💖 Ishita's Perspective

The moment the cabin door opened, a blast of crisp, freezing Swiss air hit my face, making me gasp. But the view? Oh my god, the view was something out of a dream. The sky was a piercing blue, and the Alps stood tall and jagged, capped in thick, white November snow.

I stepped down the stairs, clutching my faux-fur coat, and there he was-**Laksh**, Rudra's right-hand man, standing next to a sleek, black stretch limousine that looked like it had been polished with diamonds.

"Welcome to Switzerland, Ma'am. Sir," Laksh said with a respectful bow, opening the door for us.

Rudra slid in next to me, his **6'3" frame** taking up half the limo, looking perfectly at home. As we drove away from the private hangar, the scenery changed from tarmac to winding mountain roads lined with pine trees heavy with snow. After about twenty minutes, we pulled up to a secluded path.

And then I saw it.

It wasn't a hotel. It wasn't even a regular house. It was a **massive, glass-walled chalet** perched right on the edge of a slope. It looked like a crystal box glowing in the mountain light. You could see the plush white rugs and a roaring fireplace right through the walls.

"**Ruuu... this is insane!**" I turned to him, my jaw practically hitting the floor of the limo. "**You could have just booked a hotel room! God, this man...**"

Rudra just adjusted his cufflinks, that **shameless** billionaire smirk playing on his lips. "A hotel has other guests, Ishita. And after your 'Jamnapari' performance on the plane, I figured we needed a place where you could scream at me-or kiss me-without an audience."

"You are impossible!" I squealed, jumping out of the car before Laksh could even get the door.

I ran toward the entrance, my boots crunching in the fresh, powdery snow. I pressed my face against the glass wall like a little kid. "**Ru, look at the view! The Matterhorn is right there! It's like it's inside the living room!**"

Rudra walked up behind me, his heavy wool coat brushing against my back. He wrapped his **muscular arms** around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. I could feel the steady thrum of his heart.

"Do you like it, Baby Doll?" he whispered into my ear, his breath warm against the cold air.

"Like it? I feel like I'm in a Yash Chopra movie," I breathed, leaning my head back against his shoulder. "But seriously, a whole villa? Just for a three-day shoot?"

"For you? I would have bought the mountain," he rumbled, and I knew he wasn't joking. That was the scary part. "Now, go inside. Reet and the girls sent over a 'survival kit' that's waiting for you in the master suite. And I've arranged for a private chef to make something... non-contaminating."

I turned around in his arms, looping my hands around his neck. "You're lucky you're so cute, Mr. Rathore. Otherwise, I'd still be mad about the flight attendant."

"I think 'cute' is an understatement," he smirked, leaning down to capture my lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted like cold mountain air and warm promises.

I stood in the middle of the master suite, staring at the massive, white-and-gold trunk that Laksh had brought in. It was tagged with a giant pink bow and a note that read: *"For our favorite Bhabhi - To keep the Ice King from freezing over! Love, Reet & the Girls."*

I smiled, thinking of Reet. She was not just my future devrani; she was a brilliant fashion designer and my partner-in-crime. "Probably some extra thermals and designer sweaters," I muttered to myself, unlatching the lock.

But as I lifted the lid, my jaw didn't just drop-it fell to the floor.

"Oh my god," I whispered, my face heating up instantly. "Reet, you are going to get me killed!"

There were no thick sweaters. No fuzzy socks.

Right on top was a **deep emerald green silk slip dress** with a back so low it basically didn't exist, held together by nothing but thin, rhinestone-encrusted strings. Beside it lay a **black lace corset-style gown** with a slit that went all the way up to the hip. And let's not even talk about the "lingerie" section-it was mostly just sheer mesh and red silk ribbons.

These are the dress reet send

I picked up the emerald dress with two fingers, holding it up. It was stunning, expensive, and absolutely scandalous. This wasn't for a photoshoot; this was for... *private* time.

