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Second last chapter guyssss

Author's POV
The house had finally fallen asleep.
The laughter from the garden was gone. The music was packed away. The marigold fragrance still lingered in the corridors, mixed with turmeric and roses. Isha sat alone on the edge of her bed, legs folded, dupatta loosely draped over her shoulders.
Her room felt different tonight.
Too quiet.
Too aware.
She looked down at her hands again.
The haldi had dried, leaving a faint golden tint on her skin. Her mehendi—dark, almost black—stood out sharply against it. She traced the patterns slowly, absentmindedly.
"So dark…" she murmured to herself.
Her lips curved into a small, helpless smile.
They say it means he loves you too much.
She shook her head lightly, as if scolding her own thoughts. "Stupid traditions," she whispered—yet her heart fluttered anyway.
The balcony curtains moved.
Just slightly.
Isha froze.
She didn't turn immediately. She didn't need to.
She knew.
A soft tap against the glass.
Once.
Twice.
Her eyes closed for a second, a smile tugging at her lips before she even realized it.
"You're late," she said quietly, still not looking back.
The balcony door slid open.
"And you're still awake," Shivansh replied, voice low, familiar, wrapped in the night.
She finally turned.
He stood there, leaning casually against the railing, moonlight outlining his frame. White kurta, sleeves rolled up. Hair slightly messy. Eyes dark—always darker when he looked at her like that.
"Everyone's asleep," she said, almost accusingly.
"So are their worries," he replied, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
She folded her arms. "You shouldn't be here."
He raised an eyebrow. "You say that every time."
"And you never listen."
"And you still let me in."
Their eyes locked.
Silence stretched—thick, charged.
He noticed it then.
The way her shoulders were slumped. The faint redness around her eyes. The quiet she wore like a second skin.
"Come here," he said softly.
She didn't move.
"Isha," he called, voice gentler now. "Come."
She stood slowly, walking toward him until there was barely an inch between them.
"You cried," he stated.
She looked away. "Everyone cries during haldi."
"That's not what this was," he said, lifting her chin with two fingers. "Talk to me."
She swallowed. "It felt… final today."
His expression softened.
"Like I was giving something away," she continued, voice barely above a whisper. "Like my childhood… my home… everything was being sealed with turmeric and smiles."
He stepped closer.
"And what did you keep?" he asked.
She met his eyes. "You."
Something shifted between them.
He didn't kiss her.
Instead, he rested his forehead against hers.
"I'm not taking you away from anything," he murmured. "I'm adding myself to your world."
Her breath hitched.
"You don't have to be strong with me," he added quietly. "Not tonight."
Her hands clutched his kurta on their own.
"I don't know how not to be," she admitted.
He smiled softly. "I do."
His hand slid to her wrist—gentle, slow—turning her palm upward. His thumb brushed over the haldi-stained skin.
"Still smells like turmeric," he teased lightly.
She huffed. "You came all this way to complain?"
"No," he said, eyes dropping to her neck. "I came to remind you."
"Of what?"
"That this…" His fingers brushed her shoulder, careful, reverent. "This is also yours."
She inhaled sharply as his lips brushed just below her ear.
Not a kiss.
A promise.
"Shivansh…" she whispered.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly.
She didn't.
Instead, she rested her forehead against his chest.
"I missed you," she confessed.
"I was down the whole time waiting for everyone to sleep," he replied.
"I still missed you."
His arms wrapped around her then—slow, secure. One hand settled at her waist, the other at her back.
"You're glowing," he murmured. "Haldi suits you."
She smiled weakly. "You say that because you like trouble."
"I say that because you look like you belong in my arms."
She tilted her head up.
Their lips met—not rushed, not hungry.
Soft.
Unhurried.
Like they were savoring the moment rather than stealing it.
She pulled back first, breathless. "Careful," she warned. "Someone might see."
He smiled against her cheek. "Balcony curtains are closed."
"That doesn't mean—"
"Isha," he interrupted gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face, "look at me."
She did.
"You're not alone in this," he said. "Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
Her eyes shimmered.
She leaned into him again, this time willingly, her hands slipping around his neck.
"This," she whispered, "is unfair."
He chuckled softly. "Love usually is."
They stayed like that for a long time.
No urgency.
No promises spoken aloud.
Just the quiet certainty that whatever awaited them—
They were walking into it together.
The moment lasted.
Too long.
Too warm.
Too wrong.
And that was when it hit her.
Isha stiffened in Shivansh's arms—not because she didn't want him there, but because her mind finally caught up with her heart.
Her breath hitched.
"Shivansh…" she whispered, pulling back just enough to look at him.
He frowned slightly. "What happened?"
Her eyes dropped to her hands again—haldi-stained, glowing softly in the dim light. Then slowly, painfully, she looked back up at him.
"Today…" she began, voice trembling. "Today was haldi."
He froze.
The words settled between them like a quiet verdict.
She swallowed. "We're not… allowed to see each other after haldi."
For the first time since he entered the room, Shivansh didn't have a reply ready.
"I forgot," she whispered, almost ashamed. "I actually forgot."
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "So did I."
Silence.
Not awkward—heavy.
"So you shouldn't be here," she said, but there was no real conviction in her voice.
"I know," he replied just as softly. "But I'm here anyway."
Her eyes searched his face. "What if someone finds out?"
"They won't."
"And if they do?"
"Then I'll take the blame," he said without hesitation. "Always."
She looked away, conflicted. "This is already hard enough. Tomorrow we can't talk, can't meet, can't even look properly to each other before manda—"
"Isha," he interrupted gently, stepping closer again. "I didn't come to break rules."
"Then why did you come?"
He lifted her hand slowly—carefully—like it was something sacred.
"I came to mark you."
Her brows knitted together. "What?"
He glanced at the small bowl on her side table—the leftover haldi paste she hadn't washed off yet.
"You still have it," he said quietly.
She followed his gaze, realization dawning. "Shivansh, don't—"
"This is my way," he said, dipping his fingers lightly into the haldi. "No rituals. No mantras. Just me."
Her pulse quickened. "This isn't allowed."
Neither was the way he was looking at her.
"I know," he murmured. "That's why it matters."
He held her wrist gently and brushed the haldi onto the inside of her palm—slow, deliberate.
"This," he said softly, "is for patience."
She swallowed.
Then he traced a faint line just above her wrist.
