Rudra's Perspective

The golden Parisian sun filtered through the sheer curtains, illuminating the room which was now a beautiful mess of deflated red balloons and tangled silk sheets. I blinked my eyes open, feeling a heavy, comforting warmth spread across my chest.

Ishita was draped over me, her small **5'3" frame** perfectly aligned with mine. She was sleeping deeply, her face tucked into the crook of my neck, her **long curly hair** tickling my chin. Even in her sleep, she was clutching me tightly, her fingers curled into my skin as if she feared I might vanish if she let go.

I stayed still for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of her back. The 'Cold Prince' of Rajasthan had everything—money, power, and a legacy—but none of it compared to the peace of this moment.

Gently, with the precision of a man who handled the world's most delicate diamonds, I slid my arms around her and eased her down onto the pillows. She let out a tiny, soft moan of protest in her sleep, reaching out blindly for my heat. I quickly tucked the plush duvet around her bare shoulders and leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to her forehead.

"Sleep, *Janna*," I whispered against her skin. "You earned it."

I climbed out of bed, my **6'3" muscular frame** casting a long shadow across the room. I reached for my grey lounge trousers, pulling them on but leaving my chest bare. As I stood up and stretched, my joints let out a series of loud, satisfying cracks—the aftermath of a night spent worshiping every inch of my wife.

I glanced back at her one last time before heading to the kitchen. Today was the day for family shopping, but first, I wanted to do something I rarely did for anyone else.

I walked into the sleek, modern kitchen of the villa, the marble floors cool under my feet. I started the espresso machine, the rich aroma of French roast filling the air. I decided on a classic Parisian breakfast: golden, flaky croissants I’d had delivered earlier, some fresh berries, and I set to work poaching eggs—exactly the way she liked them.

As I moved around the kitchen, whisking and prepping, I found myself humming the tune of the song she sang for me last night. I was a man who didn't believe in much, but as I plated the food and poured a glass of fresh orange juice for my sleeping queen, I realized I believed in us.

I loaded everything onto a silver tray, adding a single fresh rose from the vase on the counter. I wanted her to wake up to the smell of coffee and the realization that in this house, she wasn't just a wife; she was the soul of it.

💖 Ishita's Perspective

I woke up with a soft, involuntary moan, the heavy warmth of the duvet feeling like a poor substitute for his embrace. My body felt heavy, a beautiful, lingering ache deep in my thighs and core that made me blush furiously against the pillow. I could still feel him—the ghost of his touch, the phantom sensation of his possessive claim from last night—still pulsing through me.

I reached out blindly, my fingers searching the silk sheets for that familiar, rock-hard warmth, but my hand met only cold fabric. My eyes fluttered open. The sunlight was pouring in, highlighting the deflated balloons on the floor. I glanced at the bedside clock. **10:00 AM**.

"Ru?" I whispered, my voice raspy and thick with sleep.

Silence. I sat up, the duvet sliding down to my waist. I felt a little dizzy from the sheer intensity of the night before. Dragging myself to the edge of the bed, I spotted his crisp white dress shirt discarded on a chair. I grabbed it, slipping it on; it was huge on me, the hem reaching my mid-thigh and the sleeves swallowing my hands, but it smelled purely of him—sandalwood, expensive cologne, and *man*.

Still feeling a bit chilly and shy, I grabbed the heavy plush blanket, wrapping it around my shoulders like a cape, and began to drag myself downstairs. Every step reminded me of his "rough" birthday celebration, making me bite my lip to hide a smile.

I followed the heavenly scent of toasted bread and fresh coffee toward the kitchen. There he was. My **6'3" Greek God** husband, standing at the counter in nothing but lounge trousers, his muscular back a map of the passion we’d shared. He was carefully arranging a tray with the precision of a CEO closing a multi-billion dollar deal.

I didn't say a word. I just shuffled forward, the blanket trailing behind me like a royal train, and buried my face into the center of his bare back. I wrapped my arms tightly around his waist, feeling his skin jump in surprise before he instantly relaxed under my touch.

"Good morning, *Patidev*," I mumbled into his warm skin, inhaling his scent deeply. "I woke up and my pillow wasn't nearly as warm as you."

I felt his low, vibrating chuckle rumble through his chest and into my cheek. He dropped the tongs he was holding and covered my small, **chooda-clad hands** with his own, pressing them firmly against his stomach.

