Rudra's Perspective

The sun had set over South Delhi, leaving a biting January chill in the air. I sat in the back of the Maybach, my fingers drumming impatiently against my knee. It was 7:00 PM. Ishita was usually out by 6:45. I’d honked twice—a low, commanding sound that she knew meant *'Your King is waiting'*—but the glass doors of the studio remained shut.

A dark possessiveness began to claw at my chest. I didn't like her being in there a second longer than necessary. I stepped out of the car, my **6'3" frame** cutting through the cold, and pushed open the studio doors. The chime of the bell was lost in the low murmur of a male voice.

I stopped near the velvet curtain of the main bridal suite, my **ocean-blue eyes** turning into ice.

A man—dressed in an expensive but tacky suit—was leaning against the counter, blocking Ishita’s path. He was tall, but he didn't have my build. He was holding a business card out, a greasy smirk on his face.

"Come on, Ishita," the man was saying, his voice dripping with unwanted charm. "A girl with your talent and... let's be honest, your face... shouldn't be stuck in a studio all night. Let's discuss your 'portfolio' over dinner. I know a place that’s as exclusive as you are."

Ishita was backing away, her hands busy arranging some brushes, her **chooda clinking** sharply—a sound that usually soothed me but now sounded like a distress signal. "I’ve already told you, Mr. Khanna, I don't do business dinners. My work ends at the studio. Now, if you'll excuse me, my husband is—"

"Husband?" the man laughed, cutting her off. "I don't see a ring. And even if there is one, a man who lets a woman like you work this late clearly doesn't appreciate what he has. I could appreciate you much better."

The "Cold Prince" inside me snapped. I stepped out from the shadows, my heavy footsteps echoing like a death knell on the polished floor. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"You're right about one thing," I said, my voice a deep, lethal growl that made the man jump and spin around. "I don't appreciate people wasting her time."

I walked right into his personal space, looming over him. I didn't even have to raise my voice; the sheer aura of a Rathor was enough to make his face turn pale. I tucked Ishita behind me, my hand settling firmly on the small of her back—claiming her, protecting her.

The man stammered, looking me up and down. "I... I didn't know she was married. She didn't say—"

"Are you blind by any chance?" I barked, my eyes flashing with a dangerous light. I reached back, taking Ishita’s hand and lifting it so the light caught the vibrant red and white of her **chooda**. "She has **sindoor** in her hair, a **mangalsutra** around her neck that costs more than your entire car, and she’s wearing a **chooda** that marks her as mine. And you have the audacity to say you didn't know?"

I took a step closer, my chest nearly touching his. "Or is it that you choose to ignore the marks of a husband because you think you're significant enough to challenge them?"

"I-I'm sorry, Mr... I didn't realize she was *your* wife," he gasped, finally recognizing the face that graced the covers of every business magazine in Asia.

"Leave," I commanded, the word vibrating with a threat of total ruin. "Before I decide to make sure you never have the 'appreciation' to look at another woman again."

He didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled for the door, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away from the Prince of Rajasthan.

The door clicked shut, and the studio fell silent. I didn't turn around immediately. I stood there, my shoulders tense, my **veins popping** in my neck as I tried to reel in the monster that wanted to go out there and finish him.

"Ru..." Ishita’s soft voice broke through my red haze. I felt her small hands wrap around my arm, her head leaning against my shoulder. "I was handled it, *Patidev*. I was just being respectful because he’s a client’s brother."

I turned around, my expression still dark, and gripped her waist, hoisting her up onto the makeup counter so she was at eye level with me. "Respectful? To a man who looked at you like you were on a menu? No, *Janna*. From now on, you don't handle 'clients' like that. You call me."

"You're shaking," she whispered, her **brown eyes** softening as she cupped my face. "He’s gone, Ru. I’m right here. I’m only yours."

"You're damn right you're mine," I rasped, burying my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent that grounded me. "And if I ever see another man's card in your hand, I’m burning this city down."

The moment we stepped out of the car, the cold night air was greeted by a low, powerful rumble as **Oscar** padded across the driveway. He didn't go for me; he went straight to Ishita, nudging his massive head against her velvet-clad waist. She giggled, her **chooda clinking** as she scratched him behind the ears.

