💖 Ishita’s Perspective:

The moment Rudra’s strong arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me out of the couture chaos, I felt a deep, profound sense of relief. Being in the salon had been like navigating a minefield. While the Rathor ladies were mostly accepting, the tension radiating off **Reet** was suffocating.

She and I had been professional collaborators and genuine friends for **four years**. We discussed careers, dating woes (well, *her* dating woes), and fabric swatches, but I had kept the entire, tumultuous history with Rudra—the arranged marriage, the divorce, the silent years, and the sudden, fierce reconciliation—a secret.

When Rudra stepped in and defended my silence, claiming it as *his* order, I felt a rush of warmth, even as I was mortified by his sheer, public possessiveness.

He led me out of the salon and across the marble foyer, practically lifting me up the stairs. The moment we were out of earshot, I stopped him, placing my hand on his chest.

**Ishita:** (I looked up at him, exasperated but grateful) "Rudra! You can't just command a future bride to direct her anger at you! That was so arrogant! And you know I didn't tell her because I was embarrassed! I thought you were this **ruthless tycoon** who wouldn't look at a **middle-class dreamer** like me again!"

**Rudra:** (He didn't release me; his **ocean-blue eyes** simply searched mine, softened by the light, but still fiercely intense.) "I was defending my property, **Jaana**. And I was speaking the truth. Your silence *was* my command, rooted in my refusal to let the media or my family influence our fragile beginning. Reet's anger is misplaced. She will get over it, or she will face the consequences."

He kissed my forehead, melting my protest.

**Ishita:** (I leaned against his **muscular body**, releasing a tired sigh) "I know, but she's my friend, Ru. And I feel awful. She said, 'I knew everything about Vardaan's proposal before I knew my best makeup artist was marrying my cousin, the **King of Rajasthan**!'"

We finally reached the quiet sanctuary of his master suite. He closed the heavy door with a decisive *thud*, shutting out the world.

He pulled me fully into his arms, holding me tightly against his crisp white shirt.

**Rudra:** "You are right. Your feelings matter. I will speak to Reet. I will tell her that I was the reason for your secrecy, and that your loyalty to her was never questioned. Now," he pulled back slightly, his expression shifting to one of playful, yet insistent, demand, "the women downstairs have been monopolizing my **future wife** long enough. Let's discuss your comfort, not Vardaan's colors."

He guided me over to the massive sofa, settling me close to him.

**Rudra:** "Tell me, did my mother force that hideous golden monstrosity on you? Or did you manage to find something that doesn't scream 'ancient dynasty'?"

I laughed, the day’s stress finally easing. The contrast between the furious **tycoon** I am going to marry and this gentle, possessive man who worried about my wardrobe was endless. I knew the drama wouldn't stop—not with Reet, not with the Rathors, and certainly not with the press—but as long as Rudra stood fiercely by my side, I felt strong enough to face the entire world.

Rudra's defense had given me temporary peace, but the ache of disappointing **Reet** persisted. After a brief, restorative half-hour with Rudra upstairs—mostly involving him vetoing my entire selection of outfits—he went back to his study, and I went back downstairs, determined to clear the air.

I found Reet alone on a quiet terrace off the main salon. She was staring out at the expansive lawn, a beautiful silk *dupatta* draped forgotten over her shoulder. She looked less like a glowing bride-to-be and more like a hurt friend.

I walked over slowly, sitting on the wicker chair next to her.

**Ishita:** (My voice was soft, genuinely contrite.) "Reet. I’m sorry. I know I handled this terribly, and I owe you an explanation that doesn’t involve Rudra taking the blame."

She still didn't look at me, but she shifted slightly, acknowledging my presence.

**Reet:** (Her voice was flat, laced with betrayal.) "I just... I thought we were close, Ishita. Four years of working together, sharing every detail about the industry, about Vardaan... and the biggest news in your life, the one that involves the most famous man in the world, was a complete secret. A secret I learned *after* the whole world knew."