"I thought I'd let my 'sore' little queen sleep in while I played chef," he rasped, turning slightly in my arms to look down at me. His **ocean-blue eyes** swept over me—taking in his oversized shirt on my frame and the blanket wrapped around me—and softened into a look of pure, unadulterated devotion. "You look beautiful, Ishi. Even as a cozy little burrito."

"I missed you," I whispered, tightening my grip. "Don't leave the bed before me again. It's a rule now."

I giggled as he easily unpried my arms from his waist, but before I could protest the loss of his warmth, he swept me up into his arms, blanket and all. He carried me over to the marble dining table and sat me down on the edge, his hands lingering on my waist for a second too long, his **ocean-blue eyes** dark with a memory of the night.

He pulled a chair up directly in front of me, placing the tray between us. He picked up a fork with a piece of perfectly breakfast and held it to my lips.

"Of course," he murmured, his voice a deep, indulgent rumble. "Mrs. Rathor ke rules toh manne hi padenge. I learned a long time ago that arguing with you is a losing battle, *Janna*."

I opened my mouth, accepting the food, my heart swelling as I watched Rajasthan’s most feared businessman—the man who makes CEOs tremble in boardrooms—patiently waiting for me to chew so he could offer me a sip of orange juice.

"Is it good?" he asked, his thumb reaching out to brush a stray crumb from the corner of my mouth.

"It’s perfect, Ru," I whispered, leaning forward so our foreheads touched. "You're a surprisingly good cook for a 'cold-hearted' prince."

"Only for you, Ishi," he rasped, his gaze dropping to my lips. "For the rest of the world, I don't even know where the kitchen is."

Between bites, we started planning our mission for the day. "We need to find something special for **Akshat bhai and Dhristi **," I reminded him, my **chooda clinking** as I reached for a strawberry. "And I want to find the cutest French outfit for **Krish**. He’s going to look like a little doll!"

Rudra chuckled, leaning back but keeping one hand firmly on my knee under the blanket. "And **Ahana's** jewelry? I suppose we'll be spending a few hours at Place Vendôme? And don't forget **Vardaan and Reet**. If I don't bring back something high-fashion for Reet, she’ll never let me hear the end of it."

"Exactly!" I smiled, feeling so incredibly happy. This was our life now—balancing our intense, private love with the beautiful chaos of our big, crazy family.

"Eat up," Rudra commanded playfully, nudging another piece of croissant toward me. "We have a lot of boutiques to conquer, and I need my wife to have enough energy to keep up with my walking pace.

Breakfast was a slow, indulgent affair, but eventually, the excitement of the day took over. We got ready together—well, mostly me trying to decide what to wear while Ru watched me with that heavy, possessive gaze from the lounger.

Since it was **New Year’s Eve in Paris**, I wanted to look my best. I chose a chic, cream-colored off-shoulder knitted top that hugged my curves and a plaid mini-skirt that showed off just enough skin. I pulled on my black knee-length heeled boots, feeling every bit like a Parisian model. I kept my makeup soft and natural, but I let my **long curly hair** flow freely over my shoulders. When I caught my reflection, I felt a pair of strong, warm arms wrap around my waist.

Rudra looked... god, he looked illegal. He wore a charcoal turtleneck that clung to his muscular chest and a long tailored overcoat. He looked like every woman’s dream and every man’s envy.

"You're not going out like this without me glued to your side, Ishi," he growled into my ear, his stubble grazing my cheek.

"Don't worry, *Patidev*," I whispered, turning in his arms to straighten his collar. "I’m very possessive. God help any woman who even breathes in your direction today."

The moment we stepped onto Avenue Montaigne, the "Cold Prince" was in full "Provider" mode. He didn't just walk; he commanded the sidewalk, his **6’3" frame** making a path through the crowds as he kept me tucked firmly under his arm.

Our first stop was **Hermès**.

"Ru, look at this scarf for ma!" I pointed at a delicate silk piece. He didn't even look at the price tag. He just signaled the attendant.

"We’ll take that. And the leather briefcase in the window for * Papa**," he said in that smooth, authoritative tone. "And Ishita, look at this handbag. It matches your boots."

"Ru, I have so many—"

"Ishi," he interrupted, leaning down so only I could hear him. "It’s my birthday gift to myself to see you carrying it. Don't argue with the yesterday birthday boy."