"See, even Oscar missed me more than you," she teased, throwing a wink over her shoulder as we walked into the warm, brightly lit foyer of the villa.

The house was alive with the scent of spices and the sound of laughter. **Siya Maa** was standing near the dining area, looking regal as always. "Aa gaye tum dono? Kab se wait kar rahe hain... (You both are back? We've been waiting for so long...)" she said, a gentle smile on her face. "Chalo freshen up ho jao aur dinner ke liye aa jao."

"Okay Maa, thank you!" Ishita chirped, walking over and planting a sweet kiss on Siya Maa’s cheek.

Maa laughed, her eyes crinkling. "Jeeti raho (Bless you)."

"Main toh reh hi gayi! (I've been left out!)" **Chachi (Urmila)** chimed in, pouting playfully from the sofa. Ishita didn't hesitate; she skipped over and kissed her too, making the room fill with warmth.

"Saara pyaar saason ko hi? Bebe ke liye kuch nahi? (All the love for the mothers-in-law? Nothing for Bebe?)" our grandmother called out, leaning on her walking stick with a smirk.

"Ooo Bebe! Aap toh meri favorite ho!" Ishita exclaimed, hugging her tight.

"Pata hai, pata hai," Bebe chuckled, patting Ishita's hand.

While the ladies were occupied, Siya Maa turned her gaze toward me. She noticed the slight tension in my jaw, the way my **ocean-blue eyes** were still dark with the remnants of the studio incident. "Rudra, itni der kyun ho gayi aaj? (Rudra, why are you so late today?)"

I loosened my tie, my voice thick with a lingering, possessive edge. "Aapki bahu ke chahane wale itne hain, kya karu? (Your daughter-in-law has so many admirers, what can I do?)"

The room went quiet for a second as the family registered my tone. I was still simmering, and it showed.

Suddenly, a deep, booming laugh echoed from the stairs. **Ram Singh Rathore**, my father, was coming down, looking relaxed in his kurta-pyjama. He’d heard my comment and had that same Rathor glint in his eyes that I carry.

"Teri Maa ke bhi bhout the beta," Dad said, walking over to stand next to Maa, draping an arm around her shoulder with a confidence that decades of marriage hadn't dimmed. "Par main jeet gaya sabse... kyu darling? (Your mother had many too, son. But I won against everyone... right, darling?)"

He turned to Siya Maa, a mischievous grin on his face. "Kyun Siya, right?"

Maa blushed—a rare sight—and swatted his hand away playfully. "Baccho ke samne kya bol rahe ho! (What are you saying in front of the kids!)"

"Dekh raha hai, Rudra?" Dad teased, looking at me. "Possessiveness is in our blood. If they don't have admirers, it means we chose wrong. But since we chose Rathor queens, we just have to remind the world who the King is every once in a while."

I looked at Ishita, who was blushing furiously under the gaze of the entire family. My competitive streak eased just a fraction, replaced by the pride of knowing she was indeed my Queen.

The heavy oak doors of our suite finally clicked shut, leaving the echoes of the family’s teasing downstairs. The room was warm, scented with the familiar aroma of sandalwood and the fresh lilies Ishita loved. I had discarded my blazer and waistcoat, my white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and sleeves rolled up, revealing the **veins popping** on my forearms.

I was still brooding. My father’s words had calmed the storm, but the sight of that man leaning over my wife’s counter was a movie playing on loop in my head.

Ishita, however, seemed to have moved on to her favorite form of therapy. She sat at her grand, lit-up vanity, her **velvet saree** draped around her like a royal shroud. She had opened a sleek, gold-cased eyeshadow palette—the one she’d been talking about in the car.

"Ru, stop pacing like a caged panther," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the mirror as she expertly blended a shimmering rose-gold shade onto her eyelid. Her **chooda clinked** rhythmically with every stroke of the brush. "Come here and help your wife."

I walked over, my **6'3" frame** towering behind her. I placed my hands on her shoulders, my fingers digging slightly into the soft velvet. "I'm not pacing. I'm thinking."

