The silk drapes swayed gently in the night breeze, carrying the scent of jasmine and rosewater across the chamber. The world outside was silent, wrapped in darkness, but inside the royal bedroom of the Rathore palace, the world felt suspended — half a dream, half a heartbeat.
Aayat lay curled against Anirudh's chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over the embroidered insignia on his robe. His heartbeat thudded beneath her palm, steady and grounding, as if each beat whispered you are mine, you are mine.
"You're quiet tonight," she murmured, her voice low and soft, still heavy with sleep.
He smiled faintly, his hand slipping into her hair, fingers curling against the base of her neck. "I'm listening," he said, voice rough and deep. "To your breathing, to the way your heart settles against mine. It's become my favorite sound."
She laughed quietly — a small, bright thing in the dimness. "You sound like one of those men from my college who used to read poetry at every fest."
That caught his attention. His hand stilled.
"Men from your college?" he repeated, tone perfectly mild.
She didn't notice. She was lost in nostalgia. "Hmm. I went to Delhi University. My friends and I used to sit on the lawns all evening. We'd talk about our dreams, about love… oh, and there was Raghav. He once wrote a poem for me — terrible one, by the way," she chuckled. "But he was sweet. Said I'd find a love that would burn the sky one day."
Anirudh's jaw flexed beneath her cheek. His smile remained, but his eyes darkened — that flicker of possessiveness, sharp as a blade hidden under silk. "And did you?" he asked softly.
"Did I what?"
"Find a love that burns the sky?"
She tilted her head up to look at him, her lips curving. "I think I already have."
His chest rose slowly. "Good."
But the word didn't sound like relief. It sounded like a claim. Like a verdict.
He lowered his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead, hiding the faint tremor that passed through his hand. "You should rest, Aayat," he murmured. "Dream of no one but me."
She smiled, nestling closer. "Always you," she whispered, and after a pause, added softly —
"I'm not going anywhere, Anirudh. Ever."
Her words settled over him like honey — warm, sweet, but thick enough to suffocate.
When she drifted into sleep, he kept watching her, the darkness in his gaze deepening until the candlelight dimmed.
The morning sun spilled softly through the lattice windows, painting the marble in a golden haze. The air was cool and quiet — too quiet.
Anirudh stirred. His arm reached for her automatically — for the warmth that should have been pressed to his side.
His fingers met only cold silk.
His eyes snapped open. The bed beside him was empty.
For a heartbeat, confusion. Then unease.
He sat up quickly, the sheets falling to his waist, his breath catching. "Aayat?"
No answer.
He rose, moving through the chamber. The balcony curtains swayed gently, but no figure stood there. The sitting alcove was empty. The bathroom, silent.
He turned in a slow circle, the corners of the room shrinking in on him.
The air grew heavy.
He whispered her name again — quieter this time. "Aayat?"
Still nothing.
She wouldn't leave me.
She wouldn't dare.
But then his gaze caught something glinting faintly across the room — the dressing table, bathed in morning light.
There, lying amid her hairpins and a silver brush, was her mangalsutra.
The sacred chain. The symbol of their bond.
For a moment, his breath stopped. The world tilted.
The gold beads seemed to mock him — lying discarded like something meaningless, fragile. His fingers twitched once before curling into fists. The muscles in his jaw clenched, the calm in his chest cracking.
She took it off.
The thought repeated — louder, darker. She took it off.
His throat tightened, heat rising from somewhere deep and old — that same possessive fire that always lived beneath his skin.
She'd sworn she belonged to him. She'd promised she'd never run. But promises — he remembered bitterly — were words. And words could lie.
The vase near the window cracked in his grip before he even realized he'd picked it up.
He would have thrown it—
But the door opened.
Aayat stepped in, holding a tray of steaming cups and freshly baked pastries. Her smile was easy, warm, radiant. "Good morning," she said. "I brought you tea myself today. I didn't want to wake the servants."
He froze mid-motion. Relief hit him first — cold, sharp, undeniable. She was here. She hadn't left.
But then his eyes fell to her neck.
Bare.
His relief vanished.
He placed the vase down carefully, his face unreadable. "You were gone," he said quietly.
She blinked. "I went to the kitchen. The cook was—"
"You went," he repeated, "without telling me."
Her laugh was soft, confused. "I didn't want to wake you. You were sleeping so peacefully."
He stepped closer. "And you forgot something."
She followed his gaze to the dressing table — and froze.
"Oh! The mangalsutra. I was in a hurry to get breakfast ready, I thought I'd wear it after—"
"After?" His tone was smooth, measured — but his eyes burned. "After what? After you've paraded yourself through the palace bare, as though you aren't bound?"
Her face paled. "Anirudh, no, it's not—"
"It lies there like an orphaned promise," he said softly, gesturing toward the chain. "Do you know what that feels like, Aayat? To see the proof of your love sitting abandoned like that?"
Her throat bobbed. "You're misunderstanding. I didn't mean anything by it."
"Didn't mean anything?" He took another step, close enough for her to feel his breath. "Everything means something, Aayat. Every word. Every gesture. Every time you take it off, every time you forget, it tells me how easily you could forget me."
She looked up at him helplessly. "Please. You know that's not true."
"I don't know anything anymore," he said, his voice low, trembling slightly — not with sadness, but fury restrained by a single thread. "Except this — you belong to me. And I will not let the world, or your carelessness, make me doubt it."
He reached for the chain. His fingers brushed her skin as he fastened it around her neck himself.
The cool gold rested against her throat, heavy and unyielding.
He didn't step back. His hand lingered on the pendant, his thumb pressing lightly over her pulse. "Do you feel it?" he murmured. "It beats because I allow it to."
Her eyes widened. "Anirudh…"
He smiled faintly — almost tenderly. "You told me last night that you're not going anywhere. Don't make me test that promise."
She flinched slightly at the quiet authority in his tone.
Then he leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper at her ear. "And, Aayat… if I ever see you without this chain again — if you ever dare to forget — I'll take it to mean you've forgotten me. And I will remind you. In a way neither of us will forget."
He stepped back, straightened his robe, and said in a tone almost casual, "Now drink your tea before it gets cold. You wouldn't want my morning to start with something bitter."
He turned and walked into the adjoining washroom, the faint click of the door echoing in the silence.
Aayat stood rooted to the floor, her hand trembling as it touched the pendant now pressing coldly against her skin.
It no longer felt like a symbol of devotion.
It felt like a shackle made of gold.
And as the sound of water started behind the closed door, she realized that Anirudh's love — once burning, beautiful — had begun to darken into something else entirely.