"These girls are mental," I huffed, though my heart was racing. I could already imagine Rudra's **ocean blue eyes** turning dark and possessive if he ever saw me in this. He was already a "hungry lion," as Jay called him. If I walked out in this backless silk, the Swiss Alps would melt from the heat.

I dug deeper and found a small handwritten card from Reet:

*"Ishu bhabhi, I know the 'Ice King' is trying to be a gentleman, but in this chalet, surrounded by glass and snow... he needs a little push. Use these wisely. Also, check the bottom - I added a red chiffon saree for the shoot that will make him lose his mind. You're welcome! 😉"*

I looked at the pile of silk and lace, then at the giant glass walls looking out over the freezing, silent mountains. It was just the two of us here. No family, no brothers, no paparazzi. Just the Jamnapari girl and her Prince.

"Reet is a devil," I whispered, blushing like a tomato. I quickly slammed the trunk shut when I heard a heavy footstep in the hallway. My heart was pounding against my ribs.

I wasn't a model who was afraid of clothes, but this? This was different. This was for *him*. I looked at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I looked like a 'middle-class dreamer' who had just been handed the keys to a kingdom, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to play the part of the Seductress Queen just yet.

But then, a small, **shameless** part of me-the part that loved the way his eyes tracked my every move-thought, *Why not? If he can be a Greek God, I can definitely be his Goddess.*

I tucked the "scandalous" pieces under some of my normal clothes, hiding them like secret weapons.

👑 Rudra's Perspective

The moon was hanging low over the Swiss Alps, turning the snow into a blanket of crushed diamonds. The exterior of our chalet was bathed in soft blue light, but the interior was warm, smelling of cedarwood and the expensive perfume Ishita had sprayed earlier.

Our photographers had set up the gimbals and the soft lighting. I was dressed in a charcoal-grey turtleneck and a long wool coat, looking every bit the cold prince the world knew me to be. But my eyes? They were fixed on the master suite door.

When she stepped out, my heart skipped a beat. She hadn't put on the saree yet. She was wearing a **powder-blue velvet gown** that hugged her slim figure like a second skin, the hem dusting the white rugs. Her **long curly hair** was pinned back on one side with a diamond clip, and her **brown eyes** were glowing with a mix of shyness and excitement.

"You look..." I cleared my throat, my **6'3" frame** feeling suddenly heavy. "Beautiful, Ishi."

"Only beautiful?" she teased, her Jamnapari sass peeking through the elegance.

I didn't answer. I just signaled the crew to start the track. The melody filled the glass-walled living room-a song that took me straight back to that rainy night in my penthouse when we were both a little tipsy on emotions and shared a microphone.

**"Main tan jind meri tere piche haari aa... Main tan tere utto jaan baithi vaari aa..."**

I stepped toward her, my movements slow and deliberate. I wrapped my **muscular arm** around her waist and pulled her flush against me. The cameras were rolling, but I forgot they existed. I leaned down, my nose brushing against hers.

"Do you remember?" I whispered as the lyrics echoed. **"Mere dil da ikko supna... Tenu apni bana ke main ta le jaana..."** (My heart has only one dream... to make you mine and take you away.)

"I remember," she breathed, her hands resting on my chest, feeling the frantic thrum of my heart.

As we moved to the rhythm, I found myself becoming dangerously **possessive**. Every time the photographer asked her to tilt her head or move a certain way, I tightened my grip. I didn't like the way the lens was "consuming" her beauty. I wanted to shield her, to keep this version of her-soft, glowing, and mine-inside the glass walls where only I could see.

"Rudra, you're squeezing me too tight," she giggled, her breath fanning my chin. "**Sab dekh rahe hain... behave!**"

"Let them look," I rumbled, my **ocean blue eyes** darkening as they scanned her face. "They need to know that the 'Ice King' has been conquered."

The shoot continued, but my self-control was fraying at the edges. She was so close, smelling like vanilla and mountain air. I had asked her earlier what was in that big trunk Reet sent, and she had just brushed it off, saying it was "just sarees and stuff." She looked a bit flushed when she said it, but I didn't push.