"About how to disappear Mr. Khanna?" she teased, looking at my reflection with a playful glint in her **brown eyes**. She picked up a smaller brush, dabbing a bit of deep plum into the corner of her eye. "Look at this, Ru. Is the blending even? Or is it too 'bold' for a Rathor Bahu?"

I leaned down, my face inches from hers, my **ocean-blue eyes** narrowing as I inspected her work. But I wasn't looking at the eyeshadow. I was looking at the way her long lashes swept against her skin and the way her lips were slightly parted in concentration.

"It’s beautiful, Ishi," I rasped, my voice thick. "But you’re distracting me. You think a little glitter is going to make me forget that I want to put a 'Property of Rudra' sign around your neck?"

She let out a soft, melodic laugh and turned around in her chair, trapping me between her knees. She reached up, her fingers—still stained with a bit of shimmer—tracing my jawline.

"You are so difficult when you’re jealous," she whispered, her voice dropping into that sweet, pacifying tone she knew I couldn't resist. "Do you really think I care about some random man’s compliments? Or a photo on a lock screen? I spent three years crying for *this* face, Ru. These eyes. This grumpy, overprotective man."

She took a dabbing brush and, before I could react, she swiped a tiny bit of the shimmering gold right onto the center of my lower lip.

"There," she giggled, leaning back to admire her handiwork. "Now you’re as 'hot' as my palette. Does the Great Rudra Singh Rathor feel pacified now? Or do I need to test the 'staying power' of this makeup on your shirt?"

I gripped the arms of her chair, leaning in until our lips were a breath apart. The scent of her expensive makeup and her skin was intoxicating.

"The makeup might stay, *Janna*," I growled, my hand sliding into her **long curly hair**, tilting her head back. "But my patience is gone. You want to talk about 'bold'? Let me show you exactly how bold I can get when I'm tired of sharing you with the rest of the world."

I let out a groan of genuine protest as Ishita reached for a small, frosted glass jar on her vanity. My "Cold Prince" dignity was under immediate threat.

"Ishita, no. I am not a canvas for your experiments," I said, trying to straighten up, but she gripped my silk tie, tugging me down until I was forced to sit on the edge of the vanity stool right in front of her.

"Chup! (Quiet!)" she commanded, her **brown eyes** sparkling with bossy delight. "Your skin is so dry from the January wind, and you haven't slept properly. I'm not putting 'makeup' on you, *Patidev*. It’s just an organic, cooling eye-mask and some serum. Consider it a 'calm down' ritual for your jealousy."

"I don't need a ritual, I need—"

"I said *chup*," she repeated, her **chooda clinking** musically as she scooped out a bit of the translucent gel.

She began to apply it under my eyes with her ring finger. Her touch was feather-light, cooling and incredibly soothing. I closed my **ocean-blue eyes** involuntarily, my head tilting back as she worked. Her small fingers moved in slow, circular motions over my temples, massaging away the stress of the day—the board meetings, the merger, and the sight of that man at her studio.

"See? Isn't it nice?" she whispered, her voice softening.

"It’s... acceptable," I managed to rasp, though my body was turning to liquid under her touch.

"You're so stubborn," she giggled. She then took a cooling roller and began to run it along my sharp jawline. "This is for the 'Cold Prince' to keep his face looking like a Greek god for his wife. We can't have you getting wrinkles from all that scowling, can we?"

I reached out, my large hands finding her waist under the heavy burgundy velvet of her saree. I pulled her flush against me, my face buried in her midriff for a second before I looked up at her. The green cooling patches under my eyes probably looked ridiculous, but I didn't care.

"You're the only person in this world who would dare to put 'cooling patches' on Rudra Singh Rathor," I murmured, my voice deep and vibrating against her.

"And you're the only person who would let me," she countered, leaning down to kiss my forehead, just above the mask.

I pulled her closer, my hands wandering over the small of her back. "Now that I'm 'hydrated' and 'calmed down,' *Janna*... do you think we can stop the skincare and move on to the part where I show you how much I missed you today?"

She looked down at me, her gaze melting into mine. "I thought you'd never ask."

