### **[Ishita Sharma’s Perspective]**

The *langar* was divine. Simple *dal*, hot *roti*, and sweet *kheer*. Sitting on the floor with hundreds of people, Rudra Singh Rathor looked entirely out of his element, yet completely at peace.

I found his scientific aversion to the food hilarious, but he ate every bite I offered. I kept feeding him small pieces of *roti* dipped in *dal*, watching his stoic face try to process the complex emotion of community and humility.

**Ishita:** **“See? It's better than your protein bowl, right? It has a better flavor profile—it’s called ‘humility’.”** I teased, feeding him a spoonful of the sweet *kheer*.

**Rudra:** (He chewed slowly, his gaze fixed on my face, not the food.) **“It is… nourishing, Isha. But the best part is the feeder, not the food.”**

After we finished, we washed our hands outside the dining hall and headed toward the shoe service.

**Ishita:** **“Okay, I’ll take our footwears now,”** I said, turning towards the counter.

Before I could even reach the area, his strong hand clamped onto my arm, stopping me dead.

**Rudra:** **“No.”** His voice was sharp, non-negotiable. **“*You* will not. I will.”**

**Ishita:** **“Rudra, it's just a *seva* (service)—”**

**Rudra:** **“I won’t let you touch my shoes, Ishita. They don't deserve your hands. They don’t worth your hands.”** The statement was possessive, almost reverent, about my fingers.

He walked ahead and handled the retrieval himself, towering over the attendants. I waited, watching the powerful CEO carry his own expensive footwear and my modest heels.

He returned, holding my high heels. I reached for them, but he held them back. He then did the unthinkable.

He bent down. **Yes.** Rudra Singh Rathor, the President of a company, the CEO of another, a ruthless, emotionless man who didn't give a damn about people, bent down right there in the busy entrance area of the Gurudwara.

He knelt slightly, balancing himself, and held out one of my black heels.

**Ishita:** **“No, Rudra, I can do it! Stop this! People are watching!”** I hissed, embarrassed but utterly overwhelmed.

He didn’t look up. He just glanced up through his long lashes, his expression set in silent determination. **Rudra:** **“Don't argue, Isha. I want to do this. I want to know the weight of your choices.”**

He gently held my ankle and slid the heel onto my foot. The touch was slow, careful, a tender act of service. He then repeated the gesture for the other foot.

I stood there, speechless, my feet now encased in the very heels he had tried to banish.

We walked out to the car.

## **[ Rudra Singh Rathore – ]**

The *langar* was a test, and I passed it, not with appetite, but with devotion. Her small hands feeding me, her laughter—that was the nourishment.

**Rudra:** **“It is… nourishing, Isha. But the best part is the feeder, not the food.”** I meant it. I would eat dirt if she offered it with that look on her face.

When we finished, she immediately tried to walk toward the shoe counter. I stopped her instantly.

**Rudra:** **“No. You will not. I will.”**

**Ishita:** **“Rudra, it's just a *seva*—”**

**Rudra:** **“I won’t let you touch my shoes, Ishita. They don't deserve your hands. They don't worth your hands.”** Her hands were for creating beauty, for touching me—not for my filth.

I retrieved the footwear. The moment I held her heels, I knew what I had to do. It was a gesture, a physical penance for every time I had questioned her choices or her path.

I knelt. I bent down right there in the crowded exit. I ignored the stares, the whispers, the recognition. The only audience that mattered was the 5'3" woman whose heart I held.

**Ishita:** **“No, Rudra, I can do it! Stop this! People are watching!”** She panicked, trying to pull away.

I looked up at her, my gaze unwavering. **Rudra:** **“Don't argue, Isha. I want to do this. I want to know the weight of your choices.”**

I held her ankle, the same one she had sprained, and carefully slid the heel onto her foot. It was a profound act of submission. I, the man of control, was kneeling to the woman who anchored me, honoring the fragile height she insisted upon.

Once done, I quickly got up and we walked straight to the car.

I started driving. My right hand found its way to hers, resting on the console, fingers intertwining immediately. I played with her long nails—a soothing, constant habit.

Then she took her phone out. I felt the familiar click of a camera. She took a photo of herself, smiling, then one of *us*. I didn't look at the camera. I never did.

**Ishita:** **“Did you see the new post on Instagram, hmmm?”** she asked, her voice laced with teasing triumph.

I glanced down at my *R.S.R* profile, already knowing the answer. She had posted a photo of the heels I had just put on her feet, the image cropped tightly.

