THE NIGHT

Anirudh’s car sped through the deserted highway like a streak of lightning, its headlights cutting through the pitch darkness of the night. The trees lining the road blurred into a dark green haze as the vehicle roared past them, the engine growling with the same fury that burned within him. Arya’s words echoed in his mind, sharp and relentless, each syllable twisting the knife deeper into his chest. His jaw clenched as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles white with strain.

The Singhal Mansion loomed ahead like a fortress, bathed in the cold glow of strategically placed lights. The grandeur of the estate was almost suffocating, with its sprawling gardens, ornate fountains, and towering columns. The perfectly manicured hedges, glowing under the moonlight, seemed to mock the chaos within Anirudh. He brought the car to an abrupt halt in the driveway, the screech of the tires slicing through the tranquil night. The fountain in the center of the courtyard gurgled serenely, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside him.

Anirudh slammed the car door shut with a force that reverberated through the quiet air. His footsteps were heavy, purposeful, each step sending a shiver through the mansion’s inhabitants. The servants paused in their tasks, their eyes darting toward him in fear and curiosity, but none dared to speak or approach. His presence was like that of a predator returning to its den, radiating an aura of danger that warned everyone to stay away.

He stormed into the grand living room, its opulence doing little to soothe his boiling rage. The golden chandeliers above cast a warm glow, but Anirudh felt none of its comfort. He tossed his phone onto the nearest marble table with a loud clatter and headed straight to the bar. His hand trembled slightly as he grabbed the decanter of whiskey, pouring himself a generous glass. The amber liquid swirled in the crystal tumbler, catching the light as he lifted it to his lips. The first sip burned his throat, sharp and biting, a sensation that matched his inner turmoil.

He leaned against the bar, staring at the intricate patterns of the Persian rug beneath his feet as his mind raced. His anger was volcanic, ready to erupt, but it was not just anger—it was frustration, disbelief, and a gnawing sense of betrayal. How could Arya defy him so blatantly? How could she choose someone like Shiv over her own family, her own blood?

A voice broke through his thoughts, calm yet sharp, calculated yet powerful. "How is she?"

Anirudh froze, his glass hovering mid-air. He turned slowly, his eyes meeting the shadowed figure of a woman standing at the entrance to the room. She stepped into the light, revealing a woman in her sixties, her face lined with age yet commanding respect and fear in equal measure. Her posture was regal, her eyes piercing as they locked onto him.

"She’s lost her mind," Anirudh replied, his voice low but seething with frustration.

The woman moved closer, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor with an almost hypnotic rhythm. Each step was deliberate, echoing her authority. The shadows in the room seemed to shift as she approached, her figure growing larger, more menacing. Anirudh instinctively looked down at the floor, a gesture he hadn’t made in years. He hated how small he felt in her presence, yet he could not muster the courage to defy her outright.

"So," she said, her tone laced with a subtle mockery, "you failed to bring her here."

Her words were not a question but a statement, a verdict. Anirudh felt the weight of her disappointment pressing down on him. He sank into the nearest chair, the leather creaking under his tense frame, and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. The glass of whiskey in his hand trembled slightly before he placed it down on the table beside him.

"I tried," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "But she—"

The woman cut him off with a wave of her hand, silencing him effortlessly. She took a few steps closer, her shadow now falling over him entirely. The room felt colder, darker, as if her very presence had sucked the warmth out of the air.

"Excuses," she said sharply, her voice slicing through the tension like a blade. "You let her slip through your fingers. And now, she’s with him. Do you have any idea what this means for us? For our legacy?"

Anirudh clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "She’s stubborn. She won’t listen to reason."

The woman let out a humorless laugh, a sound that sent a chill down Anirudh’s spine. "Reason?" she repeated mockingly. "You think this is about reason? This is about control. And clearly, you’ve lost it."

Her words stung, but Anirudh remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor. The woman stared at him for a moment longer before turning away, her movements sharp and decisive. "Fix this, Anirudh," she commanded, her back to him. "Before it’s too late."

With that, she walked out of the room, leaving Anirudh alone in the oppressive silence. The whiskey glass sat untouched on the table beside him, the amber liquid catching the light once more. But this time, it seemed to taunt him, a reminder of his failure. He let out a deep, shuddering breath and leaned back in his chair, his mind racing with thoughts of Arya and Shiv.

Outside, the night was still and quiet, but inside the Singhal Mansion, the storm was far from over.