💖 Ishita's Perspective

The January sunlight filters through the windows of the Maybach as we drive through the bustling streets of Delhi. My hand is tucked firmly inside Ru’s larger one, our fingers entwined over the center console. Every time he shifts gears, he doesn't let go; he just moves his hand with mine, as if he can’t bear even a second of physical disconnection.

The drive to my studio has become my favorite part of the day. It’s our transition—from the private, raw intensity of our bedroom to the roles we play for the world. To the public, he is the cold, untouchable Prince of Rajasthan, and I am the rising star in the makeup industry. To everyone else, we are just a "normal" newlywed couple.

But there is nothing normal about us.

As he pulls up to the curb of my studio, he doesn't just unlock the door. He turns to me, his **ocean-blue eyes** searching mine with a depth that feels like a prayer. We don’t use those empty, modern labels. You’ll never hear him call me "babygirl," and I would never dream of using those degraded internet terms for him. To me, he is my King, my Ru, my **Patidev**. To him, I am his **Janna**, his soul, his Ishi.

We worship each other. It’s a love that feels ancient, rooted in a respect so deep that it borders on the divine.

"I’ll pick you up at seven," he rasps, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, careful not to smudge the work I did this morning. "If that man—or any man—so much as breathes in your direction today, you call me. Understood?"

"Understood, my possessive Prince," I whisper, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to his cheek.

I watch him drive away, heading toward **Eternity**, where he will transform back into the ruthless CEO. I know that even in the middle of a multi-million dollar merger, he’ll be checking the clock, counting the minutes until he can be back in our sanctuary.

Our days pass like this—a beautiful rhythm of work and longing. We have lived through the agony of a three-year separation, through kidnappings and blackmail, and it has taught us one thing: love isn't just a feeling; it’s a sacred duty. We don't just love each other; we protect the purity of what we have.

I walk into my studio, the **clinking of my chooda** a constant reminder of the man who owns my heart. My assistant, Charlet, looks up with a smile. "You're glowing today, Ishita Ma'am."

"It's the Delhi air, Charlet," I lie softly, knowing very well it’s the way Rudra looked at me right before I stepped out of the car.

The dining table at the Rathor villa was a sea of warmth and laughter, a stark contrast to the biting mid-January frost settling over Rajasthan. The heavy scent of *parathas* and fresh *ghee* filled the air as the entire clan gathered.

At the head sat **Ram Singh Rathore**, looking satisfied as he watched his family. Beside him, **Siya Maa** was busy ensuring everyone’s plates were full, while **Lakhan Chacha** and **Urmila Chachi** shared a quiet joke. **Bebe** sat at the center of it all, her presence like the roots of an ancient banyan tree.

**Akshat** was trying to hide his laughter as **4-year-old Krish** insisted on feeding a piece of fruit to **Jay**, while **Dhristi** tried to maintain some semblance of 'professor-like' decorum. **Vardaan** and **Reet** were whispering about a new case, and **Ahana** was showing a jewelry sketch to Ishita.

Bebe cleared her throat, and the table went silent out of pure respect.

"Kal sab apne-apne kaam se jaldi aa jana (Everyone come home early from your work tomorrow)," Bebe announced, her voice firm but loving. "Kal Lohri hai."

I felt Rudra’s hand tighten slightly under the table, his thumb grazing my knuckles. Lohri—the festival of fire, new beginnings, and for us, our first Lohri as husband and wife after all those years of pain.

"Aur har baar ki tarha hum dhoom-dhaam se manayenge (And like every time, we will celebrate with a bang)," Bebe continued, her eyes settling on us. Then she turned to Dhristi, Reet, and me. "Dhristi, Reet, aur Ishu puttar... tumhari families ko maine already bol diya hai, okay? (I've already told your families, okay?)"

"Ji Bebe," Dhristi and Reet replied in unison.

I leaned forward, my **chooda clinking** against the edge of the table, a bright smile on my face. "Thank you, Bebe. Mom and Dad were already asking when the celebration starts. It will be so good to have everyone together."