**Ishita:** (I leaned forward, clasping my hands tightly.) "I know. And you have every right to be angry. But honestly, **Reet**, I didn't tell you because... I was terrified. Truly. Not even you, in fact, **I didn't tell my own childhood friends about it**."

I took a deep breath, letting the full weight of my fear surface.

**Ishita:** "Rudra and I—our history is complicated. We fall in love and then becauseof somethingwe got apart for 3 years . When he came back and proposed, it was so sudden, so fierce, and so overwhelming. I knew his power. I knew the media would turn my life into a circus, and I knew the Rathor family would judge me. **I was scared of what they would do**—scared of the gossip, scared of the scrutiny, scared they'd tear us apart again."

I reached out and gently placed my hand on her arm.

**Ishita:** "I kept it secret for so long because I felt like if I spoke it aloud, the reality of marrying the **cold-hearted prince** would become too real, and I was afraid I’d lose him again. I needed the protection of silence until my own family gave us their blessing. It wasn't about distrusting you, Reet. It was about sheer, paralyzing fear."

Reet finally turned her head, her expression softening as she saw the genuine vulnerability in my **brown eyes**.

**Reet:** "Paralyzing fear... and a **black tiger**?" she asked, a small, tentative smile finally touching her lips. "I heard that part. You met Oscur?"

I laughed, a shaky, relieved sound. "Yes. The tiger was the first thing. And if you think I'm scared of the media, you should see me when that massive beast walks by."

Reet shook her head, a genuine, warm smile finally breaking through.

**Reet:** "You are impossible, Ishita. But fine. Fear is... a valid reason when you're marrying *him*. Just promise me this: no more secrets. I'm your sister now, too. And you need me to help plan the most simple, yet secretly glamorous, wedding this dynasty has ever seen."

I squeezed her hand, a surge of gratitude washing over me. "Thank you, Reet. I promise. And yes, I need you. Desperately."

The friendship was salvaged. Now, all that remained was the final, terrifying family meeting.

The air at the Rathor Mansion was thick with marigolds, turmeric paste, and buzzing energy. After my talk with Reet, our friendship was restored, and the wedding planning was in full swing.

Next day

Today was the **Haldi function**—a chaotic, joyful celebration of yellow.

My team and I had been working since the crack of dawn. We had to ensure every single Rathor lady, including the reluctant ones, looked flawless under the harsh yellow light of the turmeric. I focused on making Reet, the bride-to-be, look radiant and natural, despite the eventual paste that would cover her.

Finally, after ensuring the last of the ladies were glowing, it was time for me. I quickly retreated to a quiet guest room to change.

I chose an outfit that was vibrant yet functional, knowing I’d be on my feet. I wore a bright yellow **crop top** paired with flowy, wide **plazo pants**—perfect for navigating the crowds. I completed the look with **high heels** (because Rudra was 6'3" and I refused to look like a doll next to him), my **long hair** was left **open and flowing freely**, and my **long nails** were painted a subtle coral.

For my makeup, I went for a soft, dewy look: subtle foundation, a simple yet dramatic **liner** to make my **brown eyes** pop, and a **perfect lipstick** in a natural pink shade. I needed to look celebratory, but professional enough to command my team.

As I stepped out onto the sprawling lawn where the ceremony was taking place, I was immediately intercepted.

**Rudra** was standing near the central stage, looking devastatingly handsome even in a simple saffron-colored *kurta*. His **ocean-blue eyes** found me instantly across the lawn. He didn't smile dramatically, but the subtle softening around his eyes and the immediate way he moved to claim my side told me everything I needed to know.

He didn’t even say hello. He just reached out, took my hand, and gently tucked me right into the curve of his arm, his fingers wrapping possessively around my wrist.

**Rudra:** (His voice was low, for my ears only, a slight roughness of possession in his tone.) "You took too long. I thought I was going to have to send security to retrieve you."

**Ishita:** (I squeezed his arm, leaning into his solid, **muscular body**.) "I was making the bride look beautiful, **Ru**. Priorities."

**Rudra:** (He surveyed my outfit with an approving, possessive glance.) "Your priority is looking like the most stunning woman here. And you succeeded. Now, stay right here."