"This," he continued, "is for every day you miss me even when I'm right there."
Her voice trembled. "You're making this harder."
"I'm making it memorable," he corrected.
His fingers moved again—just a touch of haldi along her collarbone, barely there.
She gasped softly. "Shivansh…"
"Not too much," he promised. "Just enough so you remember tonight when you're not allowed to see me."
Her eyes burned.
"You're unfair," she whispered.
"I'm in love," he replied simply.
She laughed softly through the emotion. "That's worse."
He wiped his fingers clean, then cupped her face with both hands—no haldi this time. Just warmth.
"After tonight," he said, forehead resting against hers, "I'll follow every rule."
"And now?"
"Now," he whispered, "I'm saying goodbye the only way I know how."
Their lips met—not in urgency, not in rebellion.
In restraint.
A kiss that lingered just enough to ache.
When they parted, she rested her head against his chest.
"This is the last time," she murmured.
"Tomorrow I will take you with me in front of everyone," he corrected.
She nodded, voice muffled. "I don't like it."
"Neither do I."
He kissed her forehead this time, lingering there.
"Sleep," he said softly. "Tomorrow begins the madness."
She smiled sadly. "You'll leave?"
"I should have already."
"But you didn't."
"No," he admitted. "Because once haldi happens… I don't get moments like this."
She stepped back reluctantly.
"Go," she said. "Before I change my mind."
He smiled—soft, helpless. "Goodnight, my almost-wife."
She watched him disappear into the night, haldi still warm on her skin.
And for the first time since the celebrations began,
she truly felt the wait.
The morning did not arrive quietly.
It never does on wedding days.
At Isha's House
The house woke up before the sun did.
Doors slammed. Someone shouted instructions. Someone else forgot them immediately.
"Isha! Wake up!"
"Her hair needs to be washed now!"
"Who kept the dupatta here yesterday?"
"Why is the flower basket empty?!"
Isha lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, heart racing.
Today.
Her fingers instinctively went to her palms—faint traces of mehendi still visible. She smiled softly, then swallowed hard.
"Isha, beta," her mother called from outside, knocking gently but urgently, "uth jao. Today is not the day to sleep."
"I'm awake," Isha replied, her voice cracking slightly.
She sat up slowly.
The realization hit her all at once.
I'm getting married today.
Again.
But this time—properly. Publicly. Loudly. With rituals, vows, witnesses, and a thousand eyes.
Prisha barged into the room without knocking, dressed in half-done makeup and mismatched bangles.
"She's awake!" she announced dramatically. "Ladies and gentlemen, the bride has survived the night!"
Isha laughed nervously. "You're too loud."
"You're too calm," Prisha countered, narrowing her eyes. "That's suspicious."
Ishika followed behind, holding a cup of tea. "Drink this before your nerves eat you alive."
"I'm not nervous," Isha said automatically.
All three of them looked at her.
Then Ishika smirked. "Say that again, but slower."
Isha exhaled. "Okay… I might be a little nervous."
"A little?" Prisha scoffed. "Your hands are shaking."
Isha looked down. They were.
Her mother entered then, eyes soft, smile emotional. She cupped Isha's face gently.
"Today," she said quietly, "you're not just becoming a bride. You're choosing happiness again."
Isha's eyes welled up. "What if I mess up?"
Her mother smiled. "You already survived the worst. Today is only love."
Outside the room, someone shouted, "The makeup artist is here!"
And suddenly, there was no time to breathe.
At Shivansh's Delhi Palace
If Isha's house was emotional chaos, Shivansh's palace was organized disaster.
"Where is my safa?"
"Why is my safa not ironed?"
"Who chose this necklace?"
"I chose it," Aviyansh replied smugly.
"Take it back," Shivansh snapped.
Ranveer leaned against the doorframe, amused. "Relax, Rana sa. You're not going to war."
"I feel like I am," Shivansh muttered, tugging at his sherwani.
Aviyansh grinned. "Nervous?"
"I'm fine."
"That was not convincing."
Shivansh stopped pacing and sat down heavily on the bed.
"I just—" he paused, exhaling slowly. "I need everything to be perfect."
His grandmother entered quietly, watching him for a moment before speaking.
"You're scared," she said gently.
He looked up. "What if she's overwhelmed? What if—"
"She loves you," she interrupted firmly. "And today, the world will finally see what we already know."
His mother adjusted his collar, eyes shining. "You waited for this day longer than you admit."
He nodded. "I don't want her to feel alone."
"You'll be right there," his father said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Always."
Aviyansh clapped suddenly. "Alright, emotional intermission over. Groom, stand up. The baraat leaves in an hour."
Shivansh stood, straightening his shoulders.
I'm ready.
Two Houses. One Destiny.
Somewhere Else… The Wedding Awaits
Far away from both houses, the wedding venue stood ready.
Open sky. Floral mandap. Sacred fire waiting patiently.
Two lives, trembling separately.
Two hearts, racing toward the same moment.
And somewhere between nervous laughter and quiet prayers—
Love prepared to become eternal.
By the time the clock slipped past noon, the air itself felt different.
Not festive yet.
Not calm either.
Just… heavy with something about to change.
Isha's House | 12:00 PM
The house that had hosted laughter, breakdowns, secrets, and silences for years was unusually loud today—but not with joy.
With instructions.
"Don't forget the bangle box!"
"Where's the kalire?"
"Who kept the safety pins?"
"Why is no one listening to me?"
Isha stood in the middle of the chaos, holding her phone in one hand, dupatta in the other, watching her mother move from room to room like she was trying to outrun time itself.
"Mummy," Isha said softly, "breathe."
Her mother stopped. Looked at her. Then laughed shakily.
"You're telling me to breathe? On your wedding day?"
"I've already panicked enough for both of us," Isha replied, attempting a smile.
Her father stood near the door, unusually quiet. He wasn't rushing. Wasn't shouting. Just… watching.
Watching his daughter walk around the house like she still belonged to it.
Dhruv checked the time. "Cars are ready."
That did it.
The noise dropped.
Everyone froze for half a second longer than necessary.
Isha's mother walked up to her and adjusted the loose strand of hair near her ear.
"You don't look like a bride yet."
"I don't feel like one," Isha admitted.
Her mother cupped her face gently.
"You don't have to today. Today, you're just… going somewhere new."