I blushed and nodded, my **chooda clinking** as I tucked my hand back into his.

Next was **Dior** for the sisters. We found a stunning, elegant gown for **Dhristi **—something that suited her graceful professor persona—and a bold, avant-garde piece for **Reet**.

"Reet will go crazy for this!" I laughed, holding it up. "She’ll probably study the stitching for hours."

"Get it," Rudra said, handing over his Black Card without a second thought. "And find something for **Ahana**. Something with those jewelry details she loves."

As we walked toward the kids' section for **Krish**, I noticed a group of young French women whispering and glancing at Rudra, their eyes roaming over his broad shoulders. My grip on his arm tightened instantly. I stepped closer, practically molding my body to his side, and sent a pointed, 'he’s taken' look in their direction.

Rudra noticed. A smug, dark smirk played on his lips. He leaned down and kissed my temple right in front of them. "Careful, *Janna*. Your possessiveness is showing."

"Good," I muttered. "Let them know the Prince is off the market."

We spent an hour at **Baby Dior**, picking out the most adorable miniature suits and coats for little Krish. "He’s going to look like a tiny version of Akshat bhai," I giggled, imagining the little one in a French beret.

Finally, we hit the high-end boutiques for the brothers. We found a sharp, bespoke blazer for **Akshat bhai** and a set of sophisticated silk ties for **Vardaan**. And Jay

By the time we were done, Rudra’s security team was carrying more bags than they could handle. But Ru wasn't finished. He pulled me toward a famous boutique that specialized in rare books and high-end stationery.

"For your novels," he said, picking out a leather-bound, gold-leafed edition of a classic romance. "And because I know you like to write down your 'makeup' ideas."

I looked at him, my heart overflowing. He remembered every little detail—my love for books, my family's tastes, even my favorite colors.

"Why are you so perfect?" I whispered as we stepped back out into the chilly evening air, the Eiffel Tower beginning to glow in the distance.

"I’m not," he said, stopping me in the middle of the sidewalk and pulling me into the heat of his chest. "I’m just a man who knows that his world begins and ends with the woman in his arms. Now, are you ready for our New Year's Eve dinner? Because I want to be kissing you the moment the clock strikes midnight."

👑 Rudra's Perspective

I watched her through the lens of my phone, a silhouette of pure grace against the Haussmann-style architecture. I’ve led billion-dollar mergers and stared down the most ruthless boardrooms in the world, but here I was, Rajasthan’s "Cold Prince," acting as a personal photographer on the streets of Paris. And honestly? I’d never been more dedicated to a job in my life.

"Ru! Look at the light here! Please, just one more?" she chirped, adjusting her **off-shoulder top** and tossing her **long curly hair** over one shoulder.

I crouched slightly to get the angle right, making sure her **knee-length boots** and that tiny skirt were framed perfectly. "You look breathtaking, *Janna*," I murmured, clicking a series of bursts. "But if you get any more beautiful, I’m going to have to confiscate this phone so no one else can see these."

She giggled, the sound like wind chimes in the Parisian air. But then, she did exactly what she’d been doing all morning. She spotted a random French couple walking by and, with a bright smile that could melt the Arctic, she moved to intercept them.

"Excuse me! Hello! Can you take a photo of us? S'il vous plaît?" she asked, her English-Hindi-French mix somehow working perfectly because of her charm.

I stood there, stiffening slightly. I don't like strangers touching my things, and I certainly don't like standing still for public displays, but the way she looked at me—eyes sparkling with hope—made my "no" dissolve instantly.

"Merci!" she beamed as the tourist took the phone. She scurried back to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and tucking her head under my chin. I instinctively pulled her closer, my large hand splayed across her back, my **ocean-blue eyes** softening the moment I felt her heart beating against my chest.

*Click.*

As soon as they handed the phone back, she gave them a "Thank you so much!" and a warm smile before turning back to me to inspect the shot.

"Look, Ru! We look so good together. You look so handsome and... *khadoos* (grumpy) but in a hot way," she teased, poking my chest.

"I’m not grumpy, Ishi. I’m just waiting for us to get back to the villa so I don't have to share you with the 'Merci' crowd," I growled playfully, catching her finger and kissing the tip of it.

The shopping bags were piling up—Dior for **Dhristi **, suits for **Akshat**, and a mountain of toys for **Krish**—but she wasn't done. Every time she saw a beautiful storefront or a flower stall, she’d pose, and I’d find myself framing the shot, obsessed with capturing the way she looked when she was happy.