And that was my role for the rest of the ceremony. **I kept standing with Rudra**—a human wall of certainty and belonging.

While the cousins and friends gleefully smeared turmeric on Vardaan, Rudra and I remained in a quiet bubble. He didn't participate much in the ritual; he simply stood as my anchor. Every time a relative approached, his grip on my hand would tighten, and his posture would straighten—a clear signal: *She is my future wife; treat her with the respect the **King of Rajasthan** demands.*

I watched as the playful chaos erupted, feeling utterly safe next to the man who was both my **ruthless tycoon** and my most gentle protector. The yellow sunshine of the *Haldi* celebration felt like a warm, public affirmation of our **unbroken love**.

The **Haldi ceremony** was winding down. Rudra had been my fortress, shielding me from the turmeric attacks and the overly curious relatives. The heat of the November sun, combined with the frenetic energy of the crowd, was making me feel overheated, and I needed a quick escape to my guest room to grab a tissue and a sip of water.

I finally managed to pull my hand free from Rudra’s, giving him a quick, silent promise to return. "I'll be right back," I mouthed.

I was halfway down a short, secluded corridor that led away from the main lawn when I was suddenly, forcefully interrupted.

A **strong, big, sinewy arm** shot out, wrapping tightly around my **tiny bare waist**—right where the crop top ended—and **pulled me violently into the shadowy alcove** of a tall marble pillar.

I gasped, my heart leaping into my throat. But the familiar scent of expensive cologne and the overwhelming, solid feel of the **muscular body** pressed against my back calmed the panic instantly.

**Ishita:** (I **whispered-yelled** against his shoulder, struggling for decorum) "**Rudra!** What are you doing? Someone will see! We’re inside the house!"

He didn't release me. Instead, he pinned me completely against the cool marble wall. I could feel the hard contours of his body caging me in. Then, the surprise hit.

The **hand that was covered with Haldi**—bright yellow and smelling strongly of turmeric and sandalwood—moved from my waist and **applied the cold, wet paste** right onto my exposed skin.

**Ishita:** (I shivered violently, the cold **Haldi** paste shocking my skin.) "Ru! It's freezing! Stop! You're going to stain my top!"

He chuckled, a low, possessive sound deep in his chest. He didn't stop, smearing the cold paste gently, marking me with the traditional color.

He then **leaned in**, his lips just grazing my ear, his breath warm and his grip on my waist so tight I knew pushing him was useless.

**Rudra:** (His voice was a dark, possessive whisper, full of **teasing and romance**) "**You think** I was going to let you escape the ceremony unmarked? You are *my* future bride, and you will be marked with *my* turmeric, **Jaana**. This is my way of putting my final claim on you. The Rathor family can wait; you are the only one I want to smear with color."

I tried one last time to push his solid chest away, purely for show.

**Ishita:** "Rudra, let me go! **If the world sees you like this with me...** the **cold, arrogant, heartless, ruthless, emotionless man** doing *this*... in a hallway!"

**Rudra:** (He pulled back just enough to look at my lips, his **ocean-blue eyes** glittering with profound, possessive love and **shameless flirting**.) "The world already knows I am arrogant and ruthless. But they only need to see the result: **my queen** covered in my **Haldi**. And as for heartless and emotionless, *you* are my heart, Ishita. And I am simply expressing the overwhelming emotion that *you* belong to me, completely and **unbroken**."

He moved his **Haldi-stained thumb** to gently wipe away the stray smudge of lipstick I had on the corner of my mouth.

**Rudra:** "Now, let me fix that perfect lipstick. This private ritual is far more important than any public ceremony."

He sealed the moment with a deep, consuming kiss, tasting of coffee, sandalwood, and possession. The turmeric marking felt less like a paste and more like a permanent seal on our **unbroken love**.

His kiss was deep, possessive, and utterly unforgiving, a direct continuation of the possessive emotion he had confessed in his whisper. He wasn't kissing me; he was claiming me, proving that my protests about the **ruthless tycoon** being caught in a hallway were irrelevant to the **unbroken love** he felt.

