.

Long.

Searching.

And then—softly—he whispered, “You stayed.”

She smiled sadly. “I always will.”

Something broke inside him then—not violently. Not like glass or rage. But like ice finally thawing..His voice trembled, husky with anguish, eyes refusing to meet hers.

“I always thought…” he paused, swallowing hard, “you’re only here because you had no choice. Because I… tied you to me with a ritual I poisoned from the start. A wedding that should’ve been sacred, but I used it as a weapon.”

Prarthana’s brows furrowed, but he continued, as if it had taken him years to admit.

“I thought you stayed because of that chain around your neck... not because of me. That you were just... fulfilling a duty, burdened by vows that were never given to you honestly in the first place.”

He finally looked up, eyes dark and tortured.

“And that… that killed me every single day.”

He turned toward her, his fingers brushing hers. And for the first time, there was no mask between them. No guarded words. No cold silences.

Just Shivansh and Prarthana.

Two bruised hearts that had stopped pretending.

“I thought if I let you love me, I’d ruin you,” he said, voice trembling. “But the truth is… not loving you is what's been killing me.”

She exhaled shakily, and cupped his face.

“I didn’t want perfect,” she whispered. “I just wanted you. All of you. Even the wreckage.”

His breath hitched.

And then she kissed him.

It wasn’t the fiery, desperate kind. It was quiet. Deep. Healing.

Like breathing in warmth after years of winter.

When they pulled apart, his forehead rested against hers.

And he whispered, “I don’t know if I deserve you.”

“You do,” she said. “And I’ll remind you every day until you believe it.”

---

That night, they didn’t fall asleep as strangers on either side of the bed.

They lay tangled in silence and solace. Fingers laced. Heartbeats synced. The space between them finally gone.

Not lovers in passion, not husband and wife in duty—

But two souls who had finally let themselves be seen.

Chapter -12

Rainlight Reverie

It had been raining all afternoon.

A soft, steady drizzle that blurred the windows of the Randhawa estate and cloaked the gardens in a veil of silver mist. The kind of rain that lulled the world into stillness.

Shivansh was in his study, pretending to work — but his mind, as it often did these days, wandered toward her. Prarthana. The name itself felt like a prayer he hadn’t yet earned.

He closed the file in front of him, exhaled deeply, and stood. A strange restlessness tugged at him — a familiar ache that had no name, only a direction. And so, he walked to the corridor overlooking the backyard.

And froze.

She was dancing.

Prarthana.

In the rain.

Barefoot on the marble terrace, her hair drenched and clinging to her neck, her soft lilac dupatta discarded carelessly on the garden bench. Her arms were outstretched as she twirled — unbothered by the world, by dignity, by the weight of the past.

She was laughing.

And God — that laugh. It was the kind that sounded like monsoon winds brushing over wind chimes. Like it came from somewhere deep inside her — the part that still believed in joy despite never having known it.

Shivansh stood still, his hand gripping the railing.

He had never seen anything more… alive.

This wasn’t the Prarthana who served tea quietly in family meetings, or the one who avoided conflict with grace. This wasn’t the composed woman who bore pain with silence.

This was the girl who had been caged all her life… finally stepping into the rain and letting it baptize her.

Something inside him shattered quietly.

She turned then — mid-spin — and her eyes met his through the mist and the drizzle.

For a split second, her movements halted.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t move.

But his eyes… they said everything. Wide with awe. Lit with something deeper than desire. That silent astonishment of a man seeing light where he thought there’d only be grey.

Her lips curved — not in mischief, but in freedom.

Then, slowly, she walked toward him, soaked, rain dripping from her fingers, her kurta clinging to her like second skin. She stood before him, breathless and radiant.

“Come dance,” she whispered.

He swallowed. “I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, her voice hushed, smiling. “Just feel.”

He looked at her — really looked. And in that moment, he didn’t see the rain. He saw her.

And for the first time in years…

Shivansh stepped into the rain.

Into her world.

Chap-13

(The Moment the Rain Held Them Both)

The first few steps were unsure.