"Ru, look! That jewelry shop!" she said, pointing toward a boutique in Place Vendôme. "We need to find something for **Ahana** !"

I tucked the phone into my pocket and grabbed her hand, my grip possessive. "Fine. But after this, no more stopping strangers for photos. If I want a picture of my wife kissing me under the New Year lights, I’ll make sure my security clears the street first."

She laughed, leaning into me. "You're so dramatic, Patidev."

"Only for you, *Janna*. Only for you."

I watched the security team disappear into the crowd with the mountain of bags for **Akshat, Dhristi,** and the rest of the family. Finally, it was just us. I wanted to take her to the Louvre to see the art, but as we stood in the grand courtyard with the glass pyramid reflecting the winter sun, Ishita suddenly stopped.

She turned to me, her expression so grave, so intensely serious that my business-instincts kicked in. I thought she’d realized she lost her phone or forgot a gift for **Gayatri Mumy **.

"Rudra, we should do that, right?" she asked, her brown eyes wide.

"What, *Janna*? The Mona Lisa? We're right here," I said, leaning in.

"No... *vo jo bahut famous hota hai*," she said, waving her hands vaguely in the air.

"What is famous, Ishi? The sculptures?"

"Oofoo... *vo vo!*" She stamped her foot, her **chooda clinking** with her frustration.

"Ishi, I'm a billionaire, not a mind reader. *Kya vo vo?*" I teased, a smirk tugging at my lips.

"Hey Radha Rani!" she huffed, looking at the sky for patience. "My meaning is that we should do *this*!"

She pointed a frantic finger toward a far-off point beyond the museum grounds, where a temporary holiday setup featured a towering crane for bungee jumping. My heart didn't just skip a beat; it stopped. The "Cold Prince" was suddenly very, very cold.

I looked at the height. Then I looked back at my tiny, **5'3" wife** in her **mini skirt and high-heeled boots**.

"Are you serious?" I asked, my voice flat.

She nodded vigorously, her **long curly hair** bouncing, her eyebrows doing a little mischievous dance that told me she had been planning this the moment she saw the crane.

"Absolutely not," I said, shaking my head and crossing my muscular arms over my chest. "Ishita, you are wearing a skirt and heels. And more importantly, you are my life. I am not letting you jump off a crane attached to a rubber band."

"Ru! It's adventurous! New Year, New Ru!" she squealed.

"No. *Nahi.* Zero chance."

She didn't argue. She just gave me one last playful wink, hitched up her skirt slightly, and **bolted**. She started running toward the ticket booth like her life depended on it.

I stood there for a second, stunned, before I took off after her, my long legs eating up the distance. People were staring as a **6'3" man** in a designer overcoat chased a girl wrapped in a blanket and a mini-skirt through the heart of Paris.

"*Ye ladki marvayegi kisi din!*" (This girl will be the death of me one day!) I growled under my breath, though a reluctant, terrified smile was breaking through my mask.

I caught up to her just as she reached the line, grabbing her by the waist and hoisting her off the ground. She let out a delighted shriek, kicking her heeled boots in the air.

"Rudra! Put me down! I want to jump!"

"The only place you're jumping is into my arms, you crazy woman!" I rasped, holding her tight against my chest. "Do you have any idea what you do to my blood pressure?"

"I want to do it with you!" she pouted, turning in my arms to face me, her nose touching mine. "Please? For your birthday? A leap of faith?"

I looked into those brown eyes, and I knew I was lost. I could face the Russian mafia and global market crashes without blinking, but I couldn't say no to her.

"If we die, I'm going to be very angry with you in the afterlife, Ishita Rathor," I muttered, resting my forehead against hers.

I stared at her, completely speechless. My fierce, tiny wife was standing here in the middle of Paris, looking up at a **6'3" man** who could crush most people with a glance, and she was telling *me* not to be afraid?

She cupped my face with her small, warm palms, her **chooda** clinking softly against my jaw. Then, she leaned in and gave me a soft, lingering peck on the lips.

"Afterlife?" she whispered. *Peck.* "Then afterlife." *Peck.* "Then one more." *Peck.*

She looked into my **ocean-blue eyes** with such intensity that the rest of Paris faded away. "In short, in every lifetime, okay? *Main aapka picha nahi chhodungi*, Mr. Rathor." (I won't stop following you/leave you.)

