Morning After Lanterns
Disha woke before her alarm, the dim light of dawn brushing the edges of her curtains. For a few heartbeats she lay still, letting the quiet of her apartment settle around her — the faint hum of the city below, the soft tick of the wall clock.
The evening with Rudra replayed uninvited in her mind: the sway of lanterns over water, the cool gleam in his eyes when he'd said she kept people guessing. She hated how easily her focus drifted back to him, yet there was no denying the spark that had threaded through every word.
Pushing off the sheets, she crossed to the window. The city stretched beneath a pale sky, wet from last night's tide. Down in the street, vendors were already arranging marigolds and spices on their carts. A new day, impatient as ever.
She brewed a quick cup of coffee and stood by her desk, flipping through the notes she'd scribbled after dinner — figures about the Khurana site, names of contractors, a rough outline for the heritage team. The practical work steadied her nerves.
But one thought kept surfacing: Rudra Singh doesn't just see the project — he sees me.
Her phone buzzed. A new message lit the screen.
> Rudra Singh:
Good morning, Ms. Rathore. I've secured access to the Khurana island for us to review the site. A chopper will be ready at 2 p.m. if you're free.
A helicopter. Typical of him — efficiency wrapped in extravagance.
Disha sipped her coffee, weighing the invitation. Going would be logical; a first look at the property could shape their entire plan. Yet part of her bristled at the way he assumed she'd adjust her day for him.
Another notification appeared, this one from her cousin Meera.
> Meera:
Call me when you can. Grandmother's health is slipping again, and Uncle is making trouble about the trust papers. We could use you here.
The message dragged Disha's focus back to family — the familiar tangle of affection and obligation, of people who both loved her and tried to limit her. She set the phone down, rubbing her forehead.
Two choices waited on her desk: a neat folder marked "Khurana Project" and the blinking screen with her cousin's plea. For a moment she simply stared at them, feeling the old tension between duty and ambition stir inside her.
When she finally reached for the folder, she knew it wasn't a dismissal of family. It was a reminder: she'd promised herself that no one — not even blood — would shrink her world again.
She typed a brisk reply to Meera: I'll call after lunch. Stay calm until then.
Then to Rudra: 2 p.m. works. I'll meet you at the helipad.
As she closed the messages, the faintest smile tugged at her lips. Whatever storm the day held, she intended to meet it on her own terms.
Across the Water
By midafternoon, the city heat had sharpened to a white glare. Disha's car pulled up beside the private helipad on the southern edge of the bay. A single chopper waited, its blades turning lazily, scattering sunlight across the tarmac.
Rudra stood near the cabin, sleeves rolled, tie tucked into his vest against the wind. Even at a distance he had the kind of presence that bent the space around him. When his gaze found hers, the curve of his mouth was unreadable — somewhere between welcome and provocation.
He stepped forward as she approached. "Ms. Rathore." His voice carried easily over the rotors. "Glad you could make time for a little adventure."
"I'm here for work, Singh." Her tone was cool, though she felt the faintest tug of a smile. "Adventure is optional."
"We'll see about that." He held out a hand to help her into the cabin. She ignored the gesture and climbed in on her own, settling opposite him as the pilot secured their belts.
The helicopter lifted, slicing through layers of hot air, and the city shrank beneath them — a map of slate roofs and glittering coastline. Disha looked out at the spreading blue of the Arabian Sea, letting the wind press cool fingers against her face.
Rudra leaned back, crossing one long leg over the other. "You don't like assistance," he observed.
"I don't like assumptions," she countered, eyes still on the horizon.
His chuckle was low, almost drowned by the blades. "Point taken."
The flight lasted barely twenty minutes, but the quiet between them stretched, filled only by the thrum of the engine. Every now and then Disha caught Rudra studying her, not with obvious appraisal but with a measured focus, as if he were cataloguing her reactions to the world.
When the island appeared — a pale crescent of sand wrapped around a spine of rocky cliffs — Disha leaned closer to the window. Dense greenery spilled down slopes toward a turquoise inlet. From above, the place looked untouched, waiting.
The pilot set the craft down on a cleared patch near the tree line. As the rotors slowed, Rudra unbuckled and offered his hand again. This time she took it — practical, nothing more — and stepped out onto warm grass.
"Impressive," she admitted, shading her eyes as she surveyed the landscape.
"I thought you'd appreciate it." Rudra's gaze followed hers over the sweep of palm trees and hidden coves. "Khurana had vision, but he never finished what he started. We will."
Disha started toward a faint trail leading inland. "Assuming we agree on what to build."