Shivansh stepped off the veranda and into the garden, and the rain greeted him like a long-lost friend — cool, gentle, cleansing. It soaked through his shirt, his hair, clung to his skin, and yet he didn’t flinch.

Prarthana extended her hand, her palm open and steady between them.

He hesitated.

Then, wordlessly, he placed his palm against hers.

And the moment they touched — flesh to flesh, warmth to warmth — something unspoken passed between them.

She didn’t lead.

She didn’t teach.

She just moved, and let him find her rhythm.

At first, his steps were rigid. An awkward shuffle, unsure and unfamiliar. But she didn’t laugh. She didn’t correct. She only smiled, her eyes locked on his, her presence soft as silk.

As if the entire Universe started humming for them:

"Mujhme safar tu karti rahe ......

The rain fell harder, cloaking the world around them in silver. They were alone in their own little universe, suspended in motion — just two souls and a hundred raindrops.

"Har ekk saans mein guzarti rahe"

And then something broke open inside him.

A quiet crack.

Like a dam finally giving way.

He let go.

Of control. Of fear. Of the voice in his head that always whispered he didn’t deserve moments like this.

He pulled her closer.

"Shaamon subah tu mera...

Tere bina kya mera...."

Their bodies aligned — soaked fabric clinging to skin, breath mingling in the space between them. She gasped softly as his hand found the small of her back, the other lifting to tuck a wet strand behind her ear.

"Do jism Jaan...ekk hai

Na hona kabhi tu judaa"

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she whispered, her cheeks flushed with something warmer than the rain.

“Because I don’t know if this is real,” he murmured. “Or if I’ve just dreamed you.”

Her smile faltered — not out of sadness, but wonder.

And then, just like that, they moved.

"Teri meri kahani....hai baarishon ka pani...

Banke jo Ishq barse ....Teri meri kahani..."

Not in a rehearsed waltz or a practiced sway — but in a rhythm that belonged only to them. Her arms around his neck, his grip tightening at her waist. A dance of breaths, of wet lashes, of eyes that refused to look anywhere else.

Their foreheads touched.

Their lips didn’t need to.

Because everything was already being said in the silence between heartbeats.

I see you.

I feel you.

I’m here.

The rain poured on.

But neither noticed when it stopped.

They just stood there, pressed into each other, eyes closed, hearts thudding in sync — as if the storm had passed not just around them… but within them.

Chapter 14: Bruises Without Blood

The evening had wrapped itself in silence.

Not the comforting kind—but the kind that tiptoed like a specter across the walls of the Randhawa mansion. Every creak of the floorboard, every shift of the wind outside, seemed unnaturally loud in the absence of conversation.

Prarthana had been in the study, her presence like a quiet balm—organizing his scattered files, brewing him tea, writing something in her diary. Shivansh had entered the room in a brooding mood, a storm already churning beneath his carefully pressed shirt and clenched jaw.

She sensed it the moment he stepped in.

But this time, she didn’t run from it.

“You’re late,” she said softly, not in accusation, just in concern.

“Work,” he replied curtly, tossing his jacket onto the sofa.

She approached him with gentleness, placing the cup of tea on the table. “You skipped lunch. Again.”

“I’m not hungry,” he snapped.

She blinked, taken aback. But her voice remained calm. “You haven’t been sleeping well either. At least talk to me, Shivansh. Don’t shut me out.”

He exhaled sharply, avoiding her gaze. “Don’t start this again, Prarthana. Not tonight.”

Her brows knit together. “Start what?”

“This… suffocating concern,” he said bitterly. “You hovering around like I’m a broken child who needs nursing every second.”

Prarthana went utterly still.

The words landed not like a slap, but like ice—slow and stinging.

Her voice dropped. “Is that what I’m doing?”

Shivansh ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself, with her, with everything. “I didn’t ask for this. I never asked for anyone to come fix me.”

She swallowed. Her eyes glistened, but her voice was steady. “I’m not here to fix you, Shivansh. I’m here to love you.”