"Ishi..." I started, my voice gravelly, but she cut me off with a determined look.

"Ab chalo! Saath mein karte hain, mazaa aayega," she chirped, pulling my hand. Then, she leaned in close, her voice dropping into a mock-protective tone. "Aur darna mat, main aapke saath hoon. Main aapko kuch nahi hone dungi." (And don't be afraid, I'm with you. I won't let anything happen to you.)

I nearly choked on a laugh. "You won't let anything happen to *me*? I'm double your size, *Janna*."

She didn't laugh. She reached up and touched her forehead, gesturing toward the thin line of **sindoor** and the **mangalsutra** hidden under her top. "Aap mera suhaag ho," she said with a pride that hit me harder than any adrenaline rush ever could.

My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest. This woman... she was my strength, my weakness, and my entire universe. If she wanted to jump off a crane to prove that her love could protect me, who was I to stop her?

"Fine," I growled, pulling her flush against my chest and kissing her forehead. "But if we're doing this, we're doing it 'Rudra Singh Rathor' style. I’m holding you so tight you won’t even feel the wind."

We walked to the platform, the staff looking at us like we were crazy—the tall, brooding Indian Prince and his radiant, petite wife. They strapped us into a tandem harness. I made the instructor tighten the straps until I was practically fused to Ishita. I wrapped my arms around her waist, locking my fingers together, while she wrapped her legs around mine, her head tucked under my chin.

"Ready, Ru?" she whispered, her breath hot against my neck as we stepped to the edge.

"I was born ready for anything as long as I'm with you," I replied, my grip tightening.

We didn't just fall; we soared. As we plummeted toward the ground, the Eiffel Tower spinning in our vision and the Parisian wind roaring in our ears, I didn't feel fear. I felt alive. Ishita let out a wild, joyful scream, and I found myself shouting too—a raw, primal sound of pure freedom.

As the cord snapped us back up, bouncing us between the sky and the earth, she turned her face into my chest, laughing hysterically. "Dekha! Maine kaha tha na!" (See! I told you!)

I pulled her closer, my heart hammering against her ribs. In that moment, suspended in the air over Paris, I realized she was right. As long as she was my '-rakshak' (protector), I was invincible.

As our feet finally touched the solid Parisian ground, the adrenaline was still coursing through my veins like a wildfire. I unhooked the harness with trembling hands, but Ishita? She was practically vibrating with joy. She didn't just walk off the platform; she jumped, her **long curly hair** a wild mess and her face glowing with a radiance I’d never seen before.

"Dekha! Mazaa aaya na!" she squealed, hopping around me while I tried to regain my "Cold Prince" composure. "Maine kaha tha... it was amazing, Ru! Chalo, kisi din hum skydiving bhi karenge!"

I stopped dead in my tracks, leaning my hand against a nearby pillar for support as I looked down at her. "Skydiving? Ishita, I just jumped off a crane for you. My heart is still somewhere near the top of that platform."

She just giggled, her **chooda clinking** as she did a little victory dance. I stood there, watching this tiny, **5'3" girl** who looked like a delicate doll but had the heart of a lioness.

*Ye piddi si ladki kisi se nahi darti,* I thought, a reluctant smirk finally breaking through my stunned expression. (This tiny girl isn't afraid of anything.)

But then, a deeper realization hit me, softening my **ocean-blue eyes**. Of course she wasn't afraid. If she were the type to get scared easily, she would have run away from me the first time she saw my "Cold Prince" mask. She wouldn't have challenged my heartless ways, she wouldn't have waited three years and  kidnapping and blackmail, and she certainly wouldn't have dared to love a man the world called a monster.

*Darti hoti toh mujhse pyaar na karti,* I realized with a swell of pride. (If she were afraid, she wouldn't have loved me.)

"Fine," I said, catching her by the waist and pulling her into my heat. "Skydiving is on the list. But only if I’m the one pulling the parachute cord."

"Deal!" she chirped, planting a quick, breathless kiss on my jaw.

The sun was beginning to set, casting long, purple shadows over the Louvre. The city was gearing up for the biggest night of the year. I looked at my watch—it was time to head back.

"Come on, my brave little Queen," I murmured, wrapping my arm around her shoulder and shielding her from the evening chill. "We need to get you out of those boots and into something glamorous. I have a table waiting with a view of the Eiffel Tower, and I intend to spend the last few hours of my birthday—and the last night of the year—worshiping you."

