Arnav's bedroom
The shirt still smelled like haldi, dust, and something floral—maybe her hair, maybe her laugh.
Arnav stood at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching the bag of fabric on the table like it had personally challenged him to a duel.
Midnight blue with silver specks.
He hadn't intended to carry it.
Hadn't meant to enjoy kulfi.
Hadn't planned on remembering the way her fingers lingered on that faded swatch. Like it was a piece of herself she was reclaiming.
And yet—
> "I'm evolving."
That's what he'd said to her.
Liar.
He wasn't evolving.
He was unraveling.
She walked into that market like she ruled it—with a clipboard heart and thali-banging confidence.
She talked to vendors with nicknames. She rolled her eyes, haggled like it was a sacred sport, smiled at colors like they whispered secrets to her.
And he?
He followed her.
Through crowds and cows and piles of tangled brocade.
Through the smell of frying samosas and sun-warmed pavement.
Through the noise and mess and human chaos he usually avoided like the plague.
But with her, it didn't feel like clutter.
It felt like…
Life.
He loosened his collar.
His fingers itched. Restless.
There was a sketchpad on the desk. The one Aman had left behind. Unused.
He didn't hesitate this time.
He picked it up, flipped to a blank page, and drew.
Not her face—not yet.
But her hand, reaching toward a bolt of marigold silk.
Her hair, caught in wind and fairy light.
The way she stood when she argued—feet planted like roots, chin tilted like challenge.
He closed the sketchbook slowly, brushing his thumb over the rough edge of the page.
Somewhere between that market and now, something had shifted.
Not in her.
In him.
The way she moved through life—messy, bold, bright—it made him question his own grayscale.
> "She's a storm in a cotton kurti."
And maybe—just maybe—
He didn't want to outrun it anymore.
Maybe he wanted to stand still.
Let it soak him.
Arnav turning off the lamp, the sketchbook still open beside him.
He lies down, one hand behind his head.
And on his lips?
A smile.
Tiny.
Reluctant.
Real.
Like the first crack of light before dawn.
---
Next Morning – Boutique
The sketchpad lay open on the desk.
Forgotten. Unintentionally.
Arnav entered earlier than usual, carrying a box of custom-dyed threads. No one else was around.
He placed the box down... and froze.
The sketch stared back at him.
He stared back at him—from the paper.
With charcoal eyes and a crooked sleeve and the button that still hadn't been sewn back.
Arnav picked it up gently.
He looked toward the staircase.
Then smiled.
> Arnav (softly): "Caught red-handed, Miss Kumari Gupta."
He didn't say anything when Khushi walked in moments later, her face paling.
She opened her mouth to lie.
He raised an eyebrow.
She closed it.
He handed it back.
No teasing.
No ego.
Just—truth.
> Arnav: "You forgot to draw the part where I'm looking at you."
Sketch me again sometime."
He'd said it to her in passing, like a joke.
It wasn't.
Because when she looked at him—really looked—he didn't feel like ASR.
Didn't feel like the man with the cold boardroom and glass walls.
He felt seen. Sketchable. Human.
And that terrified him more than anything.
And then?
He walked out.
And left her standing there—
blushing like a girl,
sketched into a storm,
and suddenly unsure who the real artist was.
---
AR Designs – Main Conference Hall
When art meets agenda, sparks fly harder than faulty wires.
The AR Designs boardroom was glass and gloss, but today—there was thunder rolling beneath the polished calm.
Steel-backed chairs, cold air-conditioning, and egos sharper than pinking shears.
And walking into it like a monsoon in mango-yellow heels?
Khushi Kumari Gupta. Mood boards in one hand, a worn sketchbook in the other, and a look that said bring it on.
> Designer (nervous): "If we reduce the embroidery just a bit, we could cut costs by nearly—"
> Khushi (dropping her bag with a decisive thud):
"Yes, and while we're at it, let's replace diyas with LED torches and serve kulfi from vending machines."
Dead. Silence.