**Rudra:** **“I am fulfilling my engagement duties, Isha. I liked it thirty seconds after you posted it.”** I squeezed her hand. **“But the caption better be appropriate for a businessman’s timeline. Did you mention the price of my devotion?”**

## **[Ishita Sharma’s Perspective]**

As the car slowed near my *gali*, I already started unbuckling my seatbelt, feeling the soft afterglow of tonight—not just the *langar*, or the prayer, but *him*. The man who once didn’t even believe in love… telling me he’d wait for me *forever*.

*Forever.*

My hand was already on the door when I paused and looked at him. His hands were still on the steering wheel, but his eyes—those deep ocean blue eyes—were fixed on me. A little guarded now. Like maybe he was overthinking what he said. Or how much he said.

I leaned in, quick but warm, wrapped my arms around his neck and whispered in his ear, **Ishita:** **“Goodnight… and thank you, Mr. Rathore.”**

Before he could say anything, I pulled back with a small smile, opened the door, and stepped out, heels clicking against the ground.

I turned around one last time, standing outside the car in my salwar suit, *dupatta* flowing behind, bangles making that faint musical sound. He was still watching me, unmoving, like he was afraid blinking would break the moment.

I waved. **Ishita:** **“Drive safe. Okay?”**

He didn’t wave back. Just gave a faint nod—almost unreadable to anyone else.

But I knew.

And as I walked inside my *gali*, my heart fluttered against my ribs. His words kept playing in my head on loop.

> “You prove me wrong.”

> “I love you.”

> “I’ll wait forever.”

> “You are my goddess.”

> “You are my home.”

I bit my lip, cheeks heating up under the moonlight.

How was this *my* story? A ruthless billionaire CEO just confessed to me outside a holy lake. And meant every word.

My heels clicked faster as I climbed the steps, and when I reached the door, I didn’t even go inside right away.

I stood for a second, hugging myself… Still feeling his warmth, Still smelling his cologne, Still hearing his voice.

And I smiled. Like a fool. Like a girl deeply, uncontrollably in love. The fact that the most powerful man in Rajasthan had knelt to put on my shoes was the most romantic and insane moment of my life.

## **[Rudra Singh Rathore’s Perspective]**

She hugged me again. So sudden. So soft. Like she couldn’t help it. Like it was her instinct—to find comfort in me.

Her arms around my neck—not possessive, not needy—just warm. Grateful. Real.

**Ishita:** **“Goodnight… and thank you, Mr. Rathore.”**

She whispered in my ear, then pulled away and left before I could even react. Just like that.

And now she was gone. Walking away in her heels and salwar suit, her *dupatta* dancing behind her, her silhouette lit by the streetlamps of her *gali*.

I sat there gripping the wheel, feeling the ghost of her touch still radiating from my neck.

Still. Processing. Still tasting those words I’d finally let out. Words I had buried so deep for so long.

She didn’t run. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t mock. She didn’t even hesitate.

Instead, she said—with that smile, that voice—*“Then I’ll come as soon as possible, because I know I have a home waiting for me.”*

My chest clenched again just thinking about it. *Home.* She called *me* her home.

I reached for my phone, looked at her latest Instagram post again, and smiled faintly. I saved it, of course.

I finally pulled away from her street, one hand back on the wheel, the other still tingling.

**Rudra:** (I whispered to the empty car.) **“You’ve already changed everything, Ishita. And you don’t even know it.”**

I arrived back at the mansion, the heavy silence of the place failing to dampen the sudden, roaring joy in my chest. I headed straight for my grandmother's wing. *Bebe* needed to know.

I found **Bebe** sitting in her armchair, reading. She looked up, startled by my late-night appearance, usually reserved for emergencies.

**Bebe:** **“Rudra? What is it? Why are you glowing like a teenager?”**

I knelt beside her chair—a rare gesture of genuine humility reserved only for her.

