Ravi's laugh came light and careless, the kind that echoed without weight. His slippers shuffled softly on the polished marble floor as he turned away from the fading conversation, heading toward his room. The Sighaniya Mansion, with its expansive hallways and whispered opulence, didn't quite swallow his presence—it absorbed it, the way a house long used to secrets welcomed the comfortable silence that followed a shared moment.
"Good night, Rudra. Aarav," Ravi said over his shoulder, waving lazily without looking back. His voice held no tension, only the residue of a long day.
Rudra didn't respond immediately. He stood there, still near the grand staircase, arms loosely crossed, eyes heavy with a thought that didn't reach his lips. His jaw tensed ever so slightly, and his gaze followed Ravi's figure until it disappeared around the curve of the hallway, the soft glow of the library light casting golden shadows.
"I wish you happiness soon, Ravi," Rudra murmured to himself, voice low, nearly lost in the hush of the evening. "Not just on the outside... but deep within too."
He turned then, slowly, and began to ascend the stairs to his room at the top floor. His steps were steady, but there was a heaviness in his movement, as if his own thoughts weighed down each motion. Aarav, silent beside him until now, peeled away toward the second floor without a word, his hand trailing briefly along the old oak banister.
The mansion exhaled around them, settling into its nighttime hush.
Ravi made his way downstairs, passing the thick wood-framed entrance to the office and the quieter, darker edge of the personal library. The air here smelled different—cedar shelves, old paper, and that peculiar, slightly musky richness that only aged homes had. His room was tucked just beyond the corridor's turn, a private suite near the back, the kind of room that once might've belonged to a favored guest or a younger heir. It suited Ravi—removed, yet not disconnected.
He reached his door and paused, his hand on the handle, eyes flicking down the hall one last time. Aarav and Rudra were gone, their footsteps already swallowed by the stairs above. Silence again. Alone, now.
He opened the door slowly. The room was dim, the curtains half-drawn, letting in slashes of moonlight across the floor and bedspread. For a second, it felt untouched, still. But something tugged at him, a faint trace of scent—not his own cologne, something floral, something unfamiliar but pleasant.
His brow furrowed slightly as he stepped in, flicking on the lamp. A soft amber glow bathed the room.
"Anaya...?" he said aloud, though not expecting an answer. There was no one here. The bed was untouched, and the couch empty. But the air felt lived in. He scanned the room, and then his gaze landed on the wardrobe.
A bag.
Not his.
Not there this morning.
He approached slowly, drawn by instinct more than suspicion. His fingers curled around the zipper of the duffel, and as he opened it, he found confirmation—Anaya's clothes. A few folded pieces: slacks, crisp shirts, two suits that spoke of professionalism, efficiency. No frills. No glamour.
But no overly conservative presence, either. These were her—practical, neat, with an edge of grace that didn't need announcing.
Still, Ravi's eyes narrowed with curiosity. He pulled out a few garments, holding them briefly, studying the style. Then, without quite realizing what compelled him, he stepped toward the wardrobe and began placing them gently on the side where she'd begun to arrange her things earlier that week.
He was mid-motion, one hand placing a navy blouse onto a hanger, when his eye caught a different color—something darker, silkier, barely peeking from the lower drawer on the left side of the wardrobe.
He hesitated.
Then crouched.
He pulled the drawer open.
And there it was.
At first, it looked like a dress. A short one, black silk, delicate straps tangled slightly from how it had been folded. He took it out with care, unfolding it slowly.
But it wasn't a dress. Not one meant for outside wear, at least.
His hands paused in midair.
The fabric shimmered faintly in the light. A thin strip of lace ran along the edge, dipping daringly at the back—if there was a back at all. He turned it around, inspecting the cut.
No. Not a dress.
A nighty.
Short. Backless. And not the kind worn for sleep alone.
His breath caught, just for a moment. Not from shock, but from the sudden shift in atmosphere.
He held it between both hands, letting the silk flow down over his arms like water. For a man like Ravi, who carried humor like armor, something stirred then—unexpected, slow, and low in his chest.
Desire. Curiosity. Something darker.
A smile crept across his face, faint at first, then deeper, sharper at the edges. A smirk. Not playful. Not mischievous. Something more calculated. Something that said he was no longer just looking at a piece of clothing—he was thinking about her in it.
The image played uninvited in his mind. Her bare shoulders. The way the fabric would cling to her hips. The way she'd look over her shoulder, not quite smiling, daring him to speak.
He rolled his tongue across the inside of his cheek.
And laughed—softly. A breathy, rich sound that didn't reach his eyes.
"Well, well… Miss Anaya," he murmured under his breath, folding the nighty again slowly, almost reverently. "Didn't expect this from you."
He glanced toward the door, half-expecting it to swing open.
But the room remained quiet.
He slid the nighty back into the drawer carefully, smoothing the fold. Then, after a second's pause, he opened the next drawer and peeked in. A few more garments. Intimate. Private.
He didn't touch those.
Not yet.