"Hmph," Rudra grunted softly beside me, though I could see the ghost of a smile on his face. "Does that mean I have to take a half-day off from Eternity, Bebe? The Japanese delegates might not understand 'Lohri' as a valid reason for postponing a merger."

"Rudra," Siya Maa said with a warning look, though her eyes were twinkling. "The merger can wait. The fire of Lohri cannot. You will be home by 4:00 PM."

"4:00 PM, Bhai," Jay chimed in, winking at me. "Unless you want me to tell the Japanese delegates that the 'Cold Prince' is actually scared of his grandmother’s walking stick."

"Jay, shut up and eat," Rudra rasped, but the tension had left his shoulders. He looked at me, his **ocean-blue eyes** promising a different kind of 'fire' for the festival night.

I felt a surge of pure happiness. My family, his family, the bonfire, and my husband by my side.

The morning of Lohri arrived with a crisp, biting chill, but the Rathor villa was already glowing with warmth. The scent of fresh marigolds and woodsmoke drifted through the halls as the staff and the women of the house busied themselves. **Siya Maa, Chachi, Dhristi, and Reet** were moving like a well-oiled machine, draping long garlands of orange and yellow flowers over the grand entrance.

Since Ishita was still the "Nayi Bahu"—not even a month into her marriage—she was strictly forbidden from doing heavy chores or kitchen work. Instead, she sat on the plush sofa in the living room next to **Bebe**, helping her sort through the dry fruits and *rewari* for the evening's offerings. Her **burgundy velvet shawl** was wrapped tight around her, her **long curly hair** falling over her shoulders as she laughed at one of Bebe’s old stories.

The men started descending the stairs, looking sharp and ready for their half-day at the office. **Akshat, Vardaan, and Rudra** were in their formal suits, while **Jay** lounged behind them in a sweatshirt. Since Jay had no football practice or modeling shoots, he was in full "annoy-my-Bhabhi" mode.

"Bhabhi, if you put one more almond in that bowl, I think it’ll overflow," Jay teased, leaning over the sofa and trying to snatch a piece of *gajak*.

"Jay! Don't disturb her," **Ahana** called out, carrying a tray of decorative lamps.

Rudra walked over, his **6'3" frame** casting a shadow over the sofa. He looked down at Ishita, his **ocean-blue eyes** softening instantly, ignoring everyone else in the room. He reached down, his thumb grazing the edge of her **sindoor** as he checked her face.

"Janna, why are you not ready? Studio nahi jana aaj? (Aren't you going to the studio today?)" he asked, his voice dropping into that private, deep register.

"Oooohooo... *Jaanaaa*! Kya baat hai, Bro!" Jay hollered, clutching his heart dramatically. "Morning romance is at an all-time high in the Rathor house!"

Rudra didn't even turn his head. He just gave Jay a 'death glare'—the kind that usually made CEOs tremble—effectively silencing his younger brother for exactly three seconds.

Ishita looked up at Rudra, her **brown eyes** shining with a mix of love and mischief. "Nahi, aaj nahi ja rahi (No, I'm not going today). Bebe and Maa said I have to stay here and prepare for the evening. Besides, I want to spend time with everyone before the Sharma family arrives."

"Good," Rudra rasped, leaning down a bit closer, his hand resting on the back of the sofa, effectively shielding her from Jay’s view. "Because I was planning on calling your assistant and telling her the studio is closed by royal decree anyway. I want you home when I get back at four."

"Oh, so the Prince is demanding today?" she whispered, her **chooda clinking** as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Always, where you are concerned," he murmured. He straightened up, adjusted his tie, and looked at Akshat. "Let's go. The sooner we finish the meetings, the sooner I can come back to my 'Kaleshi' wife."

👑 Rudra's Perspective

I stood frozen as Ishita’s eyes widened, her jaw dropping in a mix of shock and mock-outrage. I realized my mistake the second the word "Kaleshi" left my lips. In my head, it was a pet name, a reminder of her fiery spirit—but out loud, in front of the whole family, it was a death sentence.

"Kya bola aapne? (What did you say?)" she gasped, grabbing my hand and spinning me back around.

*Shit,* I thought, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’ve faced hostile takeovers and mafia threats without blinking, but the look in Ishita’s **brown eyes** right now was terrifying.