Her father cleared his throat.
"Let's go. We shouldn't be late."
Isha took one last look around.
At the walls.
At the staircase.
At the place she had cried into pillows and laughed with friends.
Then she stepped out.
The convoy moved slowly, deliberately.
Inside Isha's car, Prisha sat beside her, Ishika across, Arjun in the front seat pretending not to listen. Dhruv was driving the car.
No one spoke for a while.
Finally, prishaa said, "Okay, if anyone cries now, I'm crying harder."
Ishika scoffed. "You cry at ads."
Isha smiled faintly, looking out the window.
"I thought I'd be shaking more."
Dhruv glanced back. "You're calm because you trust him."
That made her blink.
Her phone buzzed softly in her hand.
Shivansh.
Getting ready soon.
She typed back slowly.
Don't be late.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Never for you.
She pressed the phone to her chest for just a second longer than needed.
The venue unfolded like a promise.
An open ground dressed in ivory and soft gold, florals climbing pillars, sheer fabric moving gently with the breeze. The mandap stood at the heart of it all—simple, sacred, waiting.
The moment Isha stepped out of the car, she stopped.
"Oh," she breathed.
Her mother's eyes softened.
"This is where you'll start again."
Event planners moved around efficiently.
"Bride's makeup area to the left."
"Jewellery station ready?"
"Someone get water for the bride."
Isha was guided inside gently, like glass that could shatter if rushed.
By the time she sat before the mirror, it was past 1:30 PM.
The makeup artist smiled reassuringly.
"We'll take it slow."
Slow was good.
Brushes moved across her skin like whispers.
Foundation blended.
Eyes deepened.
Lips softened.
Prisha stood behind her, arms crossed.
"No heavy contour. She looks scary."
Isha rolled her eyes. "I look regal."
"You look like you'll scare children," Ishika added helpfully.
Everyone laughed.
Time stretched.
Between touch-ups and breaks, her phone kept lighting up.
A message from Meher.
Flight delayed. Weather issues. We're reach soon.
Isha frowned, then replied.
Reach safely. That's what matters.
At 3:40 PM, raised voices echoed outside.
"I told you we'd make it!"
The door flew open.
"ISHAAA!"
Meher rushed in, breathless, followed by Luka and his girlfriend and Alessandro—riyan half-asleep in Alessandro's arms.
"You came," Isha whispered, standing despite the artist's protest.
Meher hugged her carefully.
"Did you think I'd miss this?"
Riyan peeked at her and smiled.
"Mama."
Isha laughed through tears.
"You're late."
"We made it, Alina. " Luka corrected. "That's enough."
By 5:00 PM, the venue began to glow.
Lights flickered on one by one.
Guests trickled in.
Music tested softly in the background.
Isha was now fully dressed.
Lehenga heavy.
Jewellery grounding.
Veil draped gently.
She sat on the bridal seat, hands folded, heart anything but calm.
She hadn't seen him yet.
And somehow, that made everything louder.
Her makeup artists adjusted her veil again.
"Comfortable?"
"As comfortable as one can be while waiting for their life to arrive," Isha murmured.
The room was silent.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind where even breathing felt loud.
Isha sat in front of the mirror, completely ready.
No unfinished touch-ups.
No loose strands.
No last-minute adjustments.
She was done.
The bridal lehenga wrapped around her like history and future stitched together—deep, rich hues catching the soft light. The jewellery rested against her skin, heavy but grounding, as if reminding her that she was real, that this was real.
Her rangoon-dyed hands lay folded in her lap, mehendi dark and proud against her palms. The veil framed her face gently, not hiding her—honouring her.
She looked at herself.
And for the first time in years…
She didn't look broken.
A knock came at the door.
Soft. Careful.
"Isha?" her mother's voice trembled.
"Yes, Mummy."
The door opened.
Her mother stepped in first.
And stopped.
Completely.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Oh… my…"
Her eyes filled instantly.
She walked closer, slower, like she was afraid this version of her daughter might disappear if she moved too fast.
"Isha…" her voice cracked, "…you look…"
Isha smiled softly. "Too much?"
Her mother shook her head, tears spilling freely now.
"No. You look like yourself. After so long… you look like you."
She touched her cheek, her forehead, her hair—every touch reverent.
"I thought… I thought I lost you," she whispered. "There were days I didn't recognise the girl sitting in front of me back then."
Isha's eyes burned.
"But today," her mother continued, pressing her forehead to Isha's, "today you're alive. I can see it."
The door opened again.
Her father stood there.
He didn't step in immediately.
He just looked.
His shoulders stiffened.
His jaw clenched.
His eyes… softened in a way they hadn't in years.
"Isha," he said quietly.
She turned.
"Papa."
That was it.
That single word broke him.
He walked to her, slowly, like each step carried five years of restraint.
"You know," he said, voice thick, "I imagined this moment so many times."
He swallowed.
"But I never imagined I'd be this scared."
"Scared?" she asked gently.
"That if I blink… you'll go back to being that quiet girl who smiled but never lived."
Her brother Arjun entered behind him, eyes already red.
"Stop talking like that," Arjun muttered. "She's right here."
Arjun crouched in front of her, trying to joke, failing badly.
"So," he said, voice shaky, "I guess I should warn him now. She cries during movies. Gets angry when hungry. And—"
"And loves too deeply," her father added softly.
Arjun nodded. "That too."
Isha reached out, holding Arjun's face.
Another presence filled the room.
Dhruv. .
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, pretending to be calm.
"You look…" he paused, exhaled sharply, "…dangerous."
She laughed softly. "Dangerous?"
"Yes," he said, stepping forward. "Because anyone who ever made you feel small will choke on regret today."
You never left me," she said. "Even when I was gone."
He looked down quickly, wiping his eyes.
"You better not disappear again."
"I won't."
She reached for his hand.
"You stayed angry for me."
"I stayed angry because someone had to," he replied. "While you were busy surviving."
Behind him, Prisha, Ishika, Meher, and the rest of her friends stepped in quietly.
They didn't rush her.
They didn't scream.
They just looked.
And then Prisha broke.
"Oh my God," she whispered, rushing forward. "You're glowing. Like—actually glowing."
Ishika nodded rapidly.
"This is illegal. Brides are not supposed to look this powerful."
Meher stood still, eyes shining.
"You're back."