I was glad she hadn't worn anything "scandalous" yet, because honestly? Just seeing her in this velvet dress, looking at me with so much trust, was making it impossible to stay the "gentleman" I had promised her parents I would be. My hands wanted to wander, to explore the curve of her waist, to pull her into a kiss that the cameras definitely couldn't air.

**"Chann vi Gawah, Taare Gawah... Main apna tenu maneya..."**

The song reached its crescendo. I lifted her slightly, her feet leaving the ground as I spun her once. The glass walls reflected our silhouette against the backdrop of the Matterhorn.

"Cut! Perfect shot!" the photographer called out.

I didn't let her go. Even as the crew started packing up the lighting for the night, I kept her tucked under my arm, my chin resting on the top of her head.

"Ishi," I murmured, my voice thick with a sudden, serious intensity. "I meant every word of that song. You're the only 'Ishq Khumaari' I'll ever need. But if you keep looking at me like that, we're going to have a very short photoshoot and a very long night."

She blushed a deep crimson, hiding her face in my chest. "Rudra! The staff is still here!"

"Then they better hurry up," I muttered, my **possessive** streak flaring as I stared down a technician who dared to look her way. "Because I'm tired of sharing you with the world."

The master suite was silent, save for the soft whistle of the wind against the glass. I was in a deep sleep, my arm draped possessively over Ishita's waist, when I felt the bed shift. I groaned, reaching out blindly for her warmth, but my hand met cold silk sheets.

I opened my **ocean blue eyes** to see her tiptoeing back from the washroom, looking like a little ghost in her white satin nightslip. She stopped by the bed, but instead of crawling back in, she chewed her lip, looking toward the door.

"Ishi? What's wrong? Are you okay?" I rumbled, my voice thick with sleep as I sat up, my **muscular chest** bare and hair tousled.

"Ru..." she whispered, her **brown eyes** wide and pleading. "I have a problem. A big, Jamnapari-level problem."

I was instantly alert, thinking she was sick. "What is it? Do I need to call the doctor?"

"No," she said, clutching her stomach. "I need Maggi. Right now. With extra masala and those tiny chopped carrots. My stomach is literally doing a dharna (protest) inside me."

I stared at her for a beat. "It's 2:30 AM in Zermatt, Switzerland. You want... instant noodles?"

"Please, Ru? You're a billionaire! Surely you can manifest some masala magic?"

I sighed, but the way she pouted-that classic "cutie pie" look-I knew I was defeated. I threw on a silk robe and led her down to the designer kitchen. It was all marble and high-end Italian appliances, looking more like a museum than a place to cook.

"I don't even think the chef kept Maggi here, Ishita. This is a five-star chalet," I muttered, opening the pantry. To my absolute shock, right there next to the truffle oil and organic quinoa, was a yellow family pack of Maggi. "Laksh... that man thinks of everything."

"Yay! Now, come on, Prince. Get to work!" She hopped onto the marble counter, swinging her legs and watching me with a **mischievous grin**.

I stood there, a **6'3" billionaire** who usually has world-class chefs at his beck and call, staring at a packet of 2-minute noodles. I turned on the induction hobs, my movements stiff. "How much water?"

"Oho, Mr. Businessman! Don't look at the manual, look at the soul!" she teased, leaning forward. "Just enough to cover them. And don't you dare break the noodles. I want them long!"

I ended up standing over the pot, stirring carefully with a wooden spoon while she gave me "expert" advice from the counter. "**Arey, masala abhi mat dalo! Wait for the bubbles!**" (Hey, don't put the masala yet!)

"Ishi, I manage five international companies, I think I can handle a spice packet," I grumbled, though a **shameless** smile was tugging at my lips.

As the steam rose, filling the kitchen with that nostalgic, spicy aroma, she suddenly turned soft. She jumped down from the counter and hugged me from behind, her face pressed against my bare back.