I kissed him back with everything I had, but it was impossible to match his intensity. He was a force of nature, and I quickly became breathless, dizzy from the sudden rush of passion and the lack of air. I desperately **fisted his hair** with one hand and **patted his broad shoulder** with the other, a silent signal that I couldn't breathe.

He paused for the briefest second, his **ocean-blue eyes** meeting mine with a triumphant, wicked **smirk**. He knew exactly what he was doing. Then, intentionally and shamelessly, he **deepened the kiss**, driving all thoughts of modesty and breathing out of my mind.

Finally, with the last shred of my control, I **hit his chest**—a sharp, muffled thump that did nothing to his solid **muscular body** but finally broke the connection.

**Ishita:** (Gasping for air, my voice was a shaky whisper) "Rudra! You... you are impossible! My lipstick is ruined, and I can't breathe!"

**Rudra:** (He simply chuckled, rubbing the back of his hand across his cheek where he had applied some of the *Haldi* to me.) "A small price, **Jaana**. Now you officially belong to the Haldi ceremony."

He adjusted my *crop top*, checking his handiwork—the bright yellow smudge of *Haldi* on my waist, a private, visible mark of his claim. Then, he gently led me out of the alcove, pulling me along, his composure completely restored, as if he hadn't just engaged in a scandalous make-out session in his family's hallway.

***

Later that evening, the **Haldi** functions were officially **over**. We were all back in the venue rooms.

I was **sharing a room with Ahana**, Rudra's younger sister. The room was bustling: **Drishti** (Rudra's cousin brother wife ), **Reet** (the bride-to-be, and my now-forgiven friend), and **Ahana** were all gathered, ostensibly discussing tomorrow’s *Sangeet* outfits. But the actual topic of discussion, of course, was me, and the fact that I was marrying their terrifying, famous cousin.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, re-doing the makeup Rudra had aggressively ruined, when the teasing started.

**Drishti:** "Bhabhi, you look slightly dishevelled. Did the turmeric application get... strenuous?"

**Reet:** (She was already married into the family and had no filter, thanks to our mended friendship.) "Please, Drishti bhabhi . Look at the Haldi mark on her waist. That's not a *shagun* smudge; that's a *territorial marking*. Rudra Bhai probably cornered her in a storage closet."

I felt my cheeks heat up instantly. Even though I was an adult, the **middle-class dreamer** in me, especially when faced with the Rathor women's casual audacity, couldn't help but **blush**.

**Ishita:** (I threw a pillow at Reet) "Stop it! It was just a simple tradition! And he barely touched me!" *Lies, lies, lies.*

**Ahana:** (She looked at my flustered expression and laughed, pointing out the obvious.) "Bhabhi, you are a terrible liar. But we love it. You are the only person in the world who can make **Bhai** act like a jealous teenager."

The truth was, despite being the **youngest in age** in the group of wives and sisters, I was about to become the **eldest daughter-in-law of the family** because Rudra was the eldest son. This confusing, contradictory position meant all of his younger cousins, their wives, and his sisters had to **call me Bhabhi** (sister-in-law).

**Reet:** "It’s ridiculous! Ishita Bhabhi is five years younger than me, but I have to call her Bhabhi because she is gettingmarriedto my husband's older brother* i

The formality of the title, combined with my obvious inexperience and youth, made the teasing relentless. But as I sat there, blushing, being called "Bhabhi" by women older than me, I felt a deep, strange sense of belonging. The **cold-hearted prince** had indeed provided me with a family, even if they were loud, chaotic, and relentlessly nosy.

The next day

brought the **Mehendi function**—a celebration of intricate henna and bright, jewel-toned colors. I was running on even less sleep than yesterday, having spent half the night laughing with the girls and the other half on a late-night video call with Rudra (who insisted on seeing the "Haldi mark" he’d left).

I was, again, the lead makeup artist, ensuring every girl looked like she belonged in a royal portrait. Once my duty was done, I rushed to get ready for the evening.