Isha looked at her. "I never left."
"You did," Meher said honestly. "You existed… but you weren't living."
Prisha took Isha's hands carefully, tracing the mehendi.
"We lost five years with you. Five years where you were breathing but not present."
Isha's voice trembled. "I didn't know how to come back."
Ishika stepped closer, cupping her face.
"But you did. On your own terms. With scars. With strength."
"And today," Prisha added, smiling through tears, "you're choosing happiness without apology."
Her mother spoke again, voice steadier now.
"She didn't choose easily."
Her father nodded.
"She chose after surviving what should have destroyed her."
The room filled with emotion so thick it felt like it might spill.
Isha closed her eyes for a moment.
When she opened them, they were wet—but peaceful.
"I was dead once," she said softly.
"Not physically. But inside."
Everyone froze.
"And when I came back," she continued, "I didn't know if I deserved happiness."
Her father shook his head immediately.
"You always did."
Her mother whispered, "Always."
Isha smiled—small, real.
"Today," she said, "I'm not walking toward a marriage."
She stood slowly.
"I'm walking toward a life."
Silence.
Then Dhruv exhaled loudly.
"Great. Now we're all crying."
Prisha sniffed. "Worth it."
Her mother adjusted her veil one last time.
"Ready?"
Isha looked at her reflection again.
Not as a bride.
But as a woman who survived, healed, and chose love again.
"Yes," she said firmly.
"I'm ready."
The palace didn't wake up that morning.
It rose.
Music echoed through the corridors long before sunrise—shehnai blending with laughter, footsteps, and excited instructions being shouted over one another.
Shivansh stood in his room, already dressed.
Ivory sherwani, hand-embroidered with heritage stitched into every thread. The stole rested perfectly on his shoulder, the brooch gleaming softly against his chest. His safa was tied with precision—but his eyes were restless.
Not nervous.
Eager.
Aviyansh leaned against the door, arms crossed, grinning.
"Relax, Rana sa. You look like you're about to go conquer a kingdom."
Shivansh didn't look away from the mirror.
"I already did. Now I'm just going to bring my queen home."
Ranveer whistled.
"Oh ho. Someone's dramatic today."
"I'm serious," Shivansh replied calmly. "I waited years for this day."
The door opened again.
His grandmother and mother walked in.
The room went quiet instantly.
She was dressed in regal silk, her presence commanding without effort. In her hands—the aarti thali.
Shivansh turned fully toward her.
She looked at him for a long moment.
Too long.
Then she lifted her hand and touched his cheek.
"My child," she said softly, "today you are not just going to get married."
She lifted the aarti.
"Today, you are completing a circle destiny began years ago."
His throat tightened.
She performed the aarti slowly, deliberately—rotating the thali in front of him, whispering blessings under her breath.
"May you protect her joy."
"May you honour her pain."
"May you never forget the cost of love."
She applied the tilak on his forehead.
Ranveer murmured, "Okay, now I'm emotional."
Aviyansh elbowed him. "Shut up."
His grandfather stepped forward next, placing a firm hand on Shivansh's shoulder.
"Go," he said proudly. "Bring our bahu home."
His parents followed.
His mother adjusted his stole, her eyes glistening.
"You look handsome," she said. "But more than that—you look ready."
His father nodded.
"Remember. A marriage is not about grandeur. It's about standing when things fall apart."
"I know," Shivansh replied. "I've learned that the hard way."
Outside, engines roared to life.
The baraat was ready.
One by one, the family stepped out—grandparents, parents, uncles, aunts, forefathers, cousins, friends.
Cars lined the palace driveway like royalty on wheels.
Shivansh stepped into the lead car.
As the gates opened, the palace guards saluted.
The convoy moved.
Music blared.
Laughter followed.
But.
Two Minutes Before the Venue
Suddenly, the lead car slowed.
Then stopped.
"What's happening?" someone shouted.
Before anyone could ask again, the dhols exploded into sound.
DHOL—DHAM—DHOL.
Aviyansh grinned wickedly.
"Time for tradition."
Ranveer opened the door.
"Get out, dulhe rana sa."
Shivansh stepped out just as the horse was brought forward—majestic, white, adorned with royal fabric and bells.
He raised an eyebrow.
"You planned this without telling me?"
Aviyansh smirked.
"Obviously. Drama is mandatory."
Shivansh laughed, shaking his head, and mounted the horse gracefully.
The moment he did—
The baraat erupted.
"HO HO HO!"
"DULHA RANA SA KI JAI!"
"AAJ MERE YAAR KI SHAADI HAI!"
The dhol players went wild.
People danced without care—uncles losing dignity, cousins spinning wildly, forefathers clapping in rhythm.
His grandmother laughed openly.
"Look at them! Acting like they're twenty again!"
His mother joined in, clapping.
"Let them. Today is joy."
Shivansh sat tall on the horse, smiling wide, eyes shining.
He leaned down toward Avyansh.
"Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"My heart," Shivansh said. "It's louder than the dhols."
Ranveer pointed ahead.
"Venue's close."
Shivansh looked forward.
And whispered, almost to himself—
"I'm coming, janna."
The baraat moved again.
Dancing.
Laughing.
Singing.
The groom glowing not with arrogance—but with love earned through pain.
And somewhere ahead…
A bride waited.
The first sound reached her before anyone spoke.
A deep dhol beat—low, powerful, unmistakable.
Isha froze.
Her hands were resting in her lap, bangles stacked up to her elbows, henna still warm against her skin. The dupatta framed her face perfectly, the heavy bridal fabric grounding her body while her heart suddenly felt too light.
Dhol…
She tilted her head slightly, as if afraid that if she reacted too quickly, the sound might disappear.
Then it came again.
DHOL—DHAM.
Louder.
Closer.
Her breath caught.
"Isha," her mother whispered first, standing up slowly, disbelief soft in her voice, "do you hear that?"
Isha didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her lehenga.
Arav straightened instantly.
"That's… that's the baraat, right?"
Dhruv who had been leaning against the wall pretending calm for the last hour, laughed nervously.
"Obviously it is. You think someone else would come with this much noise?"
But his voice cracked at the end.
Her father stood up next.
Slowly. Deliberately.
As if the weight of the moment had settled on his shoulders all at once.
"So," he said quietly, clearing his throat, "they've come."
That was when it truly hit her.
He's here.
