The scent of freshly crushed cardamom filled the quiet kitchen. Arina ( kiara) stirred the tea slowly, letting the warmth from the rising steam settle into her bones. She didn't glance at the clock. This wasn't about timing or duty. It was about meaning.
She had already declined the help of maid and polity asked them to let her cook alone.
The kitchen felt too pristine—like it had never been touched by real life. Everything was in place, every surface gleaming. But today, her presence altered the stillness. The soft clink of steel, the murmur of boiling milk, the fragrance of ginger and cloves—it was her way of making space in his world.
She set the cups on a black marble tray — no flowers, no unnecessary decoration. Just warmth. Just intention. And then, with a quiet courage that wasn't loud or dramatic, she walked toward his study.
The door was ajar.
He was there — not in a crisp suit, but in a black shirt, sleeves folded, head bent over a file. Morning sunlight sliced across the room in long shadows, but he didn't look up until she stepped in.
"Tea," she said softly, not asking if he wanted it.
He looked at the tray. Then at her. Then away.
She waited — just a second too long.
"You don't have to," Reyansh said, voice neutral. "There are staff for this."
"I know," she replied. "But I'm not doing it because I have to."
He told her , quietly and with that ever-serene tone, "There's no need to do any of the rituals, Arina. I'm not attached to tradition. I'm an orphan. There is no one to cook for, no one to impress. Just... rest."
She didn't reply. She left him with the tea and a silence she knew would linger longer than the taste.
But she hadn't agreed, not out loud, not even with a nod. Inside, she had made her decision. She would do it. Not for rituals or tradition, but for him. For the man who had spent his life detached, holding the world at a distance with elegance and silence. She would create a world so quietly rich, so unspokenly whole, the need for whom he never felt but would become addicted.
Today was her "pahle rasoi." Not for the elders, not for some crowd of relatives, but for one man—the one who needed it more than anyone ever had.
In the kitchen, she moved silently. The old recipes came back to her like instinct. The smell of ghee, the soft hiss of simmering spices, the slow patience of paratha dough under her hands. She wanted it to be perfect, even though she knew he would never ask for it. Especially because he never would.
She plated everything with care: hot parathas, kheer touched with saffron, a bowl of lightly spiced potato curry. Not extravagant. Just warm. Just real. She laid them on the table in the sunlight, then paused.
She heard the footsteps before she saw him.
Reyansh walked in, his shirt unbuttoned at the cuffs, eyes trailing over the table with a quiet disbelief that masked itself as indifference. He looked at the food, then at her.
He sat down slowly, as if unsure whether to be touched or annoyed. She liked that. The discomfort of a man who had never had anyone do something purely for him.
I told u not to do the rituals," he said, lifting a spoon.
He tasted khir. Then paused. Then tasted it again, slower.
A beat of silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. She watched him, not with love, not with desire—but with something deeper. Ownership.
She didn't want the version of him that became soft under someone else's story. She didn't want the Reyansh who had learned to hold back, who had trained himself into the polished man for the female lead. She wanted the one who burned underneath. The man built to conquer, not compromise.
And if he had built walls to protect the world from what he truly was, then she would tear them down, brick by brick.
Not with war. With warmth. With stillness. With the illusion of control.
Because what Reyansh didn't realize yet was that she wasn't the innocent bride in his story. She was the author of his downfall. And his salvation.
He looked up, meeting her gaze for a moment too long.
"You always this stubborn?" he asked, something sharp glinting beneath his calm.
"Only when it matters," she said softly.
He smiled, but it was wrong. Too slow, too calculating.
Good, she thought.
He would come undone, eventually. She didn't want a husband she could walk beside. She wanted a man who would circle her like prey and predator both. Possessive. Obsessive. Unhinged, if only for her. That's the man he truly was. That's the man she had read between the lines. The one who would burn kingdoms, not build them.
But this time, she would be the one holding the match.
Reyansh stood, walking behind her. His hand brushed her back lightly, almost absent-mindedly, but she felt the restraint in it—the storm under control.
"Thank you," he said in a voice too quiet.
"You're welcome," she replied.
He left the kitchen, but she knew the crack had started. The silence of his past was beginning to echo with the hum of something new. He would let go, sooner or later. And when he did, she would be waiting.
Not to stop him.
To direct him.
She wasn't here to fix him. She was here to free him. The version of Reyansh who belonged to no one, who could not be written into anyone's story but hers.
And in her story, he would not be a hero.
He would be hers.
"If his love is a cage, I'll lock the door from the inside."