**Rudra:** **“Bebe. I told her.”**

Bebe’s eyes widened, understanding instantly. **Bebe:** **“You told Ishita? About your feelings?”**

I nodded, feeling the unfamiliar, overwhelming ease of speaking the truth. **Rudra:** **“I confessed everything. At the Gurudwara, by the *sarovar*. And… she didn’t say no. She said she would come home to me.”**

Bebe’s face cracked into the widest, most triumphant smile I had ever seen. She reached out and cupped my face. **Bebe:** **“Oh, my Shiv! My child is finally happy! I knew that girl was your destiny! *Waheguru* heard my prayers!”**

She immediately jumped out of her chair, energized. **Bebe:** **“The planning starts tomorrow! We need the Royal ballroom, of course! Winter wedding is best—she loves the light. Sabyasachi *lehenga*—no, wait, traditional Rajput red! And then the children! We need at least two—a strong son who looks like you, and a beautiful daughter who inherits her charm! And we need a special nursery wing!”**

She began pacing the room, listing logistics that would bankrupt a small country, completely forgetting that the subject of her plans—Ishita—was merely a **twenty-year-old baby** herself, a makeup artist, not a queen ready to produce heirs.

I sat there, watching my formidable grandmother plan a dynastic future based on a lakeside confession. I was overwhelmed by the absurdity, the power, and the love in the room.

I leaned back against the armchair, letting a genuine, full smile touch my lips—the first true, untainted smile in years. **I smiled, watching my Bebe.** It was chaotic, irrational, and completely centered around Ishita. It was perfect.

Bebe was still pacing, her mind already on wedding dates and nurseries. I watched her, amused by her enthusiasm, which was a complete contrast to my usual sterile life.

**Bebe:** **“We must call the priest tomorrow! And the invitations must be gold-plated! But wait…”** She paused mid-step, her eyes narrowing as she processed the location. **“Wait, where did you say you confessed?”**

**Rudra:** **“At the Gurudwara, Bebe. Bangla Sahib.”** I confirmed calmly.

She **gasped, her mouth flying open hugely**—a reaction so dramatic it made me want to cover my ears.

**Bebe:** **“TU GURUDWARA GAYA THA?!”** (You went to the Gurudwara?!) Her voice hit a sudden, high-pitched note of shock.

I nodded again. **Rudra:** **“Yes, Bebe. I was with Ishita.”**

**Bebe:** (She put her hands on her hips, her shock turning into exasperated motherly drama.) **“Mere saath toh aaj tak nahi gaya! Kehta hai ki vishwas nahi karta Bhagwan par! Lekin ab dekho! Uske saath chala gaya! Aur dil ki baat bhi bol di! Waah, *puttar*!”** (He never went with me till date! Says he doesn’t believe in God! But look now! He went with her! And even spoke his heart! Wow, my son!)

She shook her head dramatically, leaning against the wall for effect. **Bebe:** **“I’ve been dragging you to temples since you were ten! One trip with *my bahu* (daughter-in-law) and suddenly you’re a devout man confessing your soul! What magic does that girl possess?”**

**Rudra:** (I sighed, standing up and trying to pull her back down to earth.) **“Bebe, stop being dramatic. She is different, you know.”**

**Bebe:** (She waved a dismissive hand.) **“Ha, ha! *Bilkul*! Different toh hai hi! Tabhi toh Rudra Singh Rathor ko pighla diya!”** (Yes, yes! Absolutely! She IS different! That’s why she melted the mighty Rudra Singh Rathor!)

She finally stopped the pacing, walked over to me, and reached up to kiss my forehead—the same comforting gesture Ishita had given me hours ago.

**Bebe:** **“I’m happy, *puttar*. Truly happy.”**

Her eyes, however, turned serious and slightly frantic. **Bebe:** **“Bas ab toh jaldi se use meri *bahu* bana de! Teri maa se pareshaan ho gayi hoon main!”** (Now just quickly make her my daughter-in-law! I am fed up with your mother!)

She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, referencing my mother, the strict socialite who barely acknowledged Ishita’s existence. **Bebe:** **“She keeps pushing those awful French heiresses on you. Get married, get Ishita officially here, and protect your happiness! Don’t wait too long, Rudra! This girl is a treasure; lock her down!”**

I smiled, shaking my head at her theatrics, but feeling a deep surge of warmth. My grandmother understood the urgency perfectly.

**Rudra:** **“I know, Bebe. I won’t wait. I already told her I’d wait forever, but I plan to collect her much sooner than that.”**

I reached for my phone, already thinking about the morning. **Rudra:** **“Now, go to sleep. And don’t call the priest before 9 AM. We have procedures to follow.”**

## **[Ishita Sharma’s Perspective]**

Some days later, the realization hit me fully: **I also loved him.** I always had, maybe since that day at the temple, or perhaps even before. The thought brought warmth, but also a sharp spike of fear. Rudra Singh Rathor was a vortex of intensity; if he broke my heart, it would be irreparable.