I chose a stunning emerald **green Anarkali suit**. It was tailored perfectly, with a long, flowing skirt. The neckline was modest, but the back was daringly low—a beautiful, **long, deep back** that Rudra had instantly approved of when I showed him a photo. My **long hair** was styled **half-up and tucked** with soft waves, allowing the intricate back detailing of the *Anarkali* to show. My arms were adorned with delicate **bangles**, and I wore the sweetest sound of all: a delicate **Payal** (anklet) that chimed softly with every step. My **makeup** was **soft**, focused on a smoky eye to contrast with the bright green.

Stepping out onto the lawn venue, the atmosphere was magical—colored lights, music, and the pervasive, sweet scent of henna.

And then, there he was. My eyes always found him first.

**Rudra** was standing near the entrance, and he looked **damn handsome**. He was wearing a deep green velvet *bandhgala* jacket that matched my outfit perfectly, a detail I knew he’d planned. His **muscular body** filled the suit with effortless power, his **fair color** made the velvet look richer, and his **ocean-blue eyes** were scanning the crowd, looking for me.

The moment he spotted me, a barely perceptible change occurred in his posture—a tightening, a focus. He immediately crossed the lawn and claimed me.

He didn't need to speak; he simply placed his large **hand on my waist**, pulling me into his side and keeping me there. This was non-negotiable, non-verbal communication.

His hand was my anchor, especially as we moved through the crowd. This was the first major family function where our relationship was public knowledge, and every few minutes, I’d catch a relative—an aunt, a distant cousin, a business associate—doing a double-take. Their shock was palpable: the **cold, arrogant, heartless, ruthless, emotionless man** was holding a **middle-class dreamer** like me so openly.

He felt the scrutiny, and it only intensified his possessive behavior.

**Rudra:** (He leaned down, his voice a low, rough murmur against my ear, making me shiver) "Look at them, **Jaana**. They are all shocked. They can't believe the **ruthless tycoon** is this completely and utterly owned. Are you comfortable? Is the music too loud? Do you need a cushion?"

**Ishita:** (I laughed softly, leaning into his solid chest) "I'm fine, **Ru**. Just being stared at by fifty shocked Rathors. But I like your suit. You look very possessive in green."

**Rudra:** (He tightened his grip on my waist, his lips brushing my earlobe—pure **flirting**.) "Good. That is the point. I look possessive because I am. You belong here, next to me. The **Payal** sounds beautiful, by the way. It’s a constant reminder of where you are."

He was relentless, his attention unwavering. He'd interrupt conversations with relatives just to ask me if I was hungry, or he’d gently trace the delicate curve of my **deep back** with his thumb, a private, thrilling touch that reminded me of our secret Haldi ritual.

In the midst of the chaos and the music, I felt the profound, overwhelming safety that only Rudra could provide. * in the center of a royal dynasty, but standing next to my **King**, I felt like the only person who truly mattered.

I was trying to stay firmly anchored next to Rudra, enjoying the protective shield of his presence, when my defenses were breached by the most enthusiastic, determined person in the family: **Ahana**.

**Ahana:** (She burst into our bubble, grabbing my arm with cheerful force.) "Bhabhi! Enough standing next to Bhai looking all serious and elegant! The *Mehendi* artist is finally free, and you are getting your hands done! Come on!"

Before I could protest—or before Rudra could issue a counter-command—**Ahana** had already dragged me toward the tent where the *Mehendi* artists were seated. Rudra followed, his expression a mixture of annoyed possessiveness and reluctant amusement.

I was settled onto a low stool, and the artist—a woman with incredible speed and focus—immediately took my hand.

**Ishita:** (I whispered to Ahana, who was busy taking photos of me looking utterly panicked) "Ahana, just a light design on the back, okay? I have a shoot next week, I can't have dark palms!"

**Ahana:** (She waved my concern away, clicking her phone camera.) "Nonsense, Bhabhi! This is the King's wedding! You need the full works! And yes, you are absolutely getting his name written on your palm! It’s tradition!"

I blushed furiously. Getting a husband’s name written in *Mehendi* was intimate, a public declaration hidden only by the dye.