He turned away. “Well maybe that’s your mistake, then.”

A beat of silence followed.

The kind of silence that changes everything.

He froze.

Even before he turned around, he knew what he’d done.

Prarthana stood rooted to the floor, her face pale, her eyes dimming slowly—like the lights of a city being switched off, one by one.

She didn’t shout. Didn’t throw the cup. Didn’t storm out in fury.

She simply looked at him. And that look—the heartbreak, the quiet disbelief—it hurt more than any scream ever could.

“I see,” she said softly. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

Then she turned and left the room.

Shivansh stood frozen for a full minute.

The cup of tea still sat untouched on the table. A pale ribbon of steam coiling up before fading into nothing.

And then his chest began to tighten.

Regret hit him like a freight train.

His legs moved before his mind did. He stumbled through the corridor, calling her name.

“Prarthana!”

No response.

He checked their bedroom. Empty.

The terrace. Empty.

Finally, his breath caught in his throat when he looked through the French windows leading to the back garden.

There she was.

Sitting beneath the frangipani tree she loved. Knees drawn to her chest. Face buried in her arms.

He didn’t go to her.

Because what could he even say?

Instead, he turned back, walked into the bedroom, and closed the door behind him.

The walls suddenly felt too close. The air, too thick.

He dropped to the floor beside the bed, pressing his palms into his forehead. His breathing was shallow. Erratic.

His heart thundered in his ears.

"This is what you were afraid of", a voice inside him whispered.

He gripped the edge of the bed for support. The anxiety crawled over his skin like fire ants. He couldn't breathe. Couldn’t think.

He had told himself again and again that he was too damaged for her. That one day, his scars would bleed onto her.

And tonight… they had.

Words he didn’t mean—spoken like reflex.

But even reflexes carry weight.

He looked at the door, imagined her out there alone, in the dark, weeping for something she never broke.

Tears welled in his eyes.

He pressed his forehead to the cold floor and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

But there was no one to hear it.

Not tonight.

Chapter 15: The Garden and the Storm

The garden was bathed in silver moonlight—serene, deceptive in its calm. But under the frangipani tree, a quiet storm raged within her.

Prarthana hadn’t moved in an hour.

The cool breeze carried the scent of night jasmine, but it failed to soothe her. Her heart felt like a cracked porcelain bowl—still holding everything, but one more tremble away from shattering completely.

Maybe that’s your mistake, then.

His voice echoed in her head again and again. Not the words alone, but the way he had said them—dismissive, sharp, like her love was an inconvenience.

She clutched the ends of her dupatta tighter in her fists.

She hadn’t cried like this in a long time—not since the day she realized her adoptive mother would never look at her as a daughter. Not since the day Shivansh had thrown a wedding ring in her lap like a transaction.

But this… this hurt more.

Because she had started dreaming again. She had let herself hope.

Back in the bedroom, Shivansh sat motionless against the wall. His hands still trembled. His throat burned from unshed tears. Guilt coiled around his spine like a python, tightening with each passing second.

He had promised himself he wouldn’t do this.

Not to her.

Never to her.

But he had. Just like his father. Just like the very men he’d vowed not to become.

The clock on the wall ticked past 11 PM.

He rose finally, dragging a shawl from the couch. His legs felt heavy, as though he were walking with weights shackled to his feet.

The garden door creaked open.

Prarthana heard the sound, but didn’t turn.

She didn’t need to. She knew it was him.

He walked slowly across the dewy grass, the shawl in his hand, his breath shallow.

He stood behind her for a long moment.

“I brought this,” he said quietly, wrapping it around her shoulders. “It’s cold.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t shrug it off. But she didn’t look at him either.

He crouched beside her, level with her face.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came.

“I swear to you, Prarthana,” he said, voice breaking, “I didn’t mean it. I was angry… not at you. At myself.”

She looked at him now—eyes red, cheeks streaked with tears.

“That’s the problem, Shivansh,” she said quietly. “I know you didn’t mean it. But you said it anyway. And it broke something in me.”

He flinched.