Not in dreams.
Not in stolen nights on the balcony.
Not in whispered promises.
Here.
Her friends rushed toward the window first.
Prisha pressed her forehead to the glass.
"Oh my God—OH MY GOD—it's huge!"
Ishika clutched her arm.
"Isha, I swear, if this is not the loudest baraat in history, I don't know what is."
Meher laughed softly, eyes shining.
"Of course it is. He's not the kind of man who arrives quietly."
At that—
Isha's lips curved into the faintest smile.
Her mother turned to look at her.
And stopped.
She had seen her daughter many times in her life—laughing, crying, breaking, rebuilding.
But this—
This was the first time she saw her as someone else's forever.
Her voice softened.
"My child…"
Isha looked up.
Her eyes were glossy, but steady.
"They're here," Isha said softly, as if saying it louder might make it too real.
Her father stepped closer, standing in front of her.
He didn't speak at first.
Just looked.
At the red of her bridal suit.
At the gold resting against her collarbone.
At the sindoor box waiting nearby.
At the daughter he had raised.
"You know," he said slowly, "when you were born, I held you and thought—this girl will change our lives."
He swallowed.
"I just didn't know she'd leave us so quietly."
Isha stood up instantly.
"Papa—"
He lifted a hand.
"No," he said gently. "Let me say this today."
His voice trembled.
"You are not leaving because you are weak. You are leaving because you are brave enough to love."
Her mother reached them, placing a hand on Isha's cheek.
"You were lost for years," she whispered. "And then… you came back."
Her eyes filled.
"He gave you back to yourself."
Dhruv turned away sharply.
Arjun noticed.
"Oi," Arjun said, nudging him, "don't start now."
Dhruv scoffed.
"I'm not crying."
Prisha raised an eyebrow.
"Your face disagrees."
Arjun looked at Isha then.
Really looked.
"You know," he said roughly, "I always thought I'd beat up the guy who took you away."
A weak laugh escaped her.
"But Shivansh…" Dhruv continued, voice softening, "…he didn't take you. He returned you."
Isha stepped forward and hugged him tightly.
"Don't miss me too much," she whispered.
He laughed against her shoulder.
"No promises."
Outside, the dhols grew louder.
Shouts followed.
"DULHE RANA SA KI JAI!"
"SHAADI MUBARAK!"
Her friends squealed.
"They're right at the entrance!" Ishika said.
"Isha, breathe!"
Isha exhaled shakily.
"I am," she lied.
Her mother adjusted her dupatta one last time.
"Remember," she said softly, "no matter where you go… this will always be your home."
Her father kissed her forehead.
"Go," he said, voice thick. "He's waiting."
Isha closed her eyes for half a second.
Then nodded.
And as the doors began to open—
As the noise, the music, the celebration flooded in—
Her heart whispered what her lips never said aloud:
I'm ready.
The moment the doors began to open downstairs, the air itself seemed to change.
The dhols softened—not because they stopped, but because reverence demanded space now.
Isha's father adjusted the stole on his shoulder, straightened his spine, and took a deep breath.
"Let's go," he said quietly.
Her mother nodded, already holding the aarti thaal, the diya steady in her hands despite the storm of emotions in her chest.
Dhruv walked between them.
Not as a brother today.
As a bridge.
As they descended the steps, voices rose from outside—
Cheers, laughter, the rhythmic chant of Shivansh's name.
But when Shivansh stepped forward, everything else blurred.
He stood tall, regal, composed—sherwani fitting him like it had always belonged to him. The soft gold embroidery caught the evening light, but it was his eyes that held stillness.
Respect.
Anticipation.
He stopped the moment he saw them.
His smile faded into something deeper.
Something… sincere.
His grandmother leaned forward slightly.
"Go," she murmured. "This moment is theirs."
Shivansh stepped ahead, removed his safa slightly, bowing his head.
Isha's father paused.
For a long second, neither spoke.
Then—
"Welcome," Isha's father said, voice steady but heavy with meaning.
"Not as a guest."
He swallowed.
"But as our son."
Something flickered in Shivansh's eyes.
He bent down instantly, touching Isha's father's feet.
"Thank you," he said softly.
"For trusting me with what matters most."
Isha's mother stepped forward then.
Her eyes lingered on him—not judgmental, not assessing.
Maternal.
She lifted the thaal.
"Stand still," she said gently. "Aarti first."
Dhruv smirked under his breath.
"Good luck, jiju."
Shivansh shot him a look.
"I was doing fine until you spoke."
Dhruv chuckled, stepping aside.
The diya circled Shivansh's face.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Isha's mother whispered a prayer under her breath—words only a mother says when she gives away her daughter.
She dabbed a tilak on his forehead.
"May you protect her happiness," she said softly.
"And may you never forget that she carries our hearts with her."
"I won't," Shivansh replied immediately.
"On my life."
His grandmother wiped her eyes.
Ranveer leaned toward Avyansh.
"I told you I'd cry."
Aviyansh shrugged.
"I already am."
Isha's father gestured toward the entrance.
"Come," he said. "The house—and the heart—is open."
As Shivansh stepped inside, Dhruv walked beside him.
Low voice.
Almost teasing.
"You mess this up," Dhruv warned, "and I don't care how royal you are."
Shivansh didn't even blink.
"I won't."
They paused for a second.
The noise outside faded.
The music softened.
And somewhere upstairs—
Isha stood still.
Unaware that at that exact moment, the man she loved crossed the threshold of her world.
Not as a visitor.
But as her destiny.
If you want, next we can write:
Isha watching from above as the aarti happens
Shivansh sensing her presence before seeing her
or the exact moment they see each other across floors.
Shivansh took one step forward—
And then stopped.
No one noticed it at first.
The music was still playing softly, relatives still murmuring, cameras still clicking—but something inside him shifted. Not dramatically. Not loudly.
Just… unmistakably.
He inhaled.
Slow.
Deep.
And frowned slightly.
Dhruv noticed first.
"You okay?" he asked under his breath.
Shivansh didn't answer immediately.
His gaze lifted—not to the people in front of him, not to the mandap being prepared, not even to the elders blessing him.
Up.
Toward the staircase.
Toward the upper floor.
"Isha," he murmured.
Dhruv blinked.
"What?"
"She's here," Shivansh said quietly, certainty settling into his bones. "She's… watching."