The night was still and heavy, the soft hum of the air conditioner the only sound in Arya’s dimly lit room. She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, her stomach growling loudly, breaking the silence. Frustrated, she sat up, running a hand through her messy hair. She had skipped dinner earlier, too upset to eat, but now the gnawing hunger refused to let her rest.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, hoping to distract herself. Scrolling through social media, she liked a few posts and tried to ignore the persistent ache in her stomach. After a few minutes, she dialed Meera’s number, but it went unanswered. Sighing in defeat, she tossed her phone aside and stood up. The faint light from the hallway filtered under her door as she quietly made her way out of her room.

The kitchen, massive and modern, gleamed under soft, ambient lighting. The marble countertops sparkled, and the state-of-the-art appliances looked untouched, as though they belonged in a showroom rather than a home. Arya opened the stainless-steel fridge, the cold air brushing against her face. She squinted at its contents, but the shelves were mostly empty—leftovers, condiments, and nothing substantial.

Sighing, she began opening drawers one by one, careful not to make a sound. She winced at the faint creak of a hinge, pausing each time to ensure no one had heard. Finally, she found a packet of biscuits tucked away in the corner of a drawer. Just as she was about to grab it, a voice came from behind her, low and teasing, sending shivers down her spine.

“What are you doing?”

Arya froze, her heart nearly leaping out of her chest. The voice was so close, almost brushing against her ear. She spun around abruptly, her elbow knocking into the edge of the counter, and let out a loud shout.

“God!” Shiv exclaimed, stepping back and rubbing his ear. “You’ve practically burst my eardrum!” His tone was part amused, part annoyed.

Arya clutched her chest, trying to catch her breath. “You scared me!” she snapped, but her voice was apologetic. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, what are you doing sneaking around the kitchen in the middle of the night?”

Arya’s stomach chose that exact moment to growl, loud and insistent. Her cheeks flushed a deep red as she pressed a hand against her stomach, trying to muffle the sound. She stammered, “I was just... looking for water.”

Shiv smirked, clearly unconvinced. “Water, huh?” He tilted his head, his sharp gaze pinning her in place. “And the empty biscuit drawer was just a coincidence?”

Her face burned hotter as she struggled to come up with a believable excuse. “I... I was checking for something else,” she mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

Before she could say another word, Shiv took a step closer. Then another. His smirk softened into something unreadable, his eyes locked on hers. Arya instinctively backed up, her feet shuffling against the polished floor as he advanced. The countertop pressed into her back, leaving her nowhere to go. Her breath hitched as he leaned in, their faces now just inches apart.

Her pulse raced, her nervousness evident in the way she fiddled with the hem of her oversized t-shirt. Shiv’s gaze flickered briefly to her hands before returning to her wide, startled eyes. He leaned even closer, and she braced herself, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

Then, with a swift motion, Shiv reached up, his arm brushing past her head, and opened the cabinet above her. Arya blinked, her breath catching as she realized he was retrieving something. A chuckle escaped his lips as he pulled down a pack of instant noodles, holding it up like a trophy.

“You were looking in the wrong place,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

Arya exhaled sharply, realizing how ridiculous the moment had been. She pushed past him, her embarrassment now morphing into indignation. “You could’ve just said so instead of scaring me to death!” she huffed.

Shiv leaned against the counter, tearing open the noodle packet. “Where’s the fun in that?” he teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Sit down. I’ll make something before you start raiding the spice rack next.”

Arya frowned but obeyed, her hunger overpowering her pride. As Shiv moved around the kitchen, heating water and preparing the noodles with ease, she watched him from the corner of her eye. His calm, confident movements were a stark contrast to her earlier fumbling.

As Shiv moved toward the fridge, Arya watched him curiously. He pulled out a variety of vegetables and placed them neatly on the counter. Retrieving a chopping board and knife, he began slicing them with precision, his hands moving swiftly yet gracefully. Each cut was sharp and deliberate, like that of a master chef.

Arya, leaning back against the counter beside him, crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly, observing him in fascination. The way he worked was mesmerizing—confident, efficient, and almost artistic. For a moment, she forgot about her hunger, captivated by the sight of him focused on his task.

“You’re... really good at this,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.

Shiv glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. “I’ve had practice,” he said. “Somebody used to make me cook Maggi for her all the time.”

Arya blinked, caught off guard.

The noodles continued to boil on the stove, filling the air with their distinct aroma. Suddenly, Shiv reached for a bowl and poured some of the noodles and soup into it. He grabbed a bottle of mayo from the counter, drizzled it generously on top, and stirred it with a fork. Then, with a slight smirk, he handed the bowl to Arya.