But then he did something undeniably sweet, and the fear evaporated.

Today, he canceled his entire afternoon schedule, including a crucial meeting Laksh had set up, just to take me sightseeing in Delhi. I felt a surge of delighted power at being the reason for the chaos in his life.

I knew Laksh, his manager, was internally combusting, probably sending passive-aggressive emails about quarterly projections. But Rudra didn’t care.

We ended up near Connaught Place, a chaotic, vibrant area Rudra usually avoided like the plague. I dragged him toward a small street vendor selling silver earrings.

I immediately got into negotiation mode. **Ishita:** **“No, *bhaiya*. ₹150 is too much for this small design. I’ll give you ₹100. That’s my final offer.”**

The vendor, used to the routine, shook his head. **Vendor:** **“*Baji*, ₹140. Final.”**

Rudra, meanwhile, stood rigid beside me, a pillar of expensive tailoring next to a display of cheap trinkets. He looked utterly bewildered by the whole process.

He leaned down, whispering into my ear, his tone entirely serious. **Rudra:** **“Ishita, stop this. I will buy you a hundred of these. Don’t fight over fifty rupees, little girl.”**

I froze, instantly offended. I whipped my head around to face him, putting my hands on my hips.

**Ishita:** **“O hello! Don’t go on my age and height, okay? This is about the *principle*! And you!”** I turned sharply back to the vendor. **“Give it in ₹100! That’s it!”**

The vendor, sensing the shift in dynamics, immediately looked from my fierce face to the terrifyingly handsome giant next to me, who had just offered to buy his entire inventory.

Rudra and the vendor were looking at each other—the fifth richest man in the world looking at the small vendor who had just witnessed his girlfriend threaten him. The vendor’s expression clearly read: *Seriously, Rudra Singh Rathor? This is your life now?*

I snatched the earrings, threw the ₹100 note on the counter, and grabbed Rudra’s arm, pulling him away.

**Ishita:** **“See? Principle upheld! Let’s go, Mr. Rathor. Before you start talking about hostile takeover of the street market.”**

## **[Rudra Singh Rathore’s Perspective]**

Laksh was having an aneurysm, I was certain. I had canceled a high-stakes teleconference because Ishita wanted to see "real Delhi chaos." And here I was, watching her haggle over fifty rupees with a man selling oxidized metal.

**Rudra:** (I leaned in, trying to end the absurdity.) **“Ishita, stop this. I will buy you a hundred of these. Don’t fight over fifty rupees, little girl.”**

That was the wrong phrase. Her head snapped back, her eyes blazing with that delightful, defiant fire I had grown addicted to.

**Ishita:** **“O hello! Don’t go on my age and height, okay! This is about the *principle*! And you!”**

She finished the transaction with a dramatic flourish, paid the hundred rupees, and yanked my arm, pulling me away from the vendor’s shocked gaze.

The vendor’s face—a mixture of confusion and pity for the billionaire—was priceless. He knew the cost of crossing Ishita Sharma was far greater than ₹50.

I let her drag me away, my lips twitching. She was a tornado of small, glorious drama.

**Rudra:** **“I was just trying to save your time, Isha. Time is a finite resource.”**

**Ishita:** **“No, you were trying to buy my freedom to bargain, which is an infinite resource, *Sultan-e-Hind* (Emperor of India)!”**

We stopped at a less crowded intersection. I pulled my arm out of her grasp and immediately took her hand, interlacing our fingers.

**Rudra:** **“Fine. You won. Now, tell me about this ‘principle.’ Is it a law I need to memorize for future market negotiations?”**

I looked down at her, admiring the way her simple earrings sparked under the harsh Delhi sun. I didn't care about the meetings or Laksh's stress levels. Watching her fight for something so trivial, so passionately, was more valuable than any corporate gain.

**Rudra:** **“You look beautiful when you are angry, by the way. Very fierce. But maybe save the fierceness for when someone tries to insult your makeup artistry, not your wallet.”**

**Ishita:** **“My wallet is my honor, Rudra! And I like my fieriness! Now, come on. I need a *chaat* vendor. And you are paying full price for that. No principles involved.”**