Arnav, seated at the head of the table in a charcoal suit with murder in the seams, paused mid-keystroke. His jaw twitched. Not a flinch. A signal.
> Arnav (without looking up):
"Continue."
> Designer (meekly):
"I-I just thought minimalism—"
> Khushi:
"Minimalism isn't an apology for culture. It's a choice. One we're not making."
> Arnav (finally looking up):
"And culture doesn't need to scream to be heard. It needs clarity."
The room shifted. Designers exchanged glances like they were watching Centre Court at Wimbledon—match point approaching.
Khushi stepped toward the digital screen where her sketch glowed.
> Khushi (pointing):
"This lehenga tells a story. Of resilience. Of legacy. Of how even fire needs fabric to glow."
> Arnav (folding his arms):
"And I'm saying the fire shouldn't burn the budget."
> Khushi (meeting his gaze):
"Then don't hire the spark and ask her to stay quiet."
Boom.
Even Aman blinked twice.
But instead of firing back, Arnav smirked.
A slow, dangerous, oddly proud smirk.
> Arnav:
"Fine. You win. We keep every stitch. But the delivery deadline moves up two days."
> Khushi:
"That's blackmail."
> Arnav (grinning):
"That's collaboration."
The presentation resumed with the tension still buzzing like loose current.
Arnav steepled his fingers. Across from him, Khushi unrolled her Diwali collection designs. Beside her sat a humble notebook—filled with pricing notes, dye ratios, and a sketch of a broken button.
Lavanya leaned dramatically against the wall in sunglasses, whispering to Payal:
> Lavanya:
"It's corporate war. With embroidery."
---
> Rajeev (dry):
"These price points are ambitious. We're AR Designs. Not FabIndia."
> Khushi (sweet but sharp):
"And I'm not here to copy FabIndia or anyone else. I'm creating pieces that speak. They won't whisper to wallets—they'll call to hearts."
Rajeev snorted.
Arnav didn't blink.
> Suman (doubtfully):
"Metro buyers want sleek. This is nostalgia."
> Khushi:
"Exactly. Everyone's selling the future. I'm stitching the past into it."
> Arnav (leaning forward):
"Trends fade. Originals stay. Gupta Boutique is original."
> Mitali (arching a brow):
"But heritage is a gamble."
> Arnav (voice like cut ice):
"Then double the stake. Because this isn't a gamble. It's conviction."
> Suman (under her breath):
"He's smitten."
> Arnav (without turning):
"I'm strategic. Not stupid."
Khushi nearly choked on her chai.
Lavanya gave her an actual thumbs-up from behind Aman's hunched shoulders.
Slide After Slide
Zardozi shimmered under the screen light. Silhouettes echoed temple bells and alleyway shadows. A kurta inspired by marigold strings. A dupatta dyed in twilight.
Khushi's voice was calm now. Steady.
> Khushi:
"Sarees that tell stories. Kurtas stitched with memory. For the girl from Lakshmi Nagar and the woman who forgot how much she once loved mirror-work. This isn't fashion. This is a revival."
No one spoke.
Then Arnav stood. Walked to the screen like a storm wearing Italian leather.
> Arnav:
"You wanted modern packaging? Here it is—wrapped in soul. This is what AR lacked. Until now."
He turned to the room.
> Arnav (quietly lethal):
"Anyone unclear... there's the door."
Nobody moved.
---
Later – Room Clears
Only Khushi and Arnav remained.
She was packing her samples.
> Khushi:
"You didn't have to fight that hard."
> Arnav:
"I did."
> Khushi:
"You usually do things your way."
> Arnav:
"And now I want to see how it feels doing things our way."
She looked at him.
> Khushi (softly):
"Why does that scare me more?"
> Arnav:
"Because you know you'll win."
He passed her the tablet. On the screen, one of her lehenga designs—with a single digital annotation:
> "Add stars. You forgot the sky."
Outside the glass wall, Delhi's sun dipped behind concrete and wires.
Inside, two creators stood amid sketches and sparks.
And something bigger than Diwali was being stitched into reality.