Dhruv scoffed softly.
"You haven't even seen her yet."
Shivansh's jaw tightened, just slightly.
"I don't need to."
His mother, walking behind him, paused.
"What is it?" she asked gently.
He didn't look away from the stairs.
"She's nervous."
His mother smiled—soft, knowing.
"Of course she is."
"No," he said. "Not like that."
He shifted his weight, fingers flexing unconsciously.
"She's holding her breath."
Isha stood frozen.
Not because she was afraid.
But because her body had forgotten how to move.
She was already ready.
Every ornament in place.
Every pleat perfect.
Every strand of hair disciplined into elegance.
Yet her hands trembled.
Prisha noticed immediately.
"Hey," she whispered. "Breathe."
Isha nodded—but didn't.
Her eyes were fixed on the scene below.
On the man standing at the center of it all.
Shivansh.
Her Shivansh.
"He looks unreal," Ishika whispered, wiping her own eyes. "Like… like he walked out of destiny itself."
Isha swallowed.
"He always does," she said softly.
Her mother had told her not to come to the railing yet.
"Wait," she had said. "Let the moment come to you."
But how could she wait—
When every nerve in her body screamed that he was already here?
Her fingers curled into her dupatta.
And then—
He moved.
Just a fraction.
Just enough.
And his head tilted.
Straight up.
The Exact Moment
Time fractured.
Noise dulled.
The world narrowed to a single line of sight.
Shivansh looked up—
And saw her.
Not fully.
Not clearly.
Just a glimpse at first.
Red.
Gold.
Light catching on bangles.
His breath hitched.
"There," Dhruv muttered. "Found her."
Shivansh didn't hear him.
Because Isha stepped closer to the railing.
And suddenly—
She was there.
Completely.
The bride.
His bride.
Her eyes met his.
And everything else ceased to exist.
Isha forgot where she was.
Forgot the people behind her.
Forgot the weight of her lehenga.
All she saw—
Was him.
Standing there.
Still.
Like the world had asked him to wait.
Her lips parted unconsciously.
"Ansh.." she whispered.
He didn't hear the sound.
But he saw the shape of it.
And his mouth curved into the smallest, softest smile.
The one he only ever gave her.
"You look…" Ranveer began from beside him.
Shivansh raised a hand.
"Don't," he said quietly.
Because no word would survive this moment.
Upstairs, Prisha leaned in.
"He hasn't blinked," she whispered. "Is that normal?"
Ishika laughed through tears.
"No. That's love."
Isha's eyes burned.
Not with tears yet.
With recognition.
With this is it.
Her father's voice echoed faintly from below.
"Isha."
She didn't look away.
Not even for a second.
"Beta," her mother called softly. "Come."
Still, she didn't move.
Shivansh took a step forward instinctively.
Dhruv caught his arm.
"Easy, Romeo. Rituals exist for a reason."
Shivansh exhaled sharply.
"She's shaking," he said.
Dhruv followed his gaze.
She was.
Just a little.
But Shivansh knew.
He lifted his hand—not waving, not dramatic.
Just pressed two fingers to his chest.
I'm here.
Isha's breath finally escaped.
Her shoulders relaxed.
She nodded once.
I know.
Her eyes softened.
And then—
She smiled.
Not the bridal smile for the world.
But the one she reserved for him alone.
The one that said—
I choose you. Again. Even now.
Shivansh's eyes darkened with emotion.
His mother noticed.
And quietly said,
"Go ahead."
He frowned.
"What?"
"Smile back properly," she teased gently. "She's watching."
He did.
This time fully.
Unapologetically.
And upstairs—
Isha finally let the tears fall.
Prisha hugged her instantly.
"There she goes."
Isha laughed through tears.
"He's here."
"Yes," Ishika whispered.
"And now… there's no turning back."
Isha wiped her eyes.
Straightened her spine.
And whispered, more to herself than anyone else—
"Let's do this."
Below, Shivansh straightened too.
His gaze never leaving the stairs.
Waiting.
Because the next time he would see her—
She would be walking toward him.
Forever.
The music softened first.
Not stopped—just softened.
As if even sound knew it needed permission to exist now.
A hush rippled through the venue.
Conversations dissolved mid-sentence.
Cameras lowered instinctively.
Even the flickering diyas seemed to burn steadier.
And then—
"She's coming," someone whispered.
At the top of the staircase, she appeared.
And the world forgot how to breathe.
Isha stood still for a heartbeat.
Not because she was unsure.
But because the moment demanded respect.
Not rushed.
Not hesitant.
Not dramatic.
Just… inevitable.
Not commanded.
Not announced.
It simply… happened.
Isha.
Wrapped in red and gold, her lehenga heavy with heritage, her veil casting a soft glow over her face. The embroidery caught the light like whispered prayers. Her jewellery didn't scream wealth—it spoke lineage.
Four figures stood beside her.
Her brothers.
One by blood others by heart.
Arjun.
Dhruv.
Arav.
Ritwik.
Arjun stood on her left, jaw tight, eyes already wet.
Dhruv on her right, trying to look calm, failing miserably.
Behind her, Arav and Ritwik—shoulders squared, expressions unreadable, but hands firm, unwavering.
Their sister.
Their pride.
Their goodbye.
They held the chuni above her head—high, steady, reverent—creating a canopy of protection, pride, and love.
The sound of her anklets was barely audible.
Yet it echoed.
One step.
They took the first step together.
The stairs weren't just stairs anymore.
They were a passage.
Then another.
Her brothers moved with her—synchronized, careful, reverent.
Arjun leaned in slightly.
"You okay?"
Isha nodded, eyes forward.
"I am."
Dhruv swallowed hard.
"If you trip, I'm blaming the lehenga."
She smiled faintly.
"Don't you dare."
Arav muttered,
"Anyone breathes too loud, I swear—"
Dhruv swallowed hard.
"Don't look down," he murmured. "You'll trip."
Isha smiled faintly.
"I'm not scared of falling," she whispered back. "I'm scared of crying."
Arjun's jaw tightened.
"Not today," he said softly. "Today, you walk like a queen."
Ritwik leaned closer, teasing through emotion.
"If you cry, I'm blaming Shivansh."
Arav exhaled shakily.
"She doesn't look real," he whispered. "She looks like… a memory already."
"Stop talking," Dhruv snapped quietly. "You'll make me cry."