"You know," she whispered, "there are thousands of girls who would want the Prince of Rajasthan to buy them diamonds at 2 AM. But I'm the only one who gets him to make her Maggi in his robe."

I turned around in her arms, the spoon still in my hand. I looked down at her-my beginning model, my Delhi firecracker-and felt a wave of such intense love it actually hurt.

"The diamonds are easy, Ishita," I said, my voice low and velvet. "This... being here with you, in the middle of the night, acting like a normal person... this is the luxury I never thought I'd have."

I served the noodles in a crystal bowl-the most expensive vessel Maggi had ever seen-and we sat on the floor of the darkened living room, staring at the moonlit Alps. We shared the bowl, using one fork, her leaning against my shoulder.

"It's a bit spicy," I noted, wiping a drop of sauce from the corner of her mouth with my thumb.

"It's perfect," she sighed, her eyes drooping as the 'food coma' hit. "You're a good cook, Ru. Maybe if the business fails, we can open a stall in Chandni Chowk."

"Go to sleep, Kaleshi," I laughed, kissing her forehead. I scooped her up in my arms, carrying her back to the bedroom, feeling like the luckiest man in the world.

💖 Ishita's Perspective

I woke up feeling like a marshmallow wrapped in silk. Rudra was still holding me, his heartbeat steady against my back, providing more warmth than the heavy duvet ever could. I snuggled closer, but then I remembered the schedule for today.

The **Red Saree** shoot.

I bit my lip, thinking about the "survival kit" Reet had sent. She hadn't just sent a saree; she'd sent a masterpiece. A blood-red chiffon saree with a blouse that was... well, barely a blouse. It was just two pieces of silk held together by the daintiest golden strings across the back.

I took a deep breath and turned around in his arms, poking his **muscular chest** to wake him up. His **ocean blue eyes** fluttered open, looking sleepy and dangerously handsome.

"Ru..." I whispered, tracing the line of his jaw. "About the shoot today. I'm wearing that red saree Reet sent. But... it has a **backless blouse**."

The sleepiness vanished instantly. Rudra bolted upright, the blanket sliding down to his waist. He looked at me with an expression so shocked, you'd think I'd just told him I was joining the circus.

"**Backless blouse? In the snow?! Pagal ho aap?**" (Are you crazy?) he barked, his voice echoing in the quiet suite.

"Ru, listen! It'll look so aesthetic! The red against the white snow, the contrast-"

"**Nahi! Bilkul nahi!**" (No! Absolutely not!) He stood up, pacing the room in his silk robe, looking like a panicked lion. "It's minus five degrees out there, Ishita. You'll freeze! Your skin will turn blue! Do you want to be a 'Blue Model' instead of a beginning model?"

"Don't be such a grump! I'll wear a shawl between shots," I whined, sitting up and crossing my arms. "It's my dream shoot, Ru. Please? Just for ten minutes?"

He stopped pacing and looked at me, his eyes dark with a mix of worry and that **possessive** streak I knew so well. I knew what he was thinking-he didn't just care about the cold; he cared about the fact that my bare back would be on camera.

"Ten minutes," he growled, pointing a finger at me. "And I will be standing right behind the camera with a heater and your fur coat. If I see you shiver even once, the shoot is over. Samjhi?" (Understand?)

"Yes, my King!" I chirped, throwing a pillow at him.

Two hours later, I was standing on a wooden deck overlooking the valley. The snow was falling in light, powdery flakes. I stepped out of my coat, and the freezing air hit my bare skin like a thousand needles. The saree was light as air, and the **backless blouse** left my entire back exposed to the winter elements.

I heard a sharp intake of breath behind the camera. I didn't have to look to know it was Rudra. He was standing there, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might snap, his eyes burning as they traveled over the curve of my back.

"Ishita, look at the lens... chin up," the photographer instructed.

I tried to pose, trying to look like a regal queen while my teeth were practically chattering. I moved the pallu, letting it flow in the wind.