Instead, he closed the drawers, one after the other, and stood up. A different tension in his shoulders now.
His gaze lingered on the wardrobe, even after he stepped away.
The Sighaniya Mansion stood quiet and tall, moonlight brushing across its arched windows and thick curtains. The chandelier in the main hall glinted faintly, unmoving. Upstairs, Rudra sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall with eyes full of a storm he never let out. On the second floor, Aarav leaned against his balcony railing, a drink in hand, watching the garden shadows move.
And downstairs—deep in his private room—Ravi stood still in the quiet, one hand on the wardrobe door, the other still tingling faintly with silk.
The smirk hadn't left his face.
But something else had joined it now.
Anticipation.
.______..______..______..______.💕.______..______.
The suitcase sat half-zipped on the bed, a corner of a folded dupatta peeking out, vivid red against the beige interiors of the Sighaniya guest room. Rudra stood next to it, one hand on the zipper, the other frozen mid-motion as the soft sound of running water from the bathroom cut off.
Then—
The bathroom door clicked open.
And she walked out.
Anaya.
Hair damp, skin glowing from the steam, dressed casually in a loose white kurti and navy leggings. There was nothing intentionally seductive about her appearance—yet everything about it was arresting. Real. Present.
Rudra's eyes caught hers the moment she stepped out.
Her voice came before anything else.
"What are you doing?"Soft. Calm. But sharp enough to freeze his blood for a second.
He straightened, hands dropping instinctively from her bag. The zipper made a soft closing sound, as if trying to cover for him, but the damage was done.
Caught.
Rudra blinked, something between guilt and surprise flashing in his eyes.
"I… was just—"Words stumbled as he fumbled for dignity. His gaze darted to the wardrobe. To the floor. Then back to her.
But she didn't move. She stood at the bathroom threshold, towel still draped around her shoulders, wet strands clinging to her collarbone.
Silence stretched between them.
He took a slow step toward her.
"Kahi jaa rahi ho?" he asked, voice deliberately casual, trying to slide the focus away from the suitcase he'd clearly been snooping through.
Anaya's brows lifted, skeptical but amused. "Jaa toh rahi hoon."
Rudra smirked faintly. He took another step, closing the gap."Kahan? Aur kis ke saath? Main jaan sakta hoon?"
Her eyes didn't drop. They stayed on his, challenging.
"You're the boss, the CEO. Mujhe nahi pata tha ki aapko itinerary ka bhi update dena padta hai."She didn't smile, but her tone had bite.
He clicked his tongue, lips curling into something smug. "Janvi?" he asked knowingly.
She gave the smallest nod, stepping sideways, attempting to slide past him toward her bag.
But he moved too.
Effortless. Intentional.
He shifted just enough to block her path.
His body turned slightly, one hand now resting casually against the wardrobe, the other lifting to press against the wall beside her. A quiet corner now caged her in, his presence large and inescapable.
The air thickened instantly.
Anaya looked up at him—half defiance, half something unspoken.
He leaned in, just enough that his breath touched her damp cheek."Aur koi?" he asked, voice low.
She blinked. "Janvi… and…"She faltered."I don't know."
Rudra watched her eyes flutter briefly—not in shyness, but in that brief moment when the mind forgets the script, and the heart writes its own.
She wasn't intimidated. But she was stirred. And that's what made this dangerous.
She turned slightly, as if to create space.
He didn't let her.
In a single slow movement, his hand dropped from the wall—and came to rest lightly on the waistband of her kurti. Just a touch. Nothing too bold. But enough to send a signal.
Anaya's breath hitched. Her eyes snapped to his hand.
"Rudra…"
He tilted his head, pretending innocence, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed him."Hmm?"
"Don't."
But she didn't move away.
He stepped closer, slowly, deliberately, until there was no more space left to retreat.
"Mujhe laga tum kuch chhupa rahi ho."His fingers flexed slightly at her waist—still light, still not pushing, but undeniably there.
"Kya?" she asked, heart beating faster than she let him see.
His smile darkened slightly."Ye safar… ye business trip… ya khud ko?"
She stared at him, lips parting as if to retort—but no words came out.
For a second, she hated the heat rising in her cheeks. Hated the fact that his closeness affected her more than she would ever admit.
"This is not your concern," she said finally, her voice measured but tight.
"Tum mere concern ho."He said it without blinking. As if it were fact. Not up for debate.
"Rudra—"
He didn't let her finish.
His hand lifted—slow, still gentle—and pushed back a strand of wet hair from her forehead. His fingers grazed her skin, feather-light. She froze.
"You think I didn't notice?" he whispered.
She swallowed. "Notice what?"
"Ki tum meri har baat sunti ho… par kabhi aankhon se nahi sunti."
He leaned just a little closer.
"Maybe it's time you did."
And for a moment, the tension became unbearable—delicious and dangerous. The air between them pulsed with something old, something unfinished.
Her phone buzzed loudly on the table.
She blinked hard. Stepped back.
The contact broke.
Like a spell lifted.
"That's Janvi," she said quickly, voice back to business.
