Location: Rathod Summer Mansion, Udaipur
There was a silence to palaces—ancient and sacred—that lingered like secrets between stone pillars.
Udaipur shimmered under the ruthless July sun, its lakes low and thirsty, and its palaces towering in quiet defiance of time. Reewa sat in the backseat of the black BMW, her face turned toward the window as golden dust spiraled across the road like a greeting card from childhood. Her mother, Meera Singhal, hummed some old Lata Mangeshkar tune in the front seat while her father, Rajeev, discussed business on the phone in his usual baritone laced with command.
“We’re almost there,” her elder brother, Ishaan, muttered beside her without looking up from his iPad. “You ready to be tortured?”
Reewa gave him a deadpan look. “If you distract me with cold coffee and don’t abandon me to the vultures, I might survive.”
He smirked. “No promises. Especially with him around.”
Her stomach twisted—guilt, anticipation, and annoyance bundled into one neat Capricorn anxiety knot. Him. Rudraksh Singh Rathod. Her brother’s best friend, her childhood rival, and the boy who had stolen her mango, her sketchbook, and her peace at various stages of life.
The palace gates opened with a creak that sounded like a kingdom waking from slumber.
“Ah, Rathod Mahal,” Rajeev announced proudly. “Dev’s legacy stands tall. I remember playing cricket in that courtyard as a teenager.”
Reewa kept her face impassive, but the moment the palace loomed into view—its sandstone carved domes glowing like fire against the setting sun—her breath hitched. No matter how much she braced herself, the Rathod estate always managed to rob her of words.
The car came to a halt, and the Singhal family was immediately greeted by an entourage—guards in crisp white, staff in beige Rajasthani uniforms, and a few family members waiting near the grand steps. Among them stood the queen of grace herself—Rani Jodha Rathod, draped in a pastel pink saree with emeralds dripping down her neck, her smile genuine and warm.
“Meera, Rajeev—finally!” she exclaimed, arms open.
Hugs were exchanged, kisses on cheeks, and a lot of "you’ve grown up so much" between the mothers.
But Reewa’s eyes were fixed elsewhere.
He stood a few steps behind the welcoming crowd, tall, unbothered, in a loose cream kurta that danced around his frame like the wind was in love with him. Rudraksh Singh Rathod hadn’t changed.
No, that was a lie.
He was broader now. Sharper. That boyish arrogance was now sculpted into lethal charm. His jawline could cut diamonds, and his eyes were as molten as they’d been the last time they’d locked across a ballroom in Mumbai—three years ago. They hadn’t spoken since.
His gaze caught hers like it had been waiting all this time.
She looked away first.
“Reewa!” Ira’s voice broke the tension. The little sister of the Rathod clan came flying down the stairs, her braid whipping behind her like a Bollywood heroine in full sprint.
Reewa laughed and caught her in a hug. “Ira! You’ve grown taller and more dramatic!”
“Ugh, you’re finally here. You have no idea how boring it’s been without you.” Ira grabbed her hand. “Come, I’ll show you your room. They renovated it. It’s got this princess balcony and—”
“Ira,” came the quiet, silken interruption. Reewa didn’t have to look to know who had spoken. Rudraksh.
“You forgot to greet our guests properly,” he said, eyes flickering to Reewa before settling on her parents.
His voice was velvet laced with warning.
Reewa’s jaw tightened.
“Hello, Uncle Rajeev. Aunt Meera,” Rudraksh said with a small smile, formal and flawless.
Ishaan stepped forward and slapped him on the back. “You still hate people, or did you finally start using Instagram?”
“Still hate people,” Rudraksh said dryly. “And I don’t need Instagram. I have your sister for drama.”
Reewa narrowed her eyes. “Still can’t keep my name out of your mouth, Rathod?”
His lip curled, barely a smirk. “Only because it tastes like trouble.”
Ira choked. “Oh my God, shut up. Both of you. For once, be normal.”
Reewa looked away, clutching the strap of her travel tote like it could anchor her to her dignity. The sun was setting behind the domes, casting a long, molten glow across the courtyard. And she had a sinking feeling.
This summer wasn’t going to be about mangoes and monsoon rains.
It was going to be about him.
The Rathod Palace glittered like a mirage—floodlit domes, mirrored corridors, soft sitar music echoing over the lake.
The annual Rathod Rajya Charity Gala was as grand as always, but this year, the city whispered a different kind of gossip.
Reewa Singhal was attending.
And Rudraksh Singh Rathod was hosting.
Inside the grand hall, royalty mingled with ministers, billionaires, Bollywood stars. Everyone wore masks—literal and emotional.