Back at the villa, the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the lingering hum of our adrenaline. I was already dressed in a sharp, midnight-black tuxedo, adjusting my cufflinks while watching the closed bathroom door.

When it finally opened, Ishita stepped out, and I felt the oxygen leave the room. She was wearing a floor-length, shimmering gown that hugged her **slim figure** like a second skin. The color made her **brown skin** look like polished bronze. However, she was awkwardly reaching behind her back, her **chooda clinking** frantically as she tried to reach the zipper.

She looked at me through the mirror, her cheeks flushing a deep rose. "Ru... can you help? It’s stuck."

I walked over, my heavy footsteps echoing on the marble floor. I stood behind her, my **6'3" frame** completely dwarfing her. In the reflection, the contrast was breathtaking—my dark, formal suit against her radiant, feminine glow.

As I reached for the zipper at the small of her back, I didn't just pull it up. I leaned down, my lips grazing the sensitive skin of her shoulder. I felt her shiver instantly.

"Ru..." she whispered, her breath hitching.

I ignored the plea and pressed a slow, wet kiss to the nape of her neck, right where her **long curly hair** had been swept aside. My hands moved slowly, pulling the zipper up inch by inch, and with every inch, I left a trail of burning, lingering kisses along her spine.

"Aah... Rudra, we'll be late," she moaned softly, her eyes fluttering shut as her hands gripped the edge of the vanity for support.

"Let them wait," I rasped against her skin, my voice a dark, possessive growl. I reached the middle of her back, my tongue tracing the dip of her spine before I continued the slow ascent. "Why are you trembling, *Janna*? And why so shy suddenly?"

"I... I don't know," she breathed, her face tilting back against my chest.

I let out a low, vibrating chuckle, my fingers finally reaching the top of the zipper near her neck. I turned her around in my arms, my **ocean-blue eyes** searching her flushed face. I tucked a stray curl behind her ear, my thumb lingering on her jaw.

"You've seen me, and I've seen every beautiful inch of you... many, many times, Ishi," I teased, my voice dropping to a flirtatious whisper. "Especially last night. And this morning. So tell me, why does my touch still make my brave, bungee-jumping Queen blush like a bride?"

"Because you're you," she whispered, reaching up to touch the silk of my tie. "And the way you look at me... it's like you're seeing me for the first time, every time."

I captured her lips in a deep, searing kiss, one that tasted of the night to come. I pulled back just enough to see her dazed expression. "That's because every time I look at you, I realize I’m more in love than I was a second ago."

I grabbed her designer clutch and offered her my arm. "Now, let's go. I want to show you off to Paris one last time before I bring you back here and take this dress off as slowly as I put it on."

💖 Ishita's Perspective

The restaurant was perched high above the Seine, an exclusive glass-walled sanctuary where the elite of the world gathered to watch the year fade away. But Rudra had secured the most coveted spot: a private, candlelit balcony that felt like it was suspended in the air, directly facing the iron majesty of the **Eiffel Tower**.

The winter air was crisp, but the outdoor heaters and the sheer intensity of Rudra’s gaze kept me warm. We sat across from each other, the table set with crystal and silver.

"A toast," Rudra said, his **ocean-blue eyes** reflecting the flickering candlelight as he raised a glass of vintage champagne. "To the woman who jumped off a crane to protect my 'suhaag,' and the woman who owns every heartbeat I have left."

I clinked my juice glass against his, my **chooda clinking** softly in the quiet night. "To my Ru. Happy Birthday, and Happy New Year."

As we dined on world-class French cuisine, the conversation flowed from the kids back home—wondering if **Krish** was sleeping or if **Akshat bhai and Dhristi bhabhi** were celebrating—to the three years we lost and the lifetime we had gained.

As the clock neared 11:55 PM, the energy in the city below seemed to hum. Rudra stood up and walked over to me, offering his hand. He led me to the edge of the balcony railing. He stood behind me, wrapping his heavy, tailored overcoat around both of us, pulling my back flush against his muscular chest.

"Look, *Janna*," he whispered into my ear, his breath warm against the chilly night. "The countdown."

The Eiffel Tower began to flash, a giant digital clock appearing in the distance.

**10... 9... 8...**

I felt Rudra’s arms tighten around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.

