Anshika stood before the grand mirror in her dimly lit room, adjusting the delicate embroidery of her midnight blue lehenga. The fabric shimmered under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, but her mind wasn't on her outfit. Tonight was an important night. Not because of the wedding itself, but because Agastya Chandravansh—the closest thing she had to family—was finally marrying the woman he had chased for almost five years.

With a final glance at her reflection, she grabbed her phone and dialed a number she had memorized long ago.

After two rings, a gruff voice answered. "What?"

Anshika sighed. "I'm attending a wedding tonight, Papa. I won't be home early."

There was silence on the other end before her father scoffed. "What wedding? Who invited you?"

She clenched her jaw. As if he cared. "Agastya's. I told you about it."

Her father barely acknowledged her words before responding in a cold tone. "Do whatever you want. Just don't come back complaining later."

Anshika exhaled sharply. Of course. No well-wishes, no questions, just indifference.

Cutting the call before she could hear anything else, she grabbed her clutch and walked downstairs. Her stepmother and stepsister, Siya, were lounging in the living room, their faces twisting in disapproval as they saw her.

"Off to another place where you don't belong?" Siya taunted, inspecting her manicured nails.

Her stepmother smirked. "Don't embarrass yourself, dear. We all know you don't fit in high society."

Anshika didn't react. She had learned long ago that silence was her best weapon. Without a word, she walked past them, leaving behind their venomous whispers.

Outside, her driver was already waiting. Sliding into the car, she let out a breath and mentally prepared herself for the night ahead.

Tonight was for Agastya.

And no one—not even her so-called family—would ruin it for her

At Wedding Hall

The venue was bathed in golden lights, the air filled with the scent of fresh roses and sandalwood. Laughter and music blended into a symphony of celebration. Guests adorned in luxurious outfits roamed the halls, exchanging pleasantries.

Anshika walked in, her head held high, determined to push aside every bitter thought. She spotted Agastya across the hall, speaking with a few relatives, his usual smirk present as he entertained their conversations.

Just as she was about to quicken her steps toward him, she collided into something solid.

No—someone.

Her body jerked slightly at the impact, her hands reaching out instinctively to steady herself.

A strong hand caught her wrist before she could stumble back. A firm yet gentle grip.

For a moment, her breath hitched as she looked up.

Emerald green.

Eyes so piercing, so intense, that for a second, she forgot where she was.

It was rare to see such a color in India—so deep, so hypnotic. She had only ever read about eyes like these in books. And now, they were staring straight into her.

The man's jaw tightened, his expression unreadable as he studied her. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, only one word left his lips—a whisper, a name.

She frowned. Did he just call me something?

"What?" she asked, her voice softer than she intended.

But he didn't repeat it. His face shifted back into a mask of indifference, as if he himself wasn't sure why he had said it.

A second later, his grip on her loosened. "I apologize," he muttered.

Anshika blinked. What?

Men like him—commanding, powerful, the kind who radiated control—do not apologize.

And yet, here he was.

She studied him for another moment, feeling something stir in her chest. But she ignored it. "It's okay," she said simply before stepping away.

She didn't have time for distractions.

She had a wedding to attend.

When she finally reached Agastya, he grinned and pulled her into a side hug. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

"I had to finish some work that aunty had given me." she said with a small smile.

"Good girl," he teased. "Come, meet the bride."

Anshika turned toward the woman standing beside him—a stunning beauty dressed in shades of gold and red, her eyes glowing with happiness.

"Rhea, this is Anshika," Agastya introduced. "Anshika, my soon-to-be wife."

Anshika smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Rhea. He's been talking about you non-stop for the last five years."

Rhea laughed. "I'm honored. I hope he didn't tell you all my embarrassing stories."

"Only the good ones," Anshika replied with a grin.

Agastya then turned to someone standing beside them. "And this—" he gestured toward the man she had just bumped into minutes ago, "is my childhood friend. Kashish Chandravanshi."

The moment their eyes met again, Anshika felt a strange tension settle in the air.

They exchanged polite greetings, but something about the way he was looking at her made her uneasy.

Or... was it something else?

As she turned to leave, she felt his gaze on her, heavy and unwavering.

Curiosity flickered in her mind. She had seen many men look at her before—some with admiration, some with disdain, some with indifference.

But Kashish Chandravanshi's gaze?

It held something she couldn't quite understand.

Something that made the air around her feel charged.

The golden lights of the wedding venue shimmered like stars, laughter and music weaving together in celebration. But Anshika felt something was off.

A shadow moved at the edge of the grand hall, near the floral arches. Her instincts flared—a skill sharpened over the years. She subtly reached for the small knife hidden in the folds of her lehenga.

Then, it happened.

A man lunged at her from behind, a blade glinting under the chandeliers. She spun, barely dodging, but not fast enough. Pain seared through her upper arm as the knife grazed her skin, slashing through the delicate fabric of her sleeve.

Her breath hitched, but she didn't hesitate. She kicked the goon in the ribs, sending him stumbling back. Blood dripped down her arm, staining the deep blue of her lehenga.

She screamed to avoid suspicion. 

A gunshot echoed. Loud. Ruthless. Passing right through her waist curve.

The goon collapsed to the ground, clutching his leg in agony.

And standing there, a gun still raised, his emerald eyes burning with rage, was Kashish Chandravanshi.

The entire hall had gone silent. Guests froze, whispers spreading like wildfire.

But Kashish didn’t care.

His gaze locked onto her bleeding arm, and for the first time since she had met him, she saw something close to panic in his eyes.

"You're hurt." His voice was sharp, controlled—yet beneath it, something else lurked.

Anshika clenched her jaw. "It’s nothing."

But Kashish was already moving. Before she could protest, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward him.

"Don't." His voice dropped, dangerously soft. "Don't say it's nothing when you're bleeding in front of me."

His grip was firm, protective. Possessive.

"It’s nothing," she muttered, pushing off the wall. "I need to go."

But he stepped closer, blocking her way. "You’re bleeding."

"I said, it’s nothing."

His jaw tightened. In the dim light, she saw the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. Frustration. Anger. Concern.

"Who did this?" he asked, voice low, lethal.

She scoffed. "What do you care?"

His grip on her wrist tightened—gentle, but unyielding. "Tell me, Anshika."

She looked away. She couldn't afford to let him in. Not when she had spent years building walls between them. "It doesn’t matter."

Kashish let out a slow breath, his fingers brushing against the cut on her arm. "It matters to me."

And for the first time in a long time, Anshika felt something crack inside her.

Because Kashish Chandravanshi was not a man who cared for anyone.

But tonight, with blood on her hands and his touch burning into her skin.

It felt safe.

But she reminded that for her, there was no fairytale ending.

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