The **Mehendi artist** was focused and fast. She worked her magic, drawing intricate peacock and floral designs that flowed beautifully **till my wrist** on the back of my hands. She then flipped my palm.

**Ishita:** (I mumbled, still blushing) "Just one initial, please. Just 'R' on the palm."

But before the artist could start, **Ahana** leaned in and whispered something to the woman, who grinned mischievously.

And so, for the **first time** in my life, and for all the world to see (once Rudra found it, that is), the artist carefully inked **his full name**—**Rudra**—into the heart of my palm design.

All the while, **Ahana** kept me distracted, chatting loudly and **clicking pictures** of the process.

**Ahana:** "So, Bhabhi, tell me honestly, did Bhai behave himself yesterday? Did he ruin your makeup *before* or *after* he made you gasp for breath in the hallway?"

**Ishita:** (I slapped her leg playfully with my free hand, my cheeks on fire.) "Ahana! Stop it! He was... marking his territory, apparently. And he didn't ruin my makeup; he ruined my lipstick! It's fine."

The whole process felt surreal: on the one hand, I was laughing with my future sister-in-law, a simple girl being drawn into a beautiful tradition; on the other, I was being permanently, publicly marked as the future wife of the **ruthless tycoon**, the man whose name was now sinking into the skin of my palm.

The *Mehendi* artist finished the second hand, and the rich, fragrant paste covered **both sides of my hands** beautifully, reaching my wrist. I smiled, looking at the dark green design that symbolized not just tradition, but the irreversible bond of our **unbroken love**.

👑 Rudra’s Perspective:

I had been forced to relinquish my hold on **Ishita** to the chaos of the *Mehendi* tent, but I didn't move far. I stood near the column, pretending to review emails on my phone, but my **ocean-blue eyes** were locked on the small, bright figure of my **Jaana**.

I saw **Ahana** drag her away, saw the artist begin her work, and saw Ishita’s head fall in a clear, self-conscious **blush**. I knew exactly what Ahana was forcing her to do: ink my name. It was an ancient, symbolic declaration of ownership, and while I usually dismissed such things as sentimental nonsense, with Ishita, it held immense power.

I watched her laugh, heard her slightly frantic protests against Ahana's teasing about my hallway aggression. She was so transparent, so beautifully unsuited to hiding her feelings.

Finally, the artist finished and covered her hands with paper to let the paste dry.

I immediately walked over, cutting through the small circle of ladies. I didn't need to ask if she was finished; the sight of her covered hands was enough.

**Rudra:** (My voice was low, possessing the dry tone of the **tycoon** making an undisputed claim.) "It’s done. You look... appropriately stained."

**Ishita:** (She looked up at me, holding her hands out stiffly, trying not to smudge the paste.) "Rudra! Don't joke! My hands are useless for the next eight hours. You will have to feed me dinner."

**Rudra:** (I allowed myself a possessive smirk. This was the exact dependency I craved.) "That, **Jaana**, is the point of the ritual. To remind you that you are completely reliant on me. Now, which hand did Ahana force you to write the name on?"

**Ishita:** (She glared at me, her **brown eyes** sparkling with playful defiance.) "I'm not telling you. You have to find it yourself. It’s tradition!"

**Rudra:** (I stepped closer, my tall, **muscular body** dominating her space. I reached out and gently lifted her right hand, holding it carefully by the wrist, avoiding the wet paste that reached her **wrist**.) "I don't need to play silly games, Ishita. Everything about you belongs to me. I will find it when the time is right, but know this: even if you hid my name on your eyelid, I would find it."

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a seductive, serious whisper.

**Rudra:** "But I want you to look at that dark stain tonight, Ishita. Look at my name and remember that it represents my promise to you: **Unbroken Love**. And now that you can’t use your hands, you’ll have to use your mouth to thank me for that Haldi mark I left on your waist yesterday."

I pulled her closer, my hand moving to the small of her back—the one place still safe from the *Mehendi* paste—and led her away from the tent. Dinner was the furthest thing from my mind. The inked declaration was a public triumph, but the real celebration was always reserved for our private sanctuary.