चल, तेरे-मेरे इस किस्से का सिक्का उछाले
हूं चित्त में तेरी,
हैं तू पट्ट मेरे हवाले चल,
तेरे-मेरे इस किस्से का सिक्का उछाले हूं चित्त में तेरी,
हैं तू पट्ट मेरे हवाले
जो नहीं है अपने बस में
क्यों खाए निभाए वो रस्में? आ,
चलाए नई रस्में एक दूजे के पूरे करे सपने
चल,
तेरे-मेरे इस किस्से के पासे को फेंके
तू जीता तो तेरी, मैं जीती तो जाऊंगी लेके
कहता है क्या तेरा जिया?
बोलो पिया,
हां के हां
हां के हां, हां के हां
The clink of silverware against porcelain echoed softly in the grand dining room of the Singh haveli.
Ayaan sat at the far end of the long table — posture straight, sleeves rolled, head slightly bowed as he focused on his plate. The chandeliers above cast golden shadows, but his mind was somewhere else. Far, far from the steaming daal and perfectly round rotis.
Across from him, Daadi watched him with quiet amusement, resting her cheek on her palm.
“Aaj ki Aarti toh khoob sundar thi, hai na?” she asked, her voice holding the softness of evening prayers.
Ayaan nodded slowly. “Haan, sab theek tha,” he replied, chewing absently.
“Aur maine bola tha na — apne liye ek jevansathi ke liye prarthana zarur karna.” She chuckled lightly, lifting a spoonful of sabzi.
He paused for a heartbeat.
That word again.
jeevansathi
Soulmate.
He didn't believe in it. Or, at least he told himself he didn’t.
But his mind—traitorous as always—flashed back.
A flutter of yellow. Wild curls. Brown eyes full of apology and something else. The rustle of marigolds as they spilled around their feet.
He blinked. Took a sip of water. Shrugged the thought away as though it were dust on his kurta.
“Aapko kya lagta hai, Daadi? Ek din aise hi kisi se takraunga aur sab kuch badal jaayega?” His voice was dry, a little teasing, but the question lingered longer than it should have.
Daadi smiled, eyes wise and knowing. “Kabhi kabhi zindagi kisi ke takraane se nahi… ruk jaane se shuru hoti hai.”
Ayaan stared at her for a moment, something shifting in his expression. But he didn’t argue. He didn’t need to.
He simply got up from the table, folded his napkin with quiet precision, and placed a kiss on Daadi’s forehead. “Main room mein hoon,” he said softly.
She patted his hand. “Sapne dekhne se darna mat, Ayaan.”
He left without replying.
His room was dim, moonlight spilling in through the sheer curtains.
Ayaan stood by the window, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.
From below, the sounds of Banaras slowly quieted — a temple bell in the distance, the soft call of night vendors closing their stalls. Everything felt still. Too still.
And in that stillness...
She came back.
Not physically.
Just in fragments.
The warmth of her skin as he caught her.
The rush of wind between them.
The look in her eyes — like she didn’t expect to be held, like no one had ever steadied her before.
“Sambhal ke chaliye.”
He had said it like a reflex.
But it had meant more than he wanted to admit.
Ayaan exhaled slowly and turned away from the window.
He needed sleep. Not daydreams.
But as he pulled the covers over himself, the image of that girl — that chaos in yellow — stayed curled inside his chest.
And somewhere deep within…
His silence whispered her name,
.
.
.
.
.
.
The rays of dawn slipped through the tall windows of his room, casting golden light over the marbled floors.
Ayaan Singh stood in front of the mirror, buttoning the cuffs of his slate grey shirt. His movements were precise, every crease flattened, every fold aligned — just like the life he led.
Disciplined.
Controlled.
Except… that little corner of his mind that hadn’t stopped playing that one moment from last night on a loop.
That girl.
Those eyes. That moment.
His phone buzzed on the wooden desk behind him, breaking his train of thought.
Rohan calling…
He picked up.
“Good morning, sir! Just reminding you — your meeting with the foreign investors is at 10. Raza building. Files are ready and I’ve emailed the summary too.”
Ayaan hummed lightly, sliding his watch on.
“Hmm. I’ll be there in forty,” he replied, voice calm as ever.
“Sir… aaj aap… relaxed lag rahe ho.” Rohan dared to comment, half-joking, half-curious.
“Hmm…” Ayaan smirked slightly, his gaze sharp as he stared at his own reflection. “Bas… aaj Banaras zara khoobsurat laga.”
He cut the call before Rohan could reply.