Her voice wasn’t angry. It was soft, worn, the kind of softness that only came after exhaustion.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I know you’re scared. I know your past haunts you. But how long do I have to bleed for wounds I didn’t give you?”

He looked down, ashamed. “I’m… I’m scared I’ll ruin you. That one day, my darkness will swallow you whole.”

She leaned closer, tears slipping again. “Then let me light a candle in that darkness. Don’t push me into the cold every time you feel unworthy.”

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, his voice was raw.

“I saw you crying,” he murmured. “I stood by the window and watched you… and I couldn’t breathe. I’ve never been more terrified in my life.”

She didn’t move.

“I wanted to hurt myself,” he confessed, voice barely audible. “Because I couldn’t bear the fact that I became the very thing I swore I’d never be.”

Her head fell forward, resting against his shoulder. “Then don’t become it, Shivansh. Fight it. With me.”

He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. He clung to her like she was the only real thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I’m so sorry, Prarthana.”

She held him tighter.

“I know,” she said, gently stroking his back. “But next time, when you feel like pushing me away—don’t. Just tell me you’re scared. And I’ll hold you through the fear.”

They sat in silence then, in that cold moonlit garden, surrounded by the scent of fallen petals and unspoken forgiveness.

Above them, the night sky stretched endless and dark—but no longer terrifying.

Because in the heart of the garden, two broken souls found solace.

Not in perfection.

But in the decision to stay.

Chapter 16: When Morning Comes

The sun crept in slowly, shyly, as if afraid to intrude on the aftermath of the storm.

Prarthana stirred first.

The warmth of a new dawn filtered through the gauzy curtains of their bedroom, and for a moment, she couldn’t remember how or when they had come back inside. All she knew was that somewhere between his trembling apologies and her whispered reassurances, Shivansh had laced his fingers through hers and hadn’t let go.

He hadn’t spoken much afterward.

He hadn’t needed to.

Some silences don’t ache—they heal.

Now, she looked down to find his head resting gently on her lap. His features were soft in sleep, lips slightly parted, lashes resting like shadows on his cheeks. The usual tension that marked his brow had faded.

He looked… younger.

And yet, there was something tragic about how peaceful he seemed—as though rest was a borrowed thing, not something he truly believed he deserved.

She stroked his hair gently, not wanting to wake him. But he stirred anyway, like he had already known she was watching him.

His eyes blinked open, slow and hesitant.

For a heartbeat, he looked at her like she was a dream. Then the weight of the night before returned to his gaze, and he slowly sat up, pulling away just slightly.

“I didn’t think you’d stay,” he murmured.

“I didn’t think you’d let me,” she replied just as softly.

They both smiled—small, tired smiles. But real.

A pause followed.

And then, Shivansh exhaled deeply, like he had reached the edge of something long overdue.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, voice low but clear.

Prarthana nodded, folding her legs beneath her on the bed. “I’m listening.”

He looked down at his hands—those same hands that had built empires, signed contracts, ruined lives, and held her like a lifeline.

“I met someone yesterday,” he began. “At the orphanage.”

Her brows drew together in quiet confusion.

He continued. “I had gone there to donate—one of those events for the foundation. But while I was there… a boy came running up to me. Probably ten, maybe younger. Big eyes. Shy smile. And he asked me if I was there to adopt someone.”

Prarthana tilted her head. “And what did you say?”

“I laughed,” he said bitterly. “I told him I was too broken to be anyone’s father. And you know what he said?”

She shook her head, eyes fixed on him.

“He said, ‘Broken people love the deepest. Because they know what it’s like to not be loved at all.’”

Her breath hitched.

Shivansh’s voice trembled now. “It felt like someone punched my chest open. That child—he looked at me the way I must have looked at my father the day he left.”

He paused.

“I couldn’t breathe after that. I excused myself, walked straight to the car, and sat there. For almost an hour. That’s why I came home late. That’s why I was angry.”

Prarthana reached for his hand, and he let her.

“I wasn’t angry at you,” he said. “I was angry that I’ve spent years locking myself behind walls. And now that I finally want to open the door… I don’t know how.”