Reewa stepped onto the black marble floor in a backless crimson saree, draped to kill. Her mask was gold lace, her eyes lined with quiet danger.
Whispers followed her like perfume.
“She’s the Singhal heiress…”
“…That’s her? The Dewdrops girl?”
“I heard Rathod’s been obsessed since childhood.”
And then the hall went silent.
Because Rudraksh had entered.
Black sherwani. Face partially masked in antique gold. Collar open just enough to hint at sin. And eyes—those eyes—that locked onto her like a bloodhound.
He didn’t walk toward her.
He stalked.
And when he reached her, the orchestra melted away.
“You wore red,” he said, voice low, hypnotic.
“You wore that smugness like a second skin,” she retorted.
He smirked. “I knew you’d come.”
“I had to see if you were still drunk on your own delusions.”
He offered his hand.
“Dance with me.”
She hesitated.
But the orchestra started playing something slow. Something old.
And her heart—traitor that it was—guided her hand to his.
Their dance was a war dressed as a waltz.
His hand claimed her waist.
Her fingers hovered near his pulse.
Their bodies fit too well.
Too naturally.
Like they had been molded for this moment long before they understood what longing meant.
“You’ve always liked control,” she murmured.
“And you’ve always liked pushing me to the edge.”
“Maybe because you deserve to fall.”
He twirled her, then pulled her back hard against him. “I don’t fall, sunshine. I drag people down with me.”
She tilted her head. “That’s not love. That’s obsession.”
“And yet,” he said, voice velvet and razor, “you’re here in my arms.”
She hated him for being right.
Because when Rudraksh touched her like this, she didn’t feel like the empire-building heiress of Singhal Industries.
She felt like a girl under a mango tree.
Her mask slipped slightly.
And he saw it.
He always did.
“Why now?” she asked, voice raw. “After all these years, why pull me back in?”
His grip on her waist tightened just a fraction. “Because I built an empire, Reewa. I took down enemies, corrupted kings, and turned blood into gold. But every time I closed my eyes—you were the only thing I never owned.”
She stopped dancing.
Their foreheads touched, breaths tangled.
“I won’t be your prize, Rudra.”
He touched the side of her face gently. “You were never a prize. You were the war.”
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Later that night – Rathod Palace Gardens
The gala spilled into the moonlit courtyards, guests sipping champagne beneath arches of bougainvillea. But Reewa needed air. Space. Silence.
And Rudraksh, as always, followed.
He didn’t speak.
Just handed her a folded, yellowing piece of paper.
She frowned. “What’s this?”
He stepped back, as if the distance might shield him.
Her fingers trembled as she unfolded it.
It was a letter.
In her own handwriting.
Dated thirteen years ago.
“Dear Rudru,
You’re still the most annoying boy I’ve ever met. But if I ever get married, I want it to be under a mango tree. With fairy lights. And jalebis instead of cake.
P.S. I don’t hate you. Not all the time.
P.P.S. Don’t lose this. Or I’ll kill you.
– Reewa”
She looked up, breath caught in her throat. “Where did you—?”
“You gave it to me,” he said quietly. “Right after you dared me to climb that mango tree in Jaipur. I fell. You laughed. Then you wrote that.”
Her chest ached.
He'd kept it.
All these years.
“Why didn’t you ever show me this before?” she whispered.
“Because back then, I thought you’d stay.”
His voice was husky, the edge of vulnerability slicing through his usual calm.
“You left for London the next year. I kept the letter. It was the only proof I ever had that you didn’t completely hate me.”
And just like that—she cracked.
“I didn’t hate you, Rudra. I just… couldn’t love you. Not the way you loved me. Not when I didn’t even know what love was.”
His lips curved, bittersweet. “You do now?”
She didn’t answer.
Because her heart was pounding too loud to form words.
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Same Night – Hidden Terrace of the Palace
Reewa was still reeling when Rudraksh cornered her again.
Only this time, there were no guests. No music. No masks.
Just them.
And the night sky.
He pressed his palms against the stone wall behind her, caging her in but not touching.
Not yet.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said softly. “But I will chase you.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve spent twelve years building an empire for a throne I don’t want—if it means you won’t sit beside me.”
Her breath hitched. “You think a few old letters and garden stunts are enough to fix us?”
“No,” he murmured. “But this might be.”
And he kissed her.
Hard. Devastating. Addictive.
Like a man dying of thirst who’d finally found water.
She should’ve pushed him away.
But she didn’t.
She kissed him back with all the fire she tried so hard to bury.
And when he pulled away, his lips brushing her cheek, he whispered:
“You can deny me in front of the world. But don’t lie to yourself, Reewa. You want this war as badly as I do.”
She said nothing.
Because silence was safer than admitting he was right.
Again.
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