"That's it! Beautiful!"

Suddenly, I felt a shadow fall over me. The camera hadn't stopped, but Rudra had seen enough. He strode into the frame, ignoring the photographer's shout of "Hey!", and wrapped his massive, warm wool coat around me, pulling me roughly against his chest.

"Done. We're done," he commanded, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and protection.

"Ru! One more shot!" I protested, though I was secretly melting into his warmth.

"**Ek aur shot nahi!**" (Not one more shot!) He tucked my head under his chin, shielding me from the wind. "**Look at your hands, they're freezing. Bhagwan ne dimaag nahi diya kya?**" (Didn't God give you a brain?)

He picked me up in his arms, saree and all, and started marching back toward the chalet.

"But the photos-"

"The photos are perfect," he muttered, his grip tightening. "But I'm not letting my wife-to-be catch pneumonia for a 'mood board.' If you want to show off that back, do it inside... where only I can see it."

👑 Rudra's Perspective

I froze mid-stride. No one-and I mean *no one*-ever used my full name like that. Not my board of directors, not my brothers, not even the media. But hearing it come from her, in that sharp, Jamnapari-Delhi-girl pitch, made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I stopped right in the middle of the snow-covered path, my boots sinking into the white powder. I didn't set her down. Instead, I tightened my grip on her, my **ocean blue eyes** flashing with a mix of shock and "Ice King" authority.

"**Rudra Singh Rathore!**" she screamed again, wiggling in my arms like a trapped bird. "Put. Me. Down! Look at the lighting! Look at the snowflakes! This is a once-in-a-lifetime frame and you are ruining it because you're a protective caveman!"

I looked down at her. Her nose was pink from the cold, her **long curly hair** had tiny crystals of snow caught in it, and she looked absolutely breathtakingly furious.

"I am 'ruining' it because your skin feels like an ice cube, Ishita!" I thundered back, my voice echoing off the mountains. "Do you have any idea how much it kills me to see you shivering for the sake of a camera? I don't care about 'frames.' I care about *you*."

"**Ek shot, Rudra! Sirf ek!**" (One shot, Rudra! Just one!) she pleaded, her voice softening as she grabbed the lapels of my coat. "**Please na? My dream? For your Baby Doll?**"

She did it. She used the 'Baby Doll' card.

I closed my eyes for a second, fighting the urge to just give in. I looked at the photographer, who was standing there awkwardly with his camera. Then I looked at her **backless blouse**, the golden strings looking so fragile against the harsh winter wind.

"Fine," I hissed, my **possessive** nature losing the battle to her stubbornness. "One minute. Sixty seconds, Ishita. And I am staying right here, out of the frame but within reach. If I see your lips turn even a shade of purple, I'm carrying you back and locking the door."

"Deal!" she chirped, her anger vanishing instantly as she gave me a quick, freezing peck on the cheek.

I let her down, but I didn't go far. I stood just two feet away, my arms crossed, glaring at the sun as if I could command it to be warmer.

She threw off my coat, and I felt a physical ache in my chest seeing her exposed to the cold again. She turned her back to the camera, the red chiffon billowing around her legs, the mountain peaks framing her bare, graceful back. She looked like a goddess of the snow-untouchable, ethereal, and dangerously beautiful.

"Smile, Ishita... eyes over the shoulder," the photographer whispered.

She did. And in that moment, she wasn't the girl who ate Maggi at 2 AM or fought with her cousin. She was the woman who had brought a billionaire to his knees.

"Time's up!" I shouted at exactly the sixty-second mark, not a second later.

Before she could even protest, I was there. I didn't just give her the coat; I wrapped her inside it *with* me, my **muscular frame** acting as a human shield against the wind.

"Happy now?" I muttered, rubbing her arms vigorously to get the blood flowing.

"Very happy," she whispered, her teeth chattering as she buried her face in my chest. "You're the best, Ru. A grumpy, bossy, overprotective best."