Every step echoed—not loudly—but deeply.
As if the earth itself was counting.
Down below, Isha's mother pressed her hand to her mouth.
"That's my daughter," she breathed.
Her father straightened instinctively, pride swelling in his chest so fiercely it almost hurt.
Her father stood frozen, eyes glassy, chest tight.
"She's grown," he said hoarsely. "She's ready."
Prisha clutched Ishika's hand.
"She's glowing," she said. "Like she finally belongs to herself."
Ishika nodded, tears spilling freely.
"She fought so much to be this happy."
Meher whispered from behind the railing, her voice trembling,
"Look at her…"
Luka girlfriend pressed a hand to her mouth and whispers to Luka.
"She looks like… like she belongs to legends."
From Shivansh's side—
His grandmother straightened, pride softening her stern grace.
"A woman like that," she said quietly, "changes bloodlines."
His mother's eyes shimmered.
"She's already ours."
Nearby, Shivansh's chote maa leaned on her cane, eyes sharp yet softened with awe.
"A true queen," she murmured. "Look at her walk."
His father nodded.
"She's not walking toward a marriage," she said softly. "She's walking into her reign."
Politicians leaned forward in their seats.
Ministers murmured appreciatively.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"Who is she?"
"The bride."
"No—who is she?"
"A force."
"She carries herself like royalty."
Media cameras clicked—furiously now.
Politicians exchanged impressed glances.
Royal families exchanged glances.
"That's not just beauty," one remarked.
"That's bearing."
Royal families leaned forward, assessing, recognizing.
"She fits," one murmured.
"She belongs among us."
Staff members froze mid-step.
Waiters forgot trays.
Florists forgot petals.
Because Isha began to walk again.
Alone.
Media cameras clicked rapidly—then slowed.
Because no lens could fully capture this.
At the bottom of the stairs, the brothers paused.
For one final second.
Halfway down—
The brothers stopped.
Isha paused.
Confusion flickered across her face.
Arjun leaned closer, his voice barely holding.
"From here…"
Dhruv continued, throat tight,
"From here, you go alone."
Her fingers trembled.
"No," she whispered instinctively.
Arav exhaled shakily.
"You don't need us to hold you anymore."
Ritwik swallowed.
"You're the center now."
Arjun kissed her forehead.
Then dhruv also and said.
"Go," he said. "He's waiting."
One by one—
They lifted the chuni higher.
Then gently—
Let it fall.
Isha stood alone.
For the first time.
The venue shifted.
It was subtle—but undeniable.
All attention locked onto her.
No shields.
No anchors.
Just her.
And she lifted her chin.
The fabric fell gently behind her shoulders.
And suddenly—
She was alone.
At the center of everything.
A collective inhale swept through the venue.
She stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
Her bangles chimed softly.
Her anklets whispered against marble.
Her veil shifted like a promise.
Every eye followed her.
Guests stood without realizing it.
Staff forgot their instructions.
Security forgot their protocols.
She wasn't walking to the mandap.
She was walking into history.
And then—
Shivansh saw her fully.
Not from across floors.
Not from glimpses.
But this.
His breath left him completely.
Ranveer leaned in.
"Blink," he muttered. "People will notice."
Shivansh didn't.
"I forgot," he whispered, voice raw, "how to breathe."
His hands clenched unconsciously.
"She's… everything."
His father watched him closely.
"That," he said softly, "is the look of a man who knows he's done waiting."
Isha reached the aisle.
The firelight framed her.
The world narrowed.
And for one suspended heartbeat—
It was just her.
And him.
And the space between them.
She lifted her eyes.
Met his.
And smiled.
Not shy.
Not nervous.
Just certain.
As if to say—
I'm here. I chose this. I chose you.
Shivansh's lips parted.
"Mine," he breathed—not possessive, not loud—just full of awe.
And the world exhaled.
Because the bride had arrived.
And nothing would ever be the same again.
The moment she stepped onto the mandap, something inside Shivansh shifted so hard it felt like the earth moved with it.
He had imagined this moment a thousand times.
In his dreams she was always beautiful.
In his thoughts she was always calm.
But this?
This was unbearable.
She was standing only a few steps away now. Close enough that he could see the way her hands trembled just slightly. Close enough to see the tiny crease between her brows—the one that appeared whenever she was holding back too much emotion.
She's nervous, he realized.
And somehow that made her even more devastating.
God, he wanted to go to her.
Wanted to take her hands and say, I'm right here. You don't have to be brave anymore.
But he stayed where he was.
Because this moment wasn't about running to her.
It was about meeting her.
Shivansh's grandmother leaned forward slightly.
"Look at her," she murmured. "She is walking into destiny."
Shivansh didn't hear her.
All he could hear was his own heartbeat.
That's my wife.
The thought struck him with a quiet violence.
Not someday. Not after. Her.
He remembered the girl who had once shouted at him.
The woman who had once pushed him away.
The one who had kissed him on balconies and fought him in hallways and held him in silence when he was too broken to speak.
And now she was here.
In bridal red.
In gold that matched her fire.
Walking toward him like she was choosing him in front of the entire world.
Ranveer leaned close.
"You look like you're about to pass out."
Shivansh swallowed.
"If I do," he muttered, "don't let anyone say I fainted. Say I was overwhelmed."
Aviyansh smirked.
"Same thing."
Shivansh didn't even glare.
He couldn't take his eyes off her.
Isha lifted her gaze then.
And when their eyes met—
Something quiet exploded between them.
Not fireworks.
Not noise.
Just a deep, aching recognition.
There you are.
Her lips curved slightly.
Not for the guests.
Not for the cameras.
Just for him.
And Shivansh forgot, for a moment, that anyone else existed.
The priest cleared his throat loudly.
"Varmala."
The word rippled through the crowd.
Garlands were brought forward—white flowers, red roses, jasmine woven through.
Two symbols of two lives about to intertwine.
Isha and Shivansh stepped forward.
They stood facing each other.
Close enough now that Shivansh could smell her—soft floral, familiar, comforting.
"You look…" he whispered, so softly only she could hear, "…unfair."
Isha blinked.
"What?"
"You're not allowed to look this beautiful. It's distracting."
Her lips twitched despite her nerves.
"Focus," she whispered back. "This is a sacred moment."
"I am focusing," he murmured. "On you."