He nodded, pulling away with a shrug, casual again.
But that dark smirk hadn't left.
"9 PM flight, right?"
She narrowed her eyes. "You do know."
He laughed softly, stepping back toward the wardrobe, giving her space.
"Of course. I'm the CEO. Remember?"
She didn't answer. Just grabbed her bag, brushed past him.
But even as she left, she could feel his eyes following her. She could feel the heat of his palm still pressed like a phantom mark on her waist.
And Rudra—
He stood there a moment longer, staring at the closed door.
He whispered to himself:"Safe travels, Anaya. Lekin yeh safar sirf kaam ka nahi hone wala…"
Then he smiled.
That same dark, knowing smile.
.______..______..______.💋.______..______.
The clock ticked toward evening, its soft clicks echoing in the grand silence of the Sighnaiya Mansion. The hallway outside Rudra's room stretched wide and empty, washed in the dim amber of overhead lights. Somewhere downstairs, the faint clatter of cutlery hinted that dinner had just been served — untouched by the two who now stood at the edge of a storm.
Anaya had just stepped out of the bathroom, towel-drying her slightly damp hair, dressed casually in soft beige kurti and jeans. Her skin glowed with that post-shower softness, and there was a stillness in her eyes — like the calm right before rain.
She stopped in her tracks.
Her suitcase was open. The clothes she had carefully packed just minutes ago were now slightly shuffled. Rudra stood beside it, one hand on the zipper, frozen like a thief caught in the act.
"What are you doing?" Her voice wasn't angry. It was soft — too soft — and that made it more dangerous.
Rudra's eyes darted toward her, caught in the space between guilt and mischief. "Bas… dekh raha tha," he muttered, not moving from his spot.
He had expected her to still be drying her hair or texting Janvi. He hadn't expected her to walk in on him mid-curiosity. Her things had always been a mystery to him — especially the kind of clothes she wore when she wasn't around the house. When she wasn't around him.
"Tum kahin jaa rahi ho?" he asked quickly, a faint smile on his lips, trying to shift the moment.
Anaya narrowed her eyes, arms folded across her chest, stepping fully into the room now. "Jaa toh rahi hoon."
"Kahan?" Rudra's tone was light, teasing. But something in his eyes was dead serious. "Aur kis ke saath? Main jaane ka haq rakhta hoon?"
She raised a brow, dryly. "Tum toh CEO ho. Tumhein nahi pata?"
That hit. Rudra let out a smirk, not stepping away, just tilting his head slightly. "Janvi?"
Anaya gave a slow nod, walking toward the mirror on the side table. She picked up her moisturizer, trying to ignore the weight of his stare. She could feel his presence like a shadow — lingering, tall, heavy with words unspoken.
He took a step closer. She sensed it. Every movement of his was intentional — the way he walked, how he tilted slightly to block her path with one arm on the wardrobe, the other on the wall beside her. She stopped, cornered.
He didn't touch her. Not yet. But his voice dropped lower. Deeper.
"Aur koi?"
The silence between them grew thick. A heat formed in the room, and not the kind the AC could chase away.
"Janvi ke alawa?" he asked again, his tone layered. Not jealousy. Not entirely. Possession? Maybe. Something darker.
Anaya bit her lower lip — not in flirtation, but in thought. She hated when he did this — played coy while acting like he owned every breath she took. "I don't know... maybe just the team?" she said, voice unsure, distracted.
Rudra's gaze dropped, scanning her face, then trailing to her waist where the hem of her kurti fluttered slightly. His hand moved — slow, deliberate — resting lightly on the side of her waistband. Not grabbing. Just touching. Just enough to remind her he was there.
Her breath hitched.
"Tum jaa rahi ho," he said, almost to himself, his fingers brushing the cotton fabric. "Par main yeh nahi janta ki tum lautogi kis tarah."
Anaya shifted slightly, her back brushing the wardrobe. Her hand went up — instinctively — resting against his chest, keeping him at a fragile distance.
"Rudra…" she warned.
But Rudra wasn't listening. His eyes locked on hers, voice soft now, almost whispering. "Kya tum wapas aogi… waisi hi Anaya jaise tum gayi ho?"
The air grew heavy with meaning. Anaya didn't answer. Her fingers curled slightly against his chest — not pushing, not pulling. Just feeling.
He moved closer, their noses inches apart. His breath was warm against her skin.
And then — a knock.
Both of them snapped out of it.
Anaya turned away first, flustered. Rudra stepped back, jaw tight, his usual calm back in place. The moment had passed — but it wasn't forgotten.
Janvi's voice came muffled from the hallway: "Anaya! Flight ke liye late ho raha hai!"
Anaya grabbed her bag — the same one Rudra had been touching moments ago — and adjusted her kurti. Her eyes met his once, briefly. Whatever had almost happened had been locked away for now.
But not erased.
As she turned to leave, Rudra's voice followed her, low and unreadable.
"Safe flight."
She didn't turn around. Just whispered, "Thanks."
And left.