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Then let me teach you,” she whispered. “Let me be the knock on your door every day—until you feel safe enough to answer it without fear.”

He looked up at her, tears welling in his eyes.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Maybe not,” she said, with a teasing smile and tearful eyes. “But love doesn’t come with a merit list, Mr. Randhawa.”

And just like that, something shifted.

Something unspoken, but deeply felt.

He leaned forward, forehead touching hers, breath mingling.

“Promise me you won’t leave,” he whispered. “Even when I mess up. Even when I try to push you away.”

She cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.

“Only if you promise to never again fight your battles alone.”

A moment passed.

And then he kissed her—not with fire, but with something far more rare.

With reverence.

As if he finally understood the weight of her love… and was ready to carry it with her...

Chapter 17: Letters Unsent

The air in the study was still, save for the soft ticking of the grandfather clock. Morning light slanted through the blinds, streaking golden lines across the mahogany furniture. Prarthana stood near the desk, her fingers idly tracing the carved edge, lost in thought.

Shivansh had gone to take a call.

She hadn’t intended to open drawers or disturb anything. But something—a quiet tug in her chest, instinctual—pulled her toward the left cabinet beneath the desk.

It wasn’t locked.

And perhaps that’s what startled her the most. Shivansh never left anything vulnerable.

Inside, neatly stacked, lay a bundle of yellowed envelopes—tied with a fraying silk ribbon.

No stamps. No addresses.

But her name was written on some of them. Others bore none. Just dates.

Unsent.

Her breath caught.

She looked toward the door. Still closed.

She knew she shouldn’t. But curiosity wasn’t what made her untie the ribbon.

It was longing.

To know the man behind the silence. The man who whispered I love you in touches, not words. The man whose eyes confessed what his tongue could not.

Her fingers slipped beneath the flap of the top envelope.

And then she began to read.

---

10 December

You looked at me today like I was worth something. I don’t know what startled me more—the fact that you did, or the fact that I wanted to believe it.

You’re not supposed to see me, Prarthana. Not like that. Not like a man who deserves your warmth. I’ve built too many walls, buried too many truths. But when you smiled at me today across the dining table, I forgot, for a moment, how cold I am inside.

That’s dangerous. You’re dangerous.

---

2 January

Sometimes, when I lie awake at night, I try to remember how your voice sounds when you’re not afraid of me. It's beautiful. And when it happens… it fills rooms I never knew existed in my heart.

You make me want to be a man worthy of softness. But I don’t know if I can.

---

25 January

It’s snowing here .I haven’t told you I like the cold. It numbs things. Makes memories feel like dreams.

But tonight, as you wrapped your shawl tighter around yourself and shivered beside me in silence, I wanted to pull you close. Not to warm you. Just to remind myself I’m not alone.

But I didn’t.

Because every time I come close to you… I’m terrified I’ll leave a scar.

---

The ink on the next one had bled slightly, as if it had been clutched too tightly—perhaps in a fist.

2 February

I watched you cry today in the temple courtyard. You thought I didn’t notice. But I did.

I should have come to you. Wiped your tears. Asked why. But I didn’t.

Because I knew why. You’re tired. Tired of loving a man who returns your affection with silence. A man who flinches at touch, who doesn't know what to do with kindness.

I want to tell you that it’s not your fault. That your love is not too much. That it is the only thing keeping me alive.

But I can’t. Because if I do, I’ll need you. And needing someone has always been a weakness I never survived.

---

The final letter in the bundle had a single word on the envelope:

“Stay.”

Her hands trembled.

She unfolded the page inside with trembling fingers.

---

Undated. Unfinished.

If you find this, it means I’m no longer too much of a coward.

Prarthana—

I love you.

God, it terrifies me to write that. It feels like admitting I can bleed.

You see, all my life, I’ve only ever been one of two things: abandoned or alone. I thought marrying you would be my revenge, my shield. But somewhere between your quiet strength and the way you make tea in the mornings, I forgot how to be cold.