“Here, taste this,” he said, pushing it toward her.

Arya blinked in surprise, taking the bowl hesitantly. As she looked down at it, her eyes widened in recognition. She glanced up at Shiv. “You still remember that…” she began, her voice soft with disbelief.

Before she could finish, Shiv interrupted, his tone casual yet meaningful. “That you like Maggi with mayo before cooking it with veggies? Of course, I do.”

For a moment, Arya just stared at him, her lips twitching into a small smile. Her gaze softened as she whispered, “Why?”

Shiv leaned in slightly, closing the small distance between them. His face was calm, but there was something deeper in his expression—something unspoken. “Is there any reason to forget it?” he asked, his voice low and deliberate.

Their eyes locked, and time seemed to pause. The kitchen lights cast a warm glow around them, but the atmosphere between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken emotions. Arya felt her heart skip a beat, her breath catching in her throat.

Realizing the moment had stretched too long, Arya broke eye contact, glancing down nervously. She stepped away and sat down at the dining table, fidgeting with the spoon in her hand. “Thanks,” she muttered, trying to distract herself by taking a small bite.

Shiv, unfazed, returned to the stove. He added the freshly chopped vegetables to the remaining noodles, stirring them together with spices. The sizzle and aroma filled the air as he worked with practiced ease. After plating the noodles, he garnished them meticulously, creating a dish that looked like it belonged in a five-star restaurant.

Turning back to Arya, Shiv placed the plate in front of her with a proud grin. “Try this,” he said, leaning against the counter and watching her expectantly.

Arya clapped her hands playfully, impressed. “Wow, this looks amazing! When did you become such a pro?” she teased, flashing him a bright smile.

Shiv shrugged nonchalantly. “Cooking is like art. You just need the right ingredients, focus, and a bit of flair,” he replied, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Arya picked up her fork and took a bite, her face lighting up as the flavors hit her taste buds. “This is so good!” she exclaimed, chewing happily. She glanced up at Shiv, who was quietly watching her, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips.

For a moment, Arya paused, her fork hovering mid-air as their eyes met again. The warmth in his gaze made her feel strangely at ease yet unsettled at the same time. She quickly looked away, focusing on her food as if it held the answers to her sudden nervousness.

Shiv, however, didn’t say a word. He simply leaned back, arms crossed, watching her enjoy the meal he had prepared, a quiet contentment settling over him.

rya twirled her fork in the bowl, the steam curling upward as the spices danced in the air. She sighed, her brows knitting together in subtle concentration as she carefully began picking out the small chunks of carrot Shiv had added. One by one, she pushed them to the edge of her plate, her lips curving downward in a slight pout.

Shiv, leaning against the counter, caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. A low chuckle escaped his lips, breaking the stillness of the late-night kitchen. The sound made Arya pause, her fork hovering mid-air. She glanced up, startled, and met his gaze.

“You still hate carrots, huh?” he teased, his voice warm but edged with mischief.

Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly averted her eyes. “I wasn’t... I mean, I just don’t like the taste,” she mumbled, fumbling for an excuse.

Without saying a word, Shiv pushed off the counter and moved toward her, the soft sound of his footsteps echoing in the quiet kitchen. Arya stiffened as he approached, her heart thudding in her chest. He stopped right next to her, so close she could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.

Before she could react, his hand reached out, brushing lightly against hers as he took hold of the fork. His fingers, strong yet gentle, wrapped around hers, and she froze, her breath hitching.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Shiv didn’t answer. Instead, with a playful smirk, he guided the fork—now piled high with the discarded carrots—toward his mouth. His fingers lingered on hers for just a moment longer before he pulled away, eating the carrots with an exaggerated relish.

“You’ll never change,” he said, his voice rich with amusement, as he chewed.

Arya stared at him, her pulse racing, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. The casual intimacy of the moment left her utterly disarmed.

Arya felt her cheeks heat up. She tried to come up with a retort, but her thoughts were jumbled. “I— I just don’t like the taste,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

Shiv leaned a little closer, placing his hands on the backrest of her chair. His proximity made her feel trapped but not in an unpleasant way. His scent—clean and woodsy—was overwhelming, and Arya had to fight the urge to hold her breath.

“Still making excuses,” he murmured, his tone teasing but softer now, as if he knew every thought running through her mind.

Arya quickly looked away, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table as she tried to steady herself. Shiv straightened with a chuckle, taking a step back.

As he turned to leave, he stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder, his expression softening again. “Before you sleep, drink a glass of milk,” he said. “You skipped dinner, and all this spice will burn your stomach.”

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