45 minutes later
The glass doors of the Alawhaat Empire’s head office slid open as Ayaan walked in, flanked by security. The hush of reverence followed him — every employee stood straighter, every breath held when his eyes passed their way.
The air around him had changed lately.
Still calm. Still powerful.
But something softer… quieter… had crept in.
He stepped into the lift. Sleek. Silver. Silent.
He checked the time.
“Rohan. Coffee. Black. Meeting room 4.”
The secretary nodded at once.
Inside the conference room, the large table gleamed under the soft spotlights. Files were placed neatly, projectors set, everything in place.
As he waited for the others to join, Ayaan stared out of the giant window — the city below moving in fast-forward.
He should’ve been focused on numbers. Projections. Profit margins.
But all he could see was…
A flower basket tipping over.
Brown eyes wide in panic.
The feel of her arm in his hand for that fleeting second.
His brows furrowed slightly.
He didn’t even know her name.
“Sir?” Rohan entered with the coffee and broke the trance.
Ayaan turned, straightened his collar, and slipped into his business mode — calm, precise, sharp.
But as the meeting began, not even the presentation on global expansion could silence the echo in his mind.
Not today.
Even though he didn’t know it yet.
The boardroom fell silent as Ayaan closed the final folder, his dark eyes scanning the last page.
"Everything looks good," he said, voice clipped.
The foreign delegate gave a tight smile. "As expected from the Empire, Mr. Ayaan."
He gave a polite nod. "Rohan will handle the rest."
Standing, he buttoned his blazer and walked out with his usual grace — calm, authoritative, unshakable.
But as the glass door shut behind him, and the corridor emptied...
His phone buzzed.
One message. One word.
“Leak.”
That was all it took.
The warm echoes of last night—the girl in the yellow kurti, the flowers, her eyes—vanished like a mist.
His jaw clenched.
Without missing a beat, he stepped into his private elevator, pressed the biometric panel, and dialed a number.
“Reyansh. Where’s Vihaan?”
“In the warehouse. We’ve got a situation. Shipment route details were exposed.”
Ayaan's voice dropped, colder than ice.
“Kill the leak. Silence the whisper before it becomes thunder.”
The Alawhaat Empire had another face. One the world never saw.
Weapons. Codes. Money transfers. Power that ran beneath Banaras like blood in its veins.
He strode into the shadows of the warehouse, where Vihaan was already pacing with his laptop in hand.
“Who the fuck messed up?” Ayaan asked, voice so low it rumbled.
Vihaan looked up. “Not one of ours. External hacker. Someone’s trying to fish the shipment intel for the Dubai deal.”
Ayaan's hands curled into fists. “We’ve kept our name clean for five years. I’m not losing our grip now.”
He turned to his tech agent. “Cross-trace that IP. Now.”
Then pulled out his second burner phone, dialing another number.
“Sharif bhai, contact our men in Dubai. Let no cargo leave or enter without my word. And shut down Line 7 till I give the green signal.”
“Samjha, sahab.”
He ended the call and walked toward the windowless wall where a map of the world glowed with tiny red markers.
His gaze was razor sharp.
His heart?
Back to stone.
That moment of softness from last night?
Locked away behind layers of rage, responsibility, and legacy.
Ayaan was once again the king of shadows.
🍪🩵✨️
In a cozy corner of Varanasi’s bustling fashion lane, Ishq Couture was a mix of elegance and everyday chaos.
Prisha Mehta adjusted her dupatta for the third time that morning. The embroidery thread had already snagged it twice, and her sketchbook had mysteriously vanished somewhere under a pile of pastel georgette fabrics.
“Mannat! Have you seen my pencil box? The one with the little owl on top?”
Mannat looked up from the mannequin she was dressing. “You mean the one you left in the pantry, then the sewing room, and then somewhere between three piles of rejected lehenga borders?”
Prisha sighed, face flushed. “Yes… that one.”
“Found it,” Kavya announced from across the room, holding it up like a trophy. “Rescued it from the clutches of the chaiwala’s delivery bag. How do you manage to create drama with stationary?”
“I don’t know,” Prisha mumbled, taking the box and smiling sheepishly.
The studio buzzed with tailors snipping, interns measuring, and senior designers barking out deadlines. Prisha was supposed to finish a rough draft for the new festive collection — but the thread in the machine tangled, her chai went cold twice, and she pricked her finger with a needle for the fourth time.
She sat back on her stool and whispered to herself, “Bas karo Prisha… tum aur zyada clumsy toh cartoon character lagogi.”
Kavya dropped a fabric sample on her desk. “Focus, madam. This is our final cut for the pink lehenga.”