"Let's go inside," I grumbled, picking her up again. "Before I decide to fire the photographer for looking at you for too long."

I watched her as she stood there in that red saree, looking like a literal fire-breathing goddess in the middle of the ice. But I was done. My patience had evaporated along with the steam from her breath.

"That's it. Inside. Now," I said, my voice leaving zero room for negotiation. This time, I didn't care about the 'Baby Doll' pout or the puppy-dog eyes. I was the King, and the Queen was about to get frostbite.

She saw the look in my **ocean blue eyes**-the one that makes my competitors sign away their companies-and she finally relented. She let out a huff, but then, with that classic Ishita mischief, she stood on her tiptoes. She reached up and gave my nose a playful **peck**.

"Don't be a grumpy tiger, Ru!" she giggled, then turned and bolted toward the glass-walled closet. Her red chiffon saree flowed behind her like a trail of blood on the snow, a sight that I knew would be burned into my brain forever.

I stood there for a moment, rubbing my nose and breathing in the cold air, trying to get my heart rate under control. That woman was going to be the death of me.

Ten minutes later, the "Goddess of the Alps" was gone. The door to the suite swung open, and out stepped... a marshmallow.

She was wearing an **oversized, chunky cream sweater** that swallowed her **5'3" frame**, pair of snug blue jeans, and fuzzy boots. Her **long curly hair** was a bit messy from the change, and she looked so cozy I just wanted to wrap her in a blanket and never let her out.

"Okay! **Chalo, ghoomne chalte hain!**" (Let's go, let's wander!) she chirped, grabbing her beanie.

I leaned against the marble countertop, crossing my **muscular arms**. "Ghoomne? Ishita, you were literally turning into an ice sculpture ten minutes ago. Now you want to go out again?"

"Arey, tab main 'Model' thi, ab main 'Tourist' hoon!" (Hey, then I was a model, now I'm a tourist!) she argued, walking over and tugging at the sleeve of my coat. "**Ru, please? Switzerland aaye hain aur Zermatt ki galliyon mein nahi ghume toh kya kiya?**" (We're in Switzerland and if we don't wander Zermatt's streets, what's the point?)

I looked at her, my expression softening despite my best efforts. "**Serious talk, Ishita,**" I said, my voice dropping to a low, stern hum. "You have no survival instinct. You'd probably try to pet a polar bear if you saw one."

She rolled her eyes, leaning her head against my chest. "And that's why I have you, Mr. Rathore. You're my personal polar bear guard. Very big, very muscular, and very, *very* scary."

I snorted, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Scary? You just called me a 'cutie-pie' yesterday and screamed my full name at me like a Delhi traffic cop today. My fear factor is at an all-time low."

"**Woh toh hai,**" (That's true,) she whispered, her **brown eyes** sparkling with flirting mischief. "But you're the only billionaire who looks good in a 'grumpy tiger' mood. Now, are you coming or do I have to ask Laksh to take me?"

My grip on her waist tightened instantly. The mere thought of her wandering around with anyone else-even my most trusted aide-made my **possessive** side flare up.

"Laksh is busy," I growled, grabbing my sunglasses. "And for the record, if any Swiss guy tries to talk to you, I'm telling them you're a dangerous criminal I'm escorting back to India."

"Perfect!" she laughed, linking her arm with mine. "They'll think I'm a beautiful spy and you're my grumpy bodyguard. It's a total Wattpad plot, Ru!"

"I don't know what a 'Wattpad' is, but if it involves me keeping you all to myself, I'm in," I muttered, leading her out into the crisp mountain sunlight.

I was supposed to be the Prince of Rajasthan, a man who dictates terms to world leaders and signs billion-dollar mergers. But here I was, in the middle of a cobblestone street in Zermatt, holding a pink-cased phone and bending my **6'3" frame** at an awkward angle because my fiancée decided the "lighting on this specific flower pot" was life-changing.