Her cheeks warmed.
The priest gestured.
"Bride first."
Prisha immediately leaned forward.
"Come on, Isha! You got this!"
Dhruv added loudly,
"Don't trip and strangle him by accident!"
"Dhruv!" her mother hissed.
Isha took the garland in her hands.
It felt heavy.
Not because of the flowers—
But because of what it meant.
She looked at Shivansh.
Really looked.
Not the king.
Not the heir.
The man who had once held her while she cried.
"You ready?" she whispered.
"For you?" he replied softly. "Always."
She rose slightly on her toes, lifting the garland.
But Shivansh was taller.
Ranveer immediately laughed.
"Oh no, not this again!"
Aviyansh called out,
"Bend, Your Majesty!"
Shivansh smirked.
"Why?" he teased. "Let her work for it."
Isha glared at him.
"Don't you dare."
He was too tall for her. So instead of making her stretch on her toes, he quietly bent down on one knee, lowering himself to her level. It wasn't a proposal — it was something far more tender. An unspoken gesture that said, I'll always come down to you.
Just enough to be annoying.
"You're impossible," she muttered.
"Still marrying me," he said lightly.
She huffed—and then slid the garland over his head.
The flowers brushed his shoulders.
The moment it settled around his neck—
The crowd erupted.
Claps. Cheers. Blessings.
"She did it!"
"They look perfect!"
"Touchwood!"
Shivansh looked at her like he'd just been handed the universe.
"My turn," he said softly.
He took the garland from the priest.
His hands were steady—but his eyes were anything but.
"Isha," he murmured.
She lifted her chin slightly.
He stepped closer.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like the moment was made of glass.
As he lifted the garland, he leaned closer and whispered,
"You have no idea what you're doing to me right now."
She smiled faintly.
"You'll survive."
"Barely."
He slid the garland over her head.
The flowers fell against her chest.
And in that instant—
They were no longer just two people standing on a mandap.
They were something else now.
Something together.
The applause swelled again.
His mother wiped her eyes.
"They look so right."
His grandmother nodded.
"They were always meant to find each other."
Isha looked at Shivansh through the veil.
Her voice was barely audible.
"So… this means you're stuck with me now."
He smiled.
Soft. Certain.
"I was stuck with you long before this," he replied.
"Now the world just knows."
And as the petals fell around them—
They stood there, garlands resting against their hearts—
Two people who had already survived so much…
Finally being claimed by love.
The moment the varmala ended, it felt as if the sky itself slowly exhaled.
By the time the garlands had settled against their chests, the sun had already slipped behind the horizon. The venue was now glowing in soft golden lights, fairy lamps woven through pillars, candles flickering in tall glasses, and a thousand diyas reflecting in the polished marble like scattered stars.
It was night now.
Their wedding had officially crossed into something deeper… something sacred.
Isha stood beside Shivansh, still a little dazed.
"So… it's already night," she whispered, glancing at the sky.
He nodded softly.
"Yeah. And somehow it feels like the longest day of my life."
She smiled.
"And the shortest."
They were gently guided toward the dining area, where long tables were arranged for the guests, decorated with flowers and glowing lamps. Politicians, royal families, ministers, friends, staff—everyone was now seated, laughing, talking, celebrating.
Dinner had begun.
But all eyes kept drifting back to the bride and groom.
Shivansh pulled a chair for Isha before sitting beside her.
"You don't need to do that," she teased softly.
"Yes, I do," he replied. "It's in my job description now."
She rolled her eyes but smiled.
Plates were placed in front of them—rich food, warm rotis, dal, sabzi, sweets. The smell alone made her realize she hadn't eaten properly all day.
Isha sighed.
"I'm starving."
"Good," Shivansh murmured. "That means you'll sit still long enough for me to make sure you eat."
She laughed.
"You're not my caretaker."
"No," he said calmly, "I'm your husband. Worse."
He served her gently, placing food on her plate like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Across the table, Aviyansh nudged Ishika.
"Look at him. He's gone."
"Completely," Ishika smirked. "She didn't just marry him. She ruined him."
Prisha leaned over toward Isha.
"He looks like he's feeding a priceless relic."
Isha tried not to laugh.
Shivansh leaned closer.
"What are you all gossiping about?"
"About you," Prisha said sweetly.
He sighed.
"I knew it."
They ate quietly for a moment, surrounded by warmth and voices and celebration.
Then Shivansh's grandmother's voice rose gently from the head of the table.
"Children."
Everyone turned toward her.
"The varmala is done. The world has seen them accept each other. But the pheras… those will be tomorrow morning."
Shivansh frowned slightly.
"Why not tonight?"
She smiled at him, patient and wise.
"Because a marriage is meant to begin with the sun. The fire is a witness, yes—but the sun is the blessing. When they take their pheras in daylight, it means their union is seen by the universe itself."
Isha's mother nodded softly.
"That's how it was done before."
"And it will be done now," the grandmother continued. "They will take only four pheras."
Some of the guests looked confused.
"Four?" someone murmured. "But isn't it seven?"
She shook her head gently.
"No. That is what television and modern ceremonies made popular. But in our scriptures, the true marriage has four pheras and seven vachans."
She looked at Isha and Shivansh.
"Four pheras bind two souls.
Seven vachans—seven promises—bind their lives."
The hall fell quiet.
Isha felt something settle deep inside her chest.
Seven promises.
That felt… more intimate somehow.
More real.
Shivansh leaned closer and whispered,
"So we'll walk around the fire four times and promise each other seven things?"
She nodded.
"That sounds… kind of perfect."
"Only four times?" he teased. "I was ready to walk a hundred."
She smiled.
"You already have."
After dinner, the elders gently told them to rest.
"Sit. Relax. Take photos," his mother said. "Tomorrow will be long."
So they sat—side by side—on a beautifully decorated couch, photographers capturing them as they leaned closer, smiled, whispered, brushed fingers.
Isha rested her hand lightly against his arm.
"It's strange," she said softly. "We're… half married."
He smiled at her.
"Then let's just be half tired and half happy tonight."
She looked at him, eyes shining.
"I don't think I've ever been this calm."
"Me neither," he admitted. "Everything feels… right."
Around them, the wedding continued in soft laughter and glowing lights.
But for them—
The world had already begun to narrow into something simple.
Two people.
One morning away from forever.
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