You’ve ruined my loneliness. And I don’t hate you for it. I hate myself—for not being brave enough to let you know sooner.

If I’ve pushed you away, it’s because I don’t know how to hold anything precious without crushing it. But I’m learning.

And if you’re reading this…

---

It ended there. The ink trailed off. As though he had been interrupted mid-thought—or too overcome to continue.

She pressed the paper to her chest.

Tears slipped down her cheeks in complete silence.

He had always loved her.

Even in silence. Even when he had no courage to say it.

And while she had spent nights wondering if she was forcing herself into a place she didn’t belong, he had been writing her into the safest corners of his heart.

Unsent letters.

Unspoken love.

Unfinished healing.

But not unloved.

Never that.

The door creaked open behind her.

Shivansh paused mid-step, taking in the sight of her holding the letters, her tear-streaked face, the way her fingers clutched that final page like it was air.

He froze.

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” she whispered. “It was open. I… I couldn’t stop myself.”

He stepped closer, heart in his throat.

“I didn’t send them because I didn’t think I deserved the right to.”

She looked at him, tears still shining but her voice steady. “But you wrote them. That means everything.”

He dropped to his knees before her.

“I wanted to tell you every day. But I was scared that if I let you into those places… you’d leave. Just like she did.”

Prarthana cupped his face. “I’m not her.”

“I know that now,” he breathed, voice trembling. “But back then… I didn’t.”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his.

“Then let’s write new letters,” she whispered. “Together. Ones we send. Ones we speak. Every day. Out loud.”

He closed his eyes, the corners crinkling with unshed tears.

And for the first time in years, Shivansh Randhawa smiled.

As she folded the letter, tucking it gently against her chest like a heartbeat she never wanted to forget, Shivansh took a hesitant step forward. His fingers brushed hers, tentative yet deliberate.

“I never asked you properly,” he said, voice low, rough with emotion. “I stole that right from you… the right to choose me freely.”

Prarthana looked up, brows furrowed in soft confusion.

“I don’t want to fix what we had,” he continued, pulling a tiny velvet box from his pocket — no grandeur, no drama, just a single silver ring cradled in soft linen. “I want to rebuild it. Brick by brick. With truth this time… and reverence. Will you marry me again, Prarthana? Not because fate forced us. But because I want you — enough to want to do it right.”

She blinked, stunned for a moment — lips parting, eyes wide with sudden, blooming warmth.

Then a slow smile curved across her face.

“You mean I have to sit through another shaadi, Shivansh? okay But only if this time show me your face..” she teased, a single tear slipping down her cheek as she laughed through it.

She threw her arms around him, voice thick with emotion against his neck.

“Yes, my angry man. A thousand times yes.”

And as he held her tighter than he ever had — past and pain dissolving into the hush of that moment — they both knew:this was their real beginning.

He looked at her face gently brushing back a strand of hair from her face.

And then he pressed a soft, reverent kiss to her forehead — chaste, lingering, wordless — a kiss that held every promise his voice still couldn’t carry.

Love, forgiveness, devotion.

A quiet vow, sealed in silence.

.Chapter 18: Smeared in Haldi and Him

The Randhawa estate was bathed in yellow that morning — literally.

Marigolds hung like golden rain from the ceilings, turmeric was perfuming the air, and women’s laughter rang out like chimes as relatives bustled about preparing for the haldi ceremony.

But Prarthana wasn’t thinking about the rituals.

She was thinking about him.

Shivansh.

The man she had once feared. The man who now looked at her like she held every answer he never dared ask.

And as fate would have it — or perhaps destiny had a cheeky sense of humour — both their Haldi ceremonies had been planned together. Two ornate seats beneath a canopy, two bowls of turmeric, and no walls left between them.

It began innocently enough.

Shivansh walked in wearing an ivory kurta with sleeves rolled up, that signature brooding expression ruined entirely by the golden paste someone had already smeared across his stubbled jaw. His hair was tousled from dodging flying haldi hands, and the moment his eyes landed on Prarthana, his smirk slowed… then stopped.