"**Ru, thoda niche se lo! I want my legs to look long!**" (Ru, take it from a bit lower!) she commanded, posing with a pout that made me want to drop the phone and kiss her instead.

"Ishita, I've taken forty-five photos of you in front of this bakery," I grumbled, though my **ocean blue eyes** were dancing with amusement. "**Mere haath dard kar rahe hain, Jaana.**" (My hands are hurting, love.)

"**Uff, itne muscular haath hain aur ek phone nahi pakad sakte?**" (Uff, such muscular hands and you can't hold a phone?) she teased, flicking her **long curly hair** over her shoulder. "One more, please? For your 'Cutie Pie'?"

I sighed, defeated yet again. I tapped the screen, but before I could capture the shot, the atmosphere changed. A group of three European guys-all carrying heavy professional cameras and lens bags-stopped dead in their tracks. They weren't looking at the scenery. They were looking at *her*.

"Excuse me?" one of them said in a thick accent, his eyes widening. "Are you... Ishita Sharma? The Indian model?"

Ishita froze, her eyes widening in surprise. "**Oh! Yes, that's me,**" she said, her Delhi-girl confidence suddenly replaced by a shy, beginning-model blush.

"We saw your last ramp walk video from the Delhi Fashion Week! The one with the traditional fusion theme?" another one chimed in, looking absolutely starstruck. "Your walk-it has such grace, such fire! We are local fashion photographers, and we were just talking about your portfolio yesterday!"

My jaw clenched. My grip on her phone tightened so hard I heard the case creak. These guys weren't just tourists; they were professionals who were literally dissecting my woman's "fire" and "grace" right in front of me.

"We would be honored if we could take a few quick street-style shots of you," the first guy said, already adjusting his lens. "The light is perfect on you!"

"**Actually-**" I started, stepping forward to let my **muscular frame** loom over them like a dark cloud. My **ocean blue eyes** were like ice.

"Oh, Ru, look! They recognized me!" Ishita whispered to me, her face glowing with pure, innocent joy. She was so proud of her work that she didn't even see the **possessive** storm brewing in my chest.

"I'm sorry, she's busy," I said to the photographers, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "**She is on a private trip.**"

"Just one shot! Please!" the guy insisted, ignoring my 'Ice King' glare. "The world needs to see the Sharma-glow in the Alps!"

Ishita looked at me, her eyes pleading. "Please, Ru? Just one? It's so cool that they know me here!"

I felt like a dragon guarding his gold. I didn't want these guys-or their cameras-anywhere near her. I didn't want them "capturing" the way she smiled or the way the wind caught her curls. That was *mine*.

"**The world can wait,**" I muttered, but seeing her excitement, I knew I couldn't say no. I stepped back, but I didn't go far. I stood right behind the lead photographer, looming over his shoulder like a silent, vengeful shadow.

As they started clicking, they kept praising her. "Beautiful! Such a natural!"

"**Serious talk, Ishita,**" I called out, my voice laced with heavy sarcasm and biting jealousy. "**Agar inhone ek aur 'graceful' bola, toh main inka camera Alps se niche fek dunga.**" (If they say 'graceful' one more time, I'm throwing their camera off the Alps.)

The photographers glanced at me, finally feeling the "Death Stare" of the Prince of Rajasthan. They finished in record time, thanked her profusely, and practically scurried away when I took a step toward them.

Ishita turned to me, laughing so hard she had to lean on my arm. "Ru! You were literally growling at them! You looked like a jealous bodyguard!"

"I am not jealous," I lied, tucking her firmly under my arm and walking away at a brisk pace. "I just don't like people wasting our time. And that guy was looking at your 'fire' for two seconds too long."

"**Aww, mera possessive Prince!**" she cooed, poking my cheek. "Don't worry, they only have my photo. You have the original."

"I better," I growled, kissing the top of her head. "Because the next guy who mentions your 'ramp walk' is getting a one-way ticket to the bottom of the Matterhorn."