He fell into step beside her. "That's the fun part — turning rivals into reluctant partners."
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "Reluctant is the right word."
The path opened onto a rise overlooking the sea. Below, the remains of an old stone bungalow crouched among banyan trees, its walls veined with ivy. Waves lapped at a narrow beach, each one scattering flecks of sunlit foam.
For a moment they stood in silence, the wind carrying the scent of salt and earth. Disha felt the steady weight of Rudra's presence beside her — solid, certain, like the island itself.
"Whatever we decide," she said, breaking the quiet, "this place deserves respect."
His glance was brief but steady. "So do you."
The words landed between them, unexpected and unpolished. Before she could reply, he turned toward the bungalow, already discussing surveys and permits, leaving her to wonder if he meant what she thought he did.
Echoes in Stone
The ruins of the bungalow crouched on a low bluff above the sea. Its once-white walls were mottled with lichen; the roof had collapsed inward, leaving jagged beams clawing at the sky. Ivy spilled through empty windows like green waterfalls, and the breeze carried the scent of damp wood and salt.
Disha picked her way over uneven flagstones, pausing where a faded mosaic hinted at a long-forgotten veranda. She crouched, brushing a thumb over the weathered tiles. "Whoever built this cared about details," she murmured. "Look at the inlay work — coral and mother-of-pearl."
Rudra stepped beside her, hands in his pockets, surveying the damage. "Sentimental value won't rebuild a roof."
"It's not sentiment," she replied, straightening. "It's history. This place deserves more than a glass-and-steel resort."
He arched a brow. "So you'd rather preserve every crack?"
"I'd rather weave the past into what we create," she said, meeting his gaze. "A retreat that honours its roots. Modern, yes, but respectful."
Rudra's mouth curved, the faintest challenge behind it. "Convince me it won't turn into a museum nobody wants to stay in."
Disha walked deeper into the shell of the house, letting her heels crunch on fallen plaster. Light spilled through the roof gaps, sketching shifting patterns across the floor. "Imagine suites tucked into the cliffs," she said. "Glass walls opening to the sea, but framed by these stones. A library where guests can read about the island's history. Paths leading to untouched coves."
He followed her, eyes narrowing as if picturing the scene. "Not bad," he admitted. "But we'll need infrastructure — power, water, comms."
"Discreet systems," she countered. "Solar panels behind the ridge, rainwater harvesters disguised as part of the gardens."
They reached a large arched opening that looked out across the beach. The ocean rolled in slow silver waves, the horizon clear and wide. For a moment neither spoke.
"This view alone could sell the place," Rudra said quietly.
Disha folded her arms, leaning against the stone. "Views don't keep guests. Soul does."
He glanced at her, and something unreadable flickered in his expression — part admiration, part warning. "You're relentless."
"Only when I care about the outcome."
Rudra stepped closer, enough that she caught a faint trace of his cologne, sharp with cedar and smoke. "Good," he said, voice low. "I prefer opponents who won't fold at the first push."
Disha held her ground, though her pulse skipped. "I'm not your opponent."
"Not yet," he murmured, the words brushed with a smile.
Before the moment could shift further, a gust of wind sent a shower of leaves across the floor. Rudra turned toward the doorway, business sliding back over him like armour. "We'll need a survey team here by next week. And a structural engineer."
Disha exhaled slowly, steadying herself. "I'll assemble a list tonight."
As they stepped out into the sunlight, she glanced back at the bungalow. Even in ruin, it carried a quiet promise — of stories waiting to be written, of strength hidden beneath scars.
And maybe, she thought, so did she.
Rain Over the Cove
The trail beyond the bungalow wound down through thickets of hibiscus and tamarind, their leaves whispering in the warm breeze. Rudra walked a pace ahead, steady on the slope, while Disha tested each step, careful of loose stones slick with sea spray.
At the bottom, the trees opened onto a crescent-shaped cove. Water shimmered a pale turquoise, framed by cliffs draped with hanging roots. Driftwood lay scattered across the sand like bleached bones. The air smelled of salt and something sweet — wild jasmine clinging to the rocks.
Disha let out a quiet breath. "This place is… untouched."
Rudra scanned the horizon, hands on his hips. "Khurana must have known. He built the bungalow close enough to guard this view."
"Or to hide it," she said, walking closer to the surf. The water lapped over her shoes, cool against her skin. "Some treasures aren't meant for crowds."
He watched her for a long moment. "You speak as if you already own the island."
"I don't," she replied, brushing damp sand from her fingertips. "But I respect what it could become."