She was a vision in yellow.

Soft chiffon clung to her like second skin. Her bare arms were dusted with turmeric and sunlight, and her smile — oh, that wicked, sweet smile — lit up her whole face. A few strands of hair were stuck to her cheeks, and her lips were stained with mango juice she had sneakily stolen minutes earlier..

Her hair was tied loosely, with jasmine strands woven into the soft waves. Haldi smeared her cheeks, collarbone, and arms in abstract strokes of gold, like the sun itself had tried to claim her.

And she was laughing.

Unapologetically, joyfully, like the storm of the past days had never existed.

He hadn’t seen her laugh like that in days.

And it drove him crazy.

His throat ran dry as he watched her, that delicate curve of her lips, the way her dupatta had fallen off one shoulder, revealing the creamy skin underneath stained with turmeric—and longing.

She didn’t know what she did to him. What this primal ache was becoming. Every step she took away from him scorched his insides; every glance she spared him, even in shyness, lit a fire in his veins.

And then, their eyes met.

For a single breath, the world paused.

Her laughter faded, and the corner of her lips dipped into a soft smile—just for him...

He was halfway to her when someone threw a handful of haldi at his back.

She giggled.

And that was it.

The last strand of patience in him snapped.

“You think that’s funny?” he growled low in her ear the moment he reached her.

She turned, all faux innocence. “What is?”

He didn’t reply.

He simply took a generous scoop of haldi and — with maddening slowness — smeared it across her cheekbone, sliding his thumb along her jawline, down to her neck. She gasped, eyes widening.

“Your skin’s too perfect,” he murmured, voice dark with play. “It needed a little color.”

“Oh really?” she said, narrowing her eyes.

And in one swift move, she dipped her fingers in her bowl and shoved turmeric right into his chest, smearing it into the white fabric.

It turned into war after that.

A beautiful, delicious war.

Laughter echoed through the garden as the two of them chased each other between guests and flower pillars, slipping on wet petals, knocking over brass trays, smearing turmeric over each other’s faces, arms, and occasionally — quite accidentally — lips.

Eventually, they ducked behind a thick marigold curtain, both panting, golden, and laughing like children.

“I surrender,” she said, holding up her hands. “Truce.”

“Too late,” he replied, voice husky.

And then — before she could react — he pushed her lightly against the wall of the garden shed, eyes glowing molten under the sunlight. His turmeric-slick fingers trailed along her collarbone, dipping into the hollow of her neck.

Prarthana’s breath hitched.

“This isn’t part of the ritual,” she whispered, her hands resting on his chest.

“It should be,” he murmured, his lips barely brushing hers.

And then he kissed her.

Not softly.

Not hesitantly.

It was the kiss of a man who had once feared his own hunger — but now knew exactly who he belonged to.

She melted into him, fingers fisting the fabric at his shoulders as he deepened the kiss, their laughter dissolving into quiet gasps and soft moans. The scent of turmeric and sandalwood lingered between them, hot against their skin.

His lips moved to her jawline, down her neck, where he kissed the curve of her shoulder — slow, reverent.

“You smell like sunshine and spice,” he whispered.

“And you,” she murmured, eyes closed, “smell like mine.”

They stayed hidden for several more minutes — whispering promises they wouldn’t dare say in front of family, sharing secret smiles, touches that lingered just a second too long.

By the time they returned to the ceremony, both were covered in turmeric, glowing like fire and gold, and utterly, stupidly in love.

No one said anything. But the knowing smirks were everywhere.

And Prarthana?
She didn’t care.

Because even beneath layers of haldi and chaos and teasing glances — all she could feel… was him....

.Chapter 19: The Wedding They Never Had

The Randhawa mansion had never felt so alive.

Not in its grandeur. Not in the way it stood tall against the city skyline, wearing opulence like second skin. But in the way it breathed today—with laughter in its corridors, fresh jasmine scent curling through the air, and golden fabric dancing in the breeze.

And yet, amidst the flurry of quiet preparations, it was the stillness in Shivansh’s heart that startled him the most.

