The Rule That Could Not Be Broken
The Sign residence did not believe in softness.
Everything about the estate spoke of power—high iron gates, disciplined silence, floors polished so clean they reflected the people walking over them. Even the air felt controlled, as though emotions were carefully filtered before being allowed inside.
Ranveer Sign stood at the head of the dining hall, his hands resting lightly on the back of a chair he had not yet taken.
He had learned long ago not to sit until he understood the battlefield.
Grandmother Krishi sat at the center, her presence commanding despite her age. Her silver hair was neatly tied back, her eyes sharp—eyes that had seen generations rise and fall.
Kapoor Sign cleared his throat.
"It's time," he said.
Ranveer didn't respond immediately.
"Time for what?" he asked calmly, though he already knew the answer.
"For you to marry."
The word landed heavy.
Ranveer finally pulled out the chair and sat, crossing his arms. "We've discussed this."
"Yes," Krishi replied, tapping her cane lightly against the marble floor. "And the rule remains unchanged."
Ranveer's jaw tightened. "Rules exist to be questioned."
Kapoor sighed, weary but firm. "Not this one."
"The first child of the generation must marry before the others," Krishi said. "Only then will the family move forward."
Ranveer let out a slow breath. "And if I refuse?"
The silence that followed was sharp.
Sasha spoke then, her voice steady, her posture composed.
"Then the family stalls. Businesses pause. Alliances weaken."
Ranveer turned his gaze to her. "You think a wife is a business strategy?"
"No," she replied evenly. "But stability is."
He looked away, irritation simmering beneath the surface.
Marriage wasn't just a bond here. It was a chain.
"You'll attend the Takur family gatherings," Kapoor said. "Observe. Decide."
Ranveer stood. "I'll attend. Nothing more."
As he walked away, Krishi watched him with knowing eyes.
"Even the strongest men," she murmured, "cannot outrun fate."
Across the city, the Takur household was anything but quiet.
Twinkle burst into Najma's room without knocking, flopping dramatically onto the bed.
"I'm bored," she announced.
Najma looked up from the book she was reading, amused. "That's new."
Twinkle grinned. "Tell me again—why are you so calm all the time?"
Najma closed the book gently. "Because panic never helped anyone."
Twinkle rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. "You know… Rangeer is coming today."
Najma's fingers paused for just a second.
"I know," she said softly.
Twinkle smiled dreamily. "He's so handsome. And funny. And did you know he remembers the smallest details?"
Najma nodded. "He's kind."
Twinkle studied her face carefully. "You like him too, don't you?"
Najma met her gaze without hesitation. "I did."
The honesty startled Twinkle.
"But?" she asked quietly.
"But I saw the way he looks at you," Najma replied. "And that was enough."
Twinkle's smile faltered. "Najma…"
Najma reached out and squeezed her hand. "Some feelings are meant to be let go."
Twinkle hugged her suddenly, tight and fierce.
"You're too good for this world."
Najma closed her eyes briefly.
If only you knew.
Rangeer arrived with his usual charm, laughter filling the living room.
"Twinkle!" he greeted warmly. "You've grown even louder."
She gasped. "How dare you!"
Najma watched from a distance, smiling faintly as they bickered.
Rangeer's eyes met hers briefly.
There was warmth there. Familiarity.
Then he looked back at Twinkle.
Najma looked away.
Some choices were painful—but necessary.
That evening, Ranveer arrived at the Takur residence again.
This time, he found Najma alone in the garden, watering the flowers.
"You like quiet places," he observed.
"They don't demand explanations," she replied.
He studied her for a moment. "My family believes marriage is inevitable."
She didn't look surprised. "So does mine."
"And you?" he asked.
Najma straightened, meeting his gaze.
"I believe promises are heavier than chains."
Something in her words stayed with him.
As he left that night, Ranveer realized something unsettling.
He wasn't being forced toward her.
He was choosing not to walk away.
And Najma—standing alone beneath the garden lights—felt the past stir, restless and impatient.
The silence she had built so carefully was beginning to crack.