"Ishi," he murmured over the sound of the growing crowd below. "In 2026, and every year after, I promise to be the man you deserve. No more coldness, no more silence. Only us."

**5... 4... 3...**

"I promise to keep following you, Ru," I whispered back, turning in his arms to face him. "In this life and every other."

**2... 1... 0!**

The sky above Paris exploded. Massive bursts of gold, crimson, and emerald light illuminated the heavens, reflecting off the Seine. The Eiffel Tower became a sparkling diamond in the dark. But I barely saw the fireworks.

Rudra’s mouth crashed onto mine the exact second the year changed. It was a kiss of fire and promises—a seal on our past and a bridge to our future. Amidst the thunderous booms of the pyrotechnics, he pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine.

"Happy New Year, Mrs. Rathor," he rasped, his eyes swirling with a love so deep it was terrifying.

"Happy New Year, my Prince," I replied, breathless.

The fireworks continued for twenty minutes, painting the sky in colors of joy. We stood there, locked in each other's arms, watching the first dawn of the new year begin to break over the city of love.

The walk back to our villa was like something out of a classic movie, yet no camera could ever capture the electricity crackling between us. The streets of Paris, which had been a roar of celebration just an hour ago, had settled into a beautiful, intimate silence. The only sounds were the distant echoes of late-night revelers and the rhythmic *clack-clack* of my heels on the cobblestones.

Rudra kept me tucked firmly against his side, his heavy overcoat half-wrapped around my shoulders to shield me from the biting January chill. Every few steps, he’d stop me under the warm, amber glow of a vintage streetlamp.

"What?" I’d whisper, looking up into those **ocean-blue eyes**.

"Just making sure you're real," he’d rasp, before leaning down to steal another kiss—slow, deep, and tasting of juice and the cold night air. I’d giggle, my **chooda clinking** as I looped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer until the world around us ceased to exist.

When we finally reached the villa, the air inside was warm and scented with the lilies Rudra had ordered. I was exhausted but humming with a happy glow. I headed straight for the massive walk-in closet to get out of my shimmering emerald gown.

Just as I reached the doorway, a large, warm hand clamped around my wrist. I turned to find Rudra standing there, his tuxedo jacket discarded, his tie loosened, and his top buttons undone—he looked devastatingly handsome and completely predatory.

"Need help with that zipper, *Janna*?" he asked, a dark, knowing smirk playing on his lips.

I tossed my hair over my shoulder, playing hard to get. "No, thank you, Mr. Rathor. I am a grown woman. I can manage."

He chuckled, a low vibration that I felt in my bones. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. "No, you can't. That dress was designed to be put on by two people and taken off by... well, by me."

"We'll see about that," I countered with a playful wink, disappearing into the closet and sliding the door shut.

**Ten minutes later...**

I was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, my face flushed red from exertion. My arms were aching from reaching behind my back, and no matter how much I wiggled or exhaled, that tiny, stubborn zipper wouldn't budge. It was stuck right at the curve of my waist.

"Rudra?" I called out softly, my voice filled with defeated shyness.

The door slid open instantly. He hadn't moved an inch from the spot. He walked toward me, his reflection in the mirror looming over mine—a **6'3" silhouette** of pure, masculine confidence.

"Yes, Mrs. Rathor? I thought you could manage," he teased, his voice dropping into that deep, "shameless" register that always made my knees weak.

"It's... it's the fabric. It's caught," I lied, looking down at my feet.

He didn't say a word. He stepped behind me, his heat radiating through the back of my dress. Instead of reaching for the zipper, he wrapped his arms around my waist, his large palms splayed across my stomach, pulling me back against his hard chest. He leaned down, his lips grazing my earlobe.

"You're so bad at lying, Ishi," he whispered, his breath sending a frantic shiver down my spine. "You just wanted me to come in here and do this."

He began to trail wet, lingering kisses from my shoulder up to the sensitive spot behind my ear. I let out a soft, broken moan, my head falling back against his shoulder. His hands moved slowly, almost torturously, up to the zipper. But he didn't pull it down. He just toyed with it, his fingers brushing against my bare skin.

"Rudra... please," I breathed, my eyes fluttering shut.

"Please what? Zip it up? Or take it off?" He nipped at my neck, his hands sliding up to frame my face so I had to look at him in the mirror. "You're so shy, even after everything. Even after I spent the last three days worshiping every part of you."