For once, it wasn’t heavy.

Not weighed down by grief, rage, or ghosts. It was still because it was full.

He stood near the French windows of the private terrace, watching as sunlight bled into the morning sky. His reflection wavered on the glass—a man in a crisp cream sherwani, understated, classic… unlike the man he had been for so long. But it suited him now. Stripped of armour. Of anger.

A soft knock echoed on the wooden frame behind him.

He turned.

Malti, the housekeeper-turned-mother-figure, stood there with moist eyes and a small tilak plate.

“I never thought I’d see this day,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “A real wedding in this house… and your wedding.”

Shivansh offered her a quiet smile. “Neither did I.”

She stepped forward, placing a soft tilak on his forehead, her fingers trembling. “Your mother would’ve been proud today.”

Shivansh didn’t respond for a moment. Then, with a voice lower than a whisper, he said, “No, she wouldn’t have. But Prarthana would still forgive her.”

Maalti paused, looking at him curiously.

Shivansh continued, “That’s the kind of woman she is. She has a heart that holds more kindness than the world deserves.”

And it was that woman he was marrying today.

Again.

Not out of revenge. Not under shadows. Not bound by guilt, secrets, or silent wounds.

But out of love.

Downstairs, in the bridal suite, Prarthana stood before the mirror, still trying to reconcile the reflection with reality.

A rich, ivory lehenga dusted with muted gold embroidery hugged her silhouette. Her hair was twisted into an elegant braid, fresh mogras woven through, cascading down her back. Her jewellery was minimal—deliberate. The real adornment was the serenity in her eyes.

She had waited for this—not for the wedding, but for this version of him to choose this version of her.

No revenge.

No wounds to stitch in silence.

Just love.

Soft, steady, and unswerving.

Saanchi, the housemaid who had become more like a little sister over time, adjusted the fall of her dupatta.

“You look like a queen,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Prarthana smiled gently. “Today… I finally feel like one.”

The garden, where their first moment of vulnerability had taken place—the night he had cried in her arms—had been transformed.

No mandap, no grand canopy. Just a simple arch of white flowers, fairy lights curling around the old tree trunks, and chairs set under the open sky.

It was exactly what they wanted—intimate. Honest.

When Shivansh saw her walking down the garden aisle, his breath caught.

Not because she was beautiful—though she was that, achingly so.

But because she was walking towards him.

Despite everything.

Through every storm, every wound he had ever opened in her, every scar she bore in silence—she still walked toward him.

When she finally reached him, he didn’t say anything.

But his hand reached out.

And she took it.

Like it was always meant to be held.

The ceremony was brief.

There were no priests chanting ancient vows.

Instead, they made their own.

Shivansh looked into her eyes, his voice steady but thick with meaning. “I don’t vow to never hurt you. Because I might. I’m human. Flawed. Still healing. But I vow to never let my wounds become yours again.”

Prarthana blinked back tears, then smiled through them. “And I don’t vow to fix you. Because you’re not broken. But I promise to walk with you—through every moment you feel like you are.”

He took her hand again, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “This time, I’m not marrying you to make a point. I’m marrying you to make a promise.”

“And I’m saying yes,” she whispered, “not because I have to—but because I finally want to.”

That night, there were no fireworks.

Just two people wrapped in soft cotton bedsheets, whispering secrets in the dark.

No longer afraid of being too much.

No longer hiding behind silence.

And in that quiet space between their heartbeats, they knew:

They hadn’t rewritten their story.

They had simply started over.

This time, with nothing but love in the ink....

Thank you for reading..... This story is close to my heart.....So even though Shivansh and Prarthana have gotten married here,I am still not feeling like saying a "good bye" to it....so I may post if I ever feel like....But yeah...as of now they are married...

Thank you ❤️

Prarthana telling shivansh that he owes to himself was true.prarthana telling him that she has seen care in him was emotional. I also wonder why he suddenly changed.prarthana telling him not to take away her right to choose was emotional. I liked prarthana telling him not to lie to himself.