"Janna, listen..." I started, but she cut me off, taking slow, predatory steps toward me.

"Nahi, nahi, nahi! Woh boliye jo abhi bola. Kaleshi, haan? Main Kaleshi hoon? (No, no, no! Say what you just said. Troublemaker, huh? I’m a troublemaker?)" Her **chooda clinked** aggressively as she gestured between us. "Kab kalesh kiya hai maine aapse? (When have I ever troubled you?)"

She didn't even wait for my answer. She turned toward the sofa. "Bebe! Dekhiye ye kya bol rahe hain... Kaleshi wife!"

"Janna, I didn't mean it like—"

"What 'listen' huh? What 'listen'?" she snapped, her hands on her waist. "And don't call me Janna!"

Behind me, I could hear a muffled, choking sound. I glanced back to see **Jay** doubled over, his face turning red as he tried to control his laughter. He had never seen the "Cold Prince" of Rajasthan—the man who makes the world tremble—looking like a scared schoolboy.

**Siya Maa** and **Chachi** came rushing out from the kitchen, wiping their hands on their aprons. "Kya ho raha hai yahan? (What is happening here?)"

Ishita pointed a finger at me, looking like a wounded queen. "Maa, dekhiye! Mujhe Kaleshi bol rahe hain ye! (Maa, look! He’s calling me a troublemaker!)"

My father, **Ram Singh Rathore**, leaned against the banister, watching the scene with a smirk of pure amusement. He leaned toward Siya Maa and whispered loudly enough for me to hear, "Yeh toh gaya... (He's a goner...) Itne saal ho gaye, mujhse seekh leta kya bolna hai aur kya nahi biwi se. (It's been so many years, he should have learned from me what to say and what not to say to a wife.)"

Siya Maa turned her head slowly and gave Dad a lethal glare. "Aap toh chup hi rahiye, Ram. (You just stay quiet, Ram.)"

Dad instantly looked at the ceiling, pretending to be very interested in the chandelier. I was on my own.

I looked back at Ishita. My **6'3" frame** felt incredibly small under her gaze. I stepped into her space, ignoring the snickering from Jay and Akshat. "Ishi... it was a joke. You know you're my life."

"Life? No, no. I'm a 'Kaleshi,' remember?" She crossed her arms, turning her face away. "Aaj Lohri hai, aur aaj hi mujhe ye sunne ko mila. Go to your office, Mr. CEO. Go find a wife who isn't 'Kaleshi'!"

"Janna, please..."

"Naam mat lijiye mera! (Don't take my name!)"

I stood there, paralyzed, as Ishita launched into a non-stop rant. Her words were coming out at a speed that would make a rapper nervous, her hands flying through the air, her **chooda clinking** like a rhythmic war drum.

I gave up. I didn't just give up right now—I’d internally surrendered five years ago. I am the man who dictates terms to global corporations, but in front of Ishita Sharma, I am just a man waiting for his sentence.

*Sahi naam toh bola... Kaleshi,* I thought to myself, a dangerous inner monologue running while I kept my face as neutral as possible. *Kalesh hi toh kar rahi hai ab! (I said the right name... Troublemaker. She's literally creating trouble right now!)*

I looked around the room, my **ocean-blue eyes** pleading for a lifeline. I looked at **Akshat**—he suddenly became very interested in a speck of dust on his sleeve. I looked at **Vardaan**—he adjusted his glasses and started walking toward the door, talking to a non-existent person on his phone. Even **Dad** and **Lakhan Chacha** pulled a classic vanishing act, heading for the cars as if the house was on fire.

*Traitors,* I hissed mentally. *The Rathor men are all cowards when it comes to their wives.*

Desperate, I turned my gaze toward the sofa. I gestured frantically with my eyes toward **Bebe**, the only person Ishita wouldn't dare argue with.

"Bebe..." I mouthed silently, my expression saying, *'Save me or she’ll make me sleep in the guest room on Lohri.'*

Bebe watched us for a moment, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She let out a long, dramatic sigh and tapped her walking stick on the floor.

