Chapter 12: Party
Rudra's POV
The notification had already pulled me under.
I opened the article without thinking.
The headline hit first, bold and merciless:
Priyanshi Singh Rajput Surges to 4th on World's Richest List – Rudra Singh Chauhan Holds 3rd, but the Gap Is Closing Fast
Third.
Me.
Fourth.
Her.
The photos loaded slowly.
There she was—Priyanshi in a black suit that looked like it had been forged from midnight itself. Sharp lapels, tailored to perfection, hair pulled back, eyes locked on the camera like she owned every inch of the frame. Unbreakable. Full of confidence that didn't beg for space—it simply took it.
I scrolled.
More images.
Boardrooms.
Headlines calling her the future of global wealth.
Then the interview clip.
I clicked before logic could stop me.
Her voice filled the quiet room—calm, commanding, every word measured like a chess move.
She smiled once—small, controlled, but real.
And that smile… it slipped past every wall I had built.
A smile appeared on my own face.
Slow.
Involuntary.
Almost painful.
Author's POV
Rudra's brain slipped into sleep mode.
His heart woke up.
He forgot yesterday's vow.
He forgot the decision to erase her.
He forgot the cold logic that had kept him breathing all these years.
She appeared in his feed on his birthday—like fate itself was whispering her name in his ear, wishing him through her.
Relief washed over him, warm and sudden.
Seeing her like this—thriving, untouchable, rising—felt like medicine to a wound he hadn't admitted was still bleeding.
He forgot the bathroom.
He forgot the pooja downstairs.
He forgot everything except her.
He sat on the edge of the bed, phone cradled in both hands, eyes glued to the screen.
Rudra's POV
I was happy.
Feeling good.
A strange, different warmth spreading through my chest—irrespective of the fact that she was now my business rival.
I was happy.
Until the next photo loaded.
Him.
The man from the café.
Ravi.
His arm around her shoulders.
Both of them laughing.
The warmth turned to ice.
Then to fire.
Anger surged—hot, violent, blinding.
My body started shaking.
Betrayal clawed up my throat even though she owed me nothing.
I threw the phone onto the bed like it had burned me.
Stood up.
Grabbed clothes from the walk-in closet—anything black, anything sharp.
I stormed into the bathroom.
The bathtub waited—a massive obsidian vessel carved from a single block of volcanic stone, deep enough to drown in, edges polished to a mirror sheen, gold-veined marble surrounding it like a throne. Water already drawn, steam rising in slow curls, scented faintly with sandalwood and amber from the hidden diffusers.
I stepped in.
Cold droplets hit my bare chest first—sharp, punishing.
But the heat of anger inside me burned hotter than any water could cool.
I sank down, water rising to my shoulders.
Why?
Why did it feel like betrayal every time I saw her with him?
Why did my chest cave in like someone had ripped out something vital?
Why, Rudra Singh Chauhan, can't you control your own damn emotions?
Why does it feel like… love?
No.
No no no no no.
Not love.
Never love.
I can't.
I really can't.
I pressed my palms to my eyes, water dripping from my hair.
Another knock on the door—sharp, insistent.
I shouted, voice rough.
"What happened?"
Maya's calm voice came through.
"Sir, come fast. Pooja is about to start. Mr. Chauhan requested you to wear these clothes. I'm leaving them right here in front of the door."
Footsteps retreated.
I stepped out of the tub, water sluicing off my body.
Dried my hair roughly with a towel.
Wrapped another around my waist.
I opened the door.
A black kurta lay folded neatly on the floor—silk so fine it caught the light like liquid night, subtle silver embroidery along the collar and cuffs.
Dad's choice.
Always understated power.
Author's POV
Downstairs, the pooja mandap had been transformed into something breathtaking.
A low platform of white marble gleamed under hundreds of floating diyas, their tiny flames dancing in perfect symmetry. Fresh marigold garlands draped in cascading loops, rose petals scattered in intricate rangoli patterns that spiraled toward the center where a small silver idol of Lord Krishna stood smiling. Crystal chandeliers above cast soft golden light, turning every surface into something luminous yet serene—opulent without being loud, sacred without being cold.
Rudra was ready.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror one last time.
The black kurta hugged his frame like it had been sewn onto his skin—tailored to perfection, sleeves rolled to the forearms revealing corded muscle, the silver embroidery catching the light every time he moved.
He looked dangerous.
Effortlessly sexy.
The kind of hot that made people forget how to speak.
Any girl in the house would have thrown herself at him with just one look.
But Rudra wasn't thinking about that.
He stepped out of his room, eyes on his phone, texting Ayansh something short and sharp.
He started down the stairs—still typing, still distracted.
Halfway down, he collided with someone.
Hard.
Her phone flew upward.
His phone tumbled down the stairs, clattering against the marble.
She closed her eyes tightly, hands flying up in surrender, bracing for the brutal fall.
But the universe had other plans.
Warm, familiar arms banded around her waist.
Steady.
Unbreakable.
Her hands instinctively wrapped around his neck.
Red heart-shaped balloons—meant to surprise Rudra and make him feel special—were released at that exact moment.
Rose petals rained down in slow, deliberate drifts, falling around them like blessings from the sky.
The lights dimmed.
A spotlight found them—soft, golden, intimate.
And then the song began.
In the background, the speakers played the perfect cruel melody:
Jise zindagi dhundh rahi hai… kya yeh wohi makam meri hai…
Rudra's eyes fixed on hers—still closed.
His lips twisted into a beautiful, broken smile.
Yahaan chain se bas ruk jaaun… kyun dil yeh mujhe kehta hai…
He forgot to breathe.
Forgot everything except her.
Jazbaat naye se mile hain… jaane kya asar yeh hua hai…
She opened her eyes.
Her hands stayed around his neck.
She felt something in her heart too—something new, something terrifying.
Ik aarzoo mill phir mujhko jo qubool kisi ne kiya hai haan…
She had unknowingly conquered his heart.
Now she was invading his eyes.
He wanted to surrender to her.
She felt his gaze like a deep ocean she wanted to dive into and never surface from.
His gaze was a vast, uncharted sea;
She dove into the blue, set herself free.
No gasp for air, no reach for the shore,
She sank into him, and lived evermore.
Kisi shayar ki ghazal jo de rooh ko sukoon…
Ke pal koi mujhko yun mila hai…
Jaise banjaare ko ghar…
Their eyes locked.
Breathing stopped.
The entire hall watched—every guest, every family member, every servant—but their eyes stayed only on each other.
To be continued…
Cliffhanger Hook:
What happens when the song ends… and Rudra still hasn't let her go?
Author's Note 🔥💔🌹
Hey my soulmate stans…
The collision. The balloons. The petals. The song. Their eyes locking like the universe itself planned it… did your heart stop? Drop in the comments: Do you think Rudra will finally admit what he feels… or will he pull away and run again?
If this chapter made you scream, cry, or clutch your phone, smash that ⭐ VOTE, comment "FATE WINS" or "THEY'RE MEANT TO BE", and add to library so you don't miss what happens when the song fades and reality crashes in.
Next part: The silence after the music… and the words they can't avoid anymore.
Stay locked in. This party just became legendary.
Love you all (even when fate is cruel) 🌑
— Your author (still crying over those petals) 😭