Prisha blinked. “Oh! Right. It’s… pretty.”
Mannat narrowed her eyes. “Did you sleep last night or dream of embroidery needles attacking you again?”
Prisha gave a tired laugh. “More like a giant spool of thread rolling behind me while I tripped over lace.”
While the city outside ran on wheels and deals…
While men like Ayaan Singh were commanding empires and silencing enemies with a phone call…
Prisha Mehta’s battles were simpler, softer.
With flying dupattas, missing sketchbooks, and chai that always went cold.
But there was something beautiful in that simplicity — in the way her world never demanded perfection.
Because it had her in it — messy, loud, laughing, dreamy.
And somewhere, unknowingly, the storm and the sunshine had already met…
They just hadn’t realized it yet.
The chaos around her faded for a while.
Prisha sat cross-legged on the office couch, her iPad balanced on her lap, stylus gliding gracefully across the screen. Her fingers danced over colors, tracing patterns of intricate floral designs — a concept she had dreamt of the night before.
The idea was fresh. Flowing. Peaceful.
She lost herself in strokes of mustard and blush pink, designing a dupatta border inspired by temple arches and marigold trails.
“Almost done…” she whispered, zooming into the delicate corner of her design.
Just then—
“Prishaaaaa—!” THUD!
Mannat tripped over a bundle of fabric rolls, flailing like a windmill trying to regain balance.
And in that tragic, slow-motion moment — her hand knocked over Prisha’s cold coffee mug sitting innocently on the corner of the table.
SPLASH.
The creamy mess splattered across Prisha’s kurti, the couch, and worst of all…
Her iPad.
“NOOOO!” Prisha jumped up, grabbing a tissue like a soldier rushing into battle. “Mannat! My iPad—my design—my chai-colored doom!”
Kavya peeked from behind the curtain divider. “Did coffee just attack couture?"
Prisha frantically wiped the screen. “Mere Shivji... I was on the last detail! This coffee had trust issues!”
Mannat, sitting apologetically in a heap of fabric, raised both hands. “I swear the rolls moved on their own.”
Her kurti now had a brown flower of shame on the side. Her sketch needed major cleaning. The couch bore witness to the tragedy.
But as Kavya burst out laughing and Mannat brought a packet of wet wipes like a peace offering, Prisha couldn’t help but smile too.
This was her world — spontaneous, stained, and somehow always full of giggles after disaster.
“Next time,” Prisha declared dramatically, “I’m designing armor instead of lehengas.”
“Make me one in sequins,” Mannat winked.
“Yeh toh gaya…” Kavya clicked her tongue, staring at Prisha’s coffee-drenched kurti. “A masterpiece lost to caffeine.”
Prisha sighed, holding up the edge of her ruined outfit. “I should just walk around wearing my iPad designs.”
“Or,” Mannat’s eyes sparkled with mischief, “you could wear this.”
She pulled out a silk saree from their fabric stack — soft ivory with a blush pink border and tiny mirror-work blooms. It shimmered under the yellow lighting of the studio.
Prisha blinked. “I’m not going out like that. Are you mad?"
“You’re not going out,” Kavya added, “but our boss might walk in any minute, and trust me, he doesn’t appreciate coffee couture.”
“C’mon, Prish,” Mannat grinned. “Let’s do this. First saree in the office — it'll be fun!”
Fifteen minutes later, after tugging, twisting, laughing, and at least three pins poking her side—
Prisha stood in front of the full-length mirror.
Bare midriff. Curved pleats. Blush pink pallu draped delicately over her shoulder.
A small nose ring glinted under the light, her freshly combed curls tucked behind one ear, and a new black bindi centered her face like a dot made by destiny itself.
She stared at herself, stunned.
Mannat whistled. “Ayaan Singh Ala— I mean, if ANYONE saw you now, they'd fall. Straight down. No recovery.”
Prisha turned away from the mirror, cheeks blushing. “Shut up!”
“You look like a walking Pinterest board,” Kavya smirked, tossing her a pair of jhumkas.
As the girls fussed around her, laughing and adjusting her pallu again, none of them knew—
.
.
.
.
.
🍪🩵✨️
The cold hum of the air conditioner filled the room as Ayaan leaned back in his leather chair, flipping through proposals with half interest.
Rohan stepped in, tablet in hand. “Sir, your 4 PM meeting — the one with the fashion internship collective — it’s still on. Three girls from Ishq Couture Studios.”
Ayaan raised an eyebrow. “Interns?”