"Ishu puttar, bas kar ab (Enough now, my daughter)," Bebe finally spoke up, her voice commanding yet soft. "Rudra ki toh mat sun, par meri toh sun. Agar ye office nahi gaya toh sham ki party ka kharcha kaun uthayega? (Don't listen to Rudra, but at least listen to me. If he doesn't go to the office, who will pay for the evening party?)"

Ishita stopped mid-sentence, her chest heaving slightly from the effort of her rant. She looked at Bebe, then shot me one last, lethal glare—the kind that promised the 'Kalesh' wasn't over, just postponed.

"Sirf Bebe ki wajah se jane de rahi hoon (I'm only letting you go because of Bebe)," she huffed, pointing a finger at my chest. "Par yaad rakhna, Mr. Rathor. Sham ko bonfire ke charo taraf chakkar lagate waqt, aapko sabke samne maafi mangni padegi. (But remember, Mr. Rathor. While we take the rounds around the bonfire tonight, you will have to apologize in front of everyone.)"

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I leaned in, whispering so only she could hear, "Maafi? Janna, I'll give you a written apology in blood if you just stop calling me 'Mr. Rathor' with that angry face."

"Jao ab! (Go now!)" she said, pushing me toward the door, though the corners of her mouth were twitching.

I practically ran toward the Maybach where Akshat was already waiting, laughing his head off.

I walked out of the mansion, the heavy front doors thudding shut behind me, only to be met by a literal wall of laughter. The "Cold Prince" was being treated like a court jester.

**Akshat, Vardaan, Dad, and Lakhan Chacha** were leaning against the cars, their faces red from laughing so hard. **Jay**, who had followed me out like a shadow, was the worst of them all. He started clutching his stomach, doubling over and mimicking Ishita’s angry pointing finger.

"Oh, Mr. Rathor! Don't call me Janna! I am a Kaleshi!" Jay squealed in a high-pitched voice, practically falling onto the hood of my Maybach.

"Shut up, Jay!" I growled, but it only made them laugh louder. I stepped forward and delivered a swift, brotherly smack to the back of Jay’s head, then moved on to Akshat and Vardaan, hitting them on the shoulders as I passed.

"Ouch! Bhai, the truth hurts!" Vardaan chuckled, adjusting his glasses.

**Dad** walked over, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, and patted my shoulder—though it felt more like a "welcome to the club" pat. "Mil gaya na shaadi ka laddo, beta? (You finally got the wedding sweet, didn't you, son?)"

**Lakhan Chacha** joined in, grinning widely. "Hum toh kab se chahte the tujhe bhi toh pata chale... yeh sab hi hota hai. Sirf romance nahi! (We’ve wanted this for so long... you should also know this is how it is. It's not just romance!)"

"Exactly," Dad added, his voice full of mock wisdom. "You think being a Top 5 businessman prepares you for an angry wife? In this house, the CEO title stays at the gate. Inside, you're just another Rathor man who said the wrong thing at the wrong time."

I leaned against my car door, crossing my arms, my **ocean-blue eyes** scanning my family. "I noticed none of you 'brave' Rathor men stepped in to defend me."

"Defend you?" Akshat laughed, finally catching his breath. Bhai, I value my life. Dhristi was standing right there with a flower garland in her hand. One wrong word from me and I’d be sleeping in the stable with the horses tonight."

Jay straightened up, wiping his eyes, and looked at all of us—four married men (counting Dad and Chacha) who had just been humbled by the women inside.

"Guys, I’ve decided," Jay announced, raising his hands in a 'stop' gesture. "I am not marrying at all. No way. I’ll stay a bachelor, play football, and model. I don't want anyone calling me 'Kaleshi' or making me apologize in front of a bonfire."

"Wait until you fall in love, Jay," I muttered, opening my car door. "You’ll be the first one begging for a 'Kaleshi' wife to scream at you."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Apology," Jay teased, darting away before I could hit him again.

I got into the car, but as I pulled out of the driveway, I glanced at the rearview mirror. I saw Ishita standing at the balcony, still looking grumpy but waving a tiny, reluctant hand at the car. I shook my head, a small smile finally breaking through my mask.