A gust of wind caught her hair, tangling it across her face. Before she could move, Rudra reached out, fingers catching a wayward strand. He tucked it behind her ear, a gesture so uncalculated it startled them both.
The sky rumbled — a low, distant growl. Disha glanced up to see dark clouds rolling fast from the west, their edges stitched with silver. A sheet of rain advanced over the sea, moving with quiet menace.
"Storm's coming," Rudra said. "We should head back."
Too late. The downpour swept across the cove in seconds, drenching them in warm, heavy drops. Disha laughed — quick, unguarded — and pushed wet hair from her eyes.
"Of course," she muttered. "Perfect timing."
Rudra looked at her, rain running down his jawline, soaking the open collar of his shirt. Something about the moment — the wildness of it, the absence of polished control — drew a softer edge to his expression.
"Shelter," he said, gesturing toward a narrow overhang where the cliff curled inward. They scrambled beneath it, breathless and dripping. The rock above gave just enough cover to break the torrent.
For a while they stood there, rain pounding the beach only a few feet away. Disha felt the weight of quiet settle between them, different from the silences they'd shared before. Here, without boardrooms or bidding wars, there was only the smell of wet stone and sea, and the warmth of another body beside hers.
Rudra broke the stillness first, his voice low against the roar. "You're not what I expected."
She turned toward him, rainwater sliding from her lashes. "Is that good or bad?"
His mouth curved, almost a smile. "Dangerous."
Disha looked back at the rain, hiding the sudden twist in her chest. She told herself it was only weather, only work — but part of her knew this storm wasn't just on the horizon.
Echoes After Rain
By the time the rain softened to a silvery drizzle, the cove had taken on a hushed, dreamlike quality. Mist drifted off the sea, clinging to the edges of the cliffs. Disha stepped out from beneath the rocky overhang and tilted her face toward the breeze. The air smelled of salt, wet jasmine, and something faintly metallic left by the storm.
Rudra offered his hand to help her across a slick patch of stone. She hesitated only a heartbeat before sliding her fingers into his. His grip was steady, warm even through the damp, and he released it the moment her footing was secure.
They climbed the path in companionable silence, the trail darkened by rain. Puddles mirrored fragments of sky, and somewhere above, a lone bird called, its voice sharp against the softened world.
At the top, the bungalow waited, its white walls gleaming against the storm-darkened sea. Rudra pushed open the door, letting them into a room alive with the scent of wet wood and old paper. The staff had already left supplies: a pot of ginger tea steaming beside two cups, and a folded set of maps for their review.
Disha peeled off her damp blazer, draping it over the back of a chair. Her silk blouse clung to her skin, a reminder of how completely the rain had found her. She wrapped her arms around herself, less from cold than from an unexpected sense of exposure.
Rudra poured tea into both cups, then handed one to her. "For the chill," he said.
"Thanks." She took a sip; warmth spread through her chest, easing the tension left by their sprint up the hill.
For a moment, neither spoke. Rain pattered against the wide windows, the only sound in the room.
Finally Rudra set his cup down. "Why this island, Disha? Out of everything you could invest in — why here?"
She traced the rim of her mug, considering. "Because it's more than a project. Khurana built something meant to last, and then it was forgotten. I know what that feels like."
He didn't look away. "To be forgotten?"
"To build yourself from pieces people didn't think were worth saving." Her voice came out softer than intended. She set the cup down before it could tremble in her hands. "I don't want to just own the rights to this place. I want to make sure it survives. That it matters."
Something in Rudra's face shifted — a flicker of recognition, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. He leaned back against the edge of the table, arms loosely crossed. "Khurana wanted it to be a refuge. A place where the noise stops long enough for people to see themselves clearly."
"And you?" she asked quietly. "What's in it for you?"
He studied the rain beyond the window, expression unreadable. "Control," he said at last. "I spend my life in negotiations, markets, headlines. Projects like this remind me I can shape something that doesn't answer to quarterly reports." He paused, then added, softer, "And because you were willing to fight for it. That told me it was worth the trouble."
Disha looked at him — really looked — and for a heartbeat, the room felt smaller, the air thicker with things neither of them could name.
A knock at the door broke the spell: the pilot, come to let them know the weather was clearing enough for a flight back to the mainland. Rudra glanced at Disha, an unreadable smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
"Looks like the adventure pauses here," he said.
She grabbed her blazer, smoothing damp fabric. "For now."
As they stepped out into the lingering drizzle, the island behind them felt alive with stories waiting to be uncovered — and with a tension neither of them was ready to admit had begun to take root.