“Yes, sir,” Rohan nodded, swiping on the tablet. “Fresh talent. Bright profiles. And… one of them’s the artist behind that design we received anonymously last month. The one that caught your eye.”
Ayaan’s fingers stilled against his desk.
Rohan hesitated, then read off the screen,
His pen slipped slightly from his hand. The name hummed through his ears like an unfinished verse. He didn’t know why it stayed, but it did.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Tell them to be on time.”
Just then, the skies outside cracked with a sudden rumble. Grey clouds rolled in over the cityscape like an omen. Ayaan stood and walked over to the glass window, watching as soft raindrops began tapping against the pane.
The phone on his desk buzzed.
Dadi.
He picked up immediately. “Ji, Dadi?"
“Ayaan, beta,” her soft voice echoed, but held concern. “Barsaat ho rahi hai. Weather looks bad. Come home early today. Have dinner with me.”
He smiled softly. “I have a meeting in the evening…”
“Postpone it. Or wrap it quickly. I don’t want you out in this weather. Aur waise bhi… Shivratri ke baad kuch toh badal gaya hai na?”
He chuckled under his breath.
“Dadi… aap bhi na,” he shook his head, but his voice was warm.
Ayaan ran a tired hand through his hair as he stared at the drizzling skyline beyond his office windows. The weather had turned moody, much like his day.
“Rohan,” he called, voice firm.
“Yes, sir?” Rohan popped his head in.
“Cancel the 4 PM meeting. Reschedule it for tomorrow. I’m leaving early.”
Rohan blinked. “Alright, sir. Should I have the driver bring the car around?”
“No. I’ll drive,” Ayaan said, already picking up his keys and coat. “Tell dadi I’ll be home for dinner.”
He exited his office swiftly, long strides echoing through the marble halls.
Minutes later, he was on the road, steering his sleek black SUV through the city now soaked in the melancholic lull of a downpour. Raindrops danced against his windshield like tiny heartbeats. He kept the music low — an old instrumental — something his mother used to hum before bedtime.
As he approached a signal near the old grass park, traffic slowed to a crawl.
He sighed, checking his watch, then leaned slightly against the window, rolling it down an inch to let in the petrichor-filled breeze.
And then… he saw her.
At first, it was just the color — a blur of pink and blue twirling amidst the rain.
Then his eyes narrowed.
There she was — the girl from the temple. The one with the yellow kurti, the falling flowers… and those eyes.
But now…
She was laughing, barefoot in the grass, her saree clinging to her like a second skin, caught in a wild, childlike dance beneath the rain.
Her hair stuck to her cheeks, her bangles jingled, and her anklets chimed in soft rebellion.
He froze.
Kavya’s voice carried faintly in the distance, “Prisha! Pagal ho gayi hai kya? Come back! You’ll catch a cold!”
But Prisha spun one more time, face tilted up to the sky, hands stretched like she was embracing the universe itself.
Ayaan’s fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel.
Something tugged inside him — not lust, not desire.
But longing.
He didn’t even realize when he whispered her name aloud.
“Prisha…”
His voice got swallowed by the rain.
She twirled under the sky like a painting come alive. Her eyes shut, lips parted in a smile, raindrops catching on her lashes. Beside her, two girls—Mannat and Kavya—stood under a half-sheltered shop roof, calling her back.
He stared.
The same girl from the temple. The one who had spilled flowers between them.
Now dancing in the rain like she belonged to it.
“ye ladki Pagal hai kya?” he muttered, unable to look away.
Something inside him stirred. Something dangerously close to soft.
He didn’t notice the honk behind his car. Didn’t care.
Inside the car, his heart thudded.
For a man who had built empires and destroyed enemies, this was… new.
What was this girl doing to him?
Why the hell couldn’t he look away?
And for a second — just one fleeting second — her gaze turned towards his car. Their eyes met. She smiled, oblivious. Just a random glance at a stranger’s vehicle, unaware he was watching her like he’d been searching for her all day.
She turned back to her friends, laughter echoing through the air
Ayaan exhaled deeply, his throat tight.
The light turned green.
But his world had already stopped.
𝐇𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬, 🌧️
I hope you liked this chapter
Was it just rain... or something more?
Ayaan saw her like never before—and Prisha danced like no one was watching.
Hope your heart skipped a beat too. ✨
I don't know why but i giggled writing this whole chapter i mean-- hehe
Tell me your favorite moment, and I’ll see you in the next chapter!
loved the chapter or any part about the story made you laugh then let me know i love to read those comments.
Till then bye bye,
~ Love, Peanut 🦄
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