"You're shameless," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Only for my wife," he rasped. He finally gripped the zipper, but instead of a quick tug, he moved it down a fraction of an inch at a time, following the opening with his lips, kissing the newly exposed skin of my spine. "I could spend the next hour just getting you out of this dress, Ishita. And I think I will."

He turned me around in his arms, the dress now hanging loosely at my hips. He looked at me with a gaze so filled with raw love and possessiveness that it felt more intimate than any touch.

"You are my New Year's resolution, *Janna*," he murmured, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "To love you better, protect you fiercer, and never let a day go by without reminding you that you are the heart of Rudra Singh Rathor."

I reached up, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss that promised we wouldn't be leaving this closet—or this villa—anytime soon. Our love was like Paris: timeless, beautiful, and glowing even in the dark.

The closet was filled with the soft glow of the vanity lights and the frantic rhythm of our breathing. As the

gown finally pooled at my feet, I stood there in just my delicate lace inners, feeling the cool air of the room—but only for a second. Rudra’s hands, large and searingly hot, immediately found my waist, drawing me back into the furnace of his embrace.

The kiss he gave me then wasn't like the ones under the streetlamps; it was deep, demanding, and tasted of a forever-kind of promise. My fingers dug into his muscular biceps, my **chooda clinking** loudly in the quiet closet as I pulled him closer.

"Ru..." I whispered against his lips, breathless and dazed.

"I've got you," he rasped, his **ocean-blue eyes** dark with a mixture of desire and protective tenderness. He reached for my silk nighty—a soft, champagne-colored slip—and with agonizing slowness, he helped me slide it over my head. He didn't just let the fabric fall; he smoothed it down over my curves, his touch lingering on my skin as if he were memorizing me all over again.

Before my feet could even touch the floor properly, he hooked his arms under my knees and back, lifting my **5'3" frame** as if I weighed nothing at all. I let out a little squeal of surprise, wrapping my arms around his neck and burying my face in the crook of his shoulder.

"Rudra! I can walk!"

"Not tonight, *Janna*," he murmured, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "Tonight, you don't lift a finger."

He carried me into the bedroom, where the fallen balloons from his birthday still lay like colorful memories on the rug. He laid me down in the center of the massive bed and immediately climbed in beside me, pulling the heavy, plush duvet over both of us.

I didn't stay on my side for even a second. I crawled over, tucking my head onto his chest, my ear resting right over his steady, powerful heartbeat. Rudra’s arm wound around me, pulling me so tight I could feel every muscle of his **6'3" frame**.

"So," I teased, tracing the lines of his abs through his thin shirt. "Now that you're officially a year older, do you feel any wiser? Or just more 'shameless'?"

He let out a deep, chest-vibrating laugh, his fingers finding my hand. He didn't just hold it; he began to play with my **chooda**, sliding the red and white bangles up and down my forearm, listening to the rhythmic *clink-clink* they made.

"Definitely more shameless," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the bangles. "And more addicted to this sound. It reminds me every second that you're mine, Ishi. That the world knows you belong to the 'Cold Prince'."

"The world is wrong, you know," I whispered, looking up at him, my **long curly hair** fanned out over his arm. "You aren't cold. You're the warmest person I know. You're just... selective about who gets to see the fire."

"Only you, Ishi," he said, his expression turning serious for a moment as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "Only ever you."

"Good," I pouted playfully, nipping at his chin. "Because if I see you being this 'warm' with anyone else, I might have to use my bungee-jumping skills to drop-kick someone."

Rudra roared with laughter, rolling us over until he was hovering above me, his eyes dancing with mischief. "A drop-kick? From my piddi si wife? I’d pay to see that."

"Don't challenge me, Mr. Rathor!"

We spent the next few hours in a blur of soft whispers, playful banter, and stolen kisses. He kept playing with my bangles, twirling them around my wrist, while we talked about our plans for the family—how we’d give the gifts to **Akshat and Dhristi**, how we’d spoil **Krish**, and how we’d finally start our 'happily ever after' back in India.

Eventually, the exhaustion of the New Year's celebrations began to pull at my eyelids. Rudra noticed, his touch turning even gentler. He pulled me back into his chest, my back against his front, creating a perfect cocoon of warmth.

"Sleep, *Janna*," he whispered, his lips pressing a final kiss to the top of my head.