The Khurana estate buzzed with quiet chaos that morning, the kind of orchestrated frenzy that only wealth and long-standing family legacy could produce. Vanya stepped through the massive gates, the insulated box wrapped in a pastel floral cloth balanced carefully in her hands. Inside was Aariv's favorite breakfast—idli with spicy molgapodi chutney and two soft banana walnut muffins, prepared exactly the way he liked them.

She had chosen her blush-pink top deliberately today. A little snug across the chest, yes, but stylish enough to feel confident. Her lips glimmered faintly with a swipe of gloss, her cheeks dusted with soft blush, a subtle armor for the possibility of seeing Aariv on the balcony, maybe catching that rare glance that made her heart skip.

But the moment she stepped into the sunlit courtyard, her breath hitched.

Lights strung between pillars, bouquets of fresh flowers, staff bustling with nervous energy, a canvas tent being raised in the garden—it all pointed to one thing. She turned toward Mr. Khurana, who was conferring with the florist, his expression calm yet authoritative.

"Uncle, what's happening? Is there some event today?" she asked, adjusting her box.

His face softened the moment he saw her. "Ah, Vanya beta! Nothing major... well, Veeraj is coming home today. From New York."

Vanya blinked, a flutter of surprise and tension rising in her chest. "Veeraj? Oh... it's been years."

Mr. Khurana chuckled, a note of pride threading through his voice. "Almost five. Finished his Masters, worked at an investment firm. But he wanted to come back. Said it was time."

Her lips parted almost without thought. Veeraj Khurana—the younger son, four years her junior. The storm who had always been a shadow over the otherwise orderly Khurana household.

If Aariv was polished, calm, golden—Veeraj was fire incarnate. Reckless, unpredictable, unapologetically himself. The boy who had returned from New York with a reputation that preceded him: bar fights, late-night parties, a trail of broken hearts. Girls flocked to him endlessly, and she, one man woman, had always kept her distance.

She remembered him from years ago—the sly grin, the half-smirk that spoke of mischief, the way he yanked her braids or teased her mercilessly, calling her "Moti Kapoor" just to see her frown. She had tried to be kind once, offering sweets during Diwali, even tea, but he had laughed, a dangerous glint in his dark eyes. "Do I look like I need your help?" he had said, and she had learned then that some people were untouchable.

She remembered clearly, at twenty-two, when Veeraj was barely eighteen. She and a group of friends had been teasing her about Aariv—calling him the "perfect bahu material" and joking about her future with him. Vanya had laughed nervously, but before she could deflect, Veeraj had stormed in.

"Enough!" His voice had been sharp, darker than the summer storm outside. "Get out. All of you. Now."

The room had gone silent. Vanya remembered the flush of embarrassment—and the way he had turned to her, his eyes blazing, his words raw.

"You don't belong to him," he had said, his tone both protective and harsh. "And don't let anyone say otherwise."

It had been... mean, even cruel. He had protected her, yes, but in a way that put a wall between them. After that day, she had avoided speaking to him. The memory lingered, a complicated mix of fear, respect, and irritation. He had been reckless, impossible, infuriating—but also undeniably compelling

Yet now, imagining him stepping through the gates... she couldn't help but feel a pulse of apprehension.

Handsome in that dangerous, effortless way that unsettled her, Veeraj had grown. Sharp jawline, lips perpetually curved in that mischievous half-smirk, eyes dark, stormy, and intense. His broad shoulders hinted at strength, his casual swagger at confidence. Where Aariv radiated golden warmth, Veeraj carried shadows—rebel energy, the thrill of danger, the kind that made her pulse quicken even though she would never admit it.

"He must've changed," she murmured softly to herself.

"Maybe... maybe not," Mr. Khurana replied, eyes crinkling with the memory of both sons—the calm golden one and the stormy dark one.

Inside, Vanya carefully placed the breakfast on the informal dining table. The room was quiet, empty, perfect for a fleeting hope. She left a small yellow post-it note next to the plate: "Good morning! Hope today goes well. –Vanya"

A flutter of anticipation rose in her chest. Maybe he'd come down. Maybe he'd notice her. Maybe—just maybe—she could face the storm without fear.

Footsteps.

She turned quickly, smoothing her hair and softening her expression. But it wasn't Aariv. It was Mrs. Khurana, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, lips pressing into that thin, distasteful line that made Vanya's chest tighten.

"Oh. Still here?"

Vanya's smile faltered. "I—I just brought breakfast for Aariv. He mentioned he had a busy morning."

"You know we have cooks in our house?" Mrs. Khurana's voice was soft, almost silky, but the words carried a knife's edge. "We don't need extras."

Vanya's chest tightened, but she lifted her chin slightly. "I just—thought—"

"Thought you'd impress him by playing house?" Mrs. Khurana interrupted smoothly, each word calculated, each syllable cutting. She circled the room slowly, as if inspecting a painting rather than addressing a person. "Vanya, dear. You're sweet, but maybe it's time to stop... pretending."

Vanya swallowed hard. Her fingers clenched the edges of the tiffin box. "I'm not pretending. I just wanted to help," she said softly, the effort to keep her voice steady almost painful.

Mrs. Khurana's lips curved into a humorless, tight smile, the kind that cut deeper than any shout could. "Help is only helpful when asked for," she said, the words dropping like stones.

Vanya said nothing further. Her throat tightened, a bitter taste of humiliation rising, but she refused to show tears. She had learned long ago that silence could be armor. Across the room, Mr. Khurana had been the complete opposite all morning—warm, gentle, and a quiet reassurance against the sharpness of his wife. He stepped closer, taking her hand lightly.

"Vanya beta," he said, his voice steady and soft, "you must come tonight. It's Veeraj's homecoming. You're like family. Please."

The sincerity in his eyes made her heart flutter, a small warmth against the chill left by Mrs. Khurana's words. She nodded, letting herself be guided by the one person in that vast mansion who never made her feel small, who saw her kindness instead of mocking it.

Vanya straightened her posture, holding her head high as she carefully carried the tiffin away. Inwardly, she steeled herself. She had her limits. She had her pride. And even if Mrs. Khurana's barbs cut deep, she would not allow them to define her. Tonight, she would face the mansion, the chaos, and Veeraj Khurana himself—and she would do so on her own terms.

Later in college,

The morning sun filtered through the classroom windows, catching the glint of Vanya's bracelet as she adjusted her tight kurta over her jeans. She had picked the outfit that morning on a whim, thinking it might look "smart-casual," but the truth was, she absolutely hated it. The fabric clung uncomfortably across her waist and chest, and every time she moved, she felt conspicuous, exposed even.

Her group of colleagues lingered near the staff room door, whispering and giggling.

"Vanya! Did Aariv see you this morning?" one asked, eyes sparkling with mischief. "You looked... really nice!"

Vanya forced a smile, tugging subtly at the hem of the kurta. "I'm nearly thirty," she said softly, a hint of exasperation in her voice. "At this age... I think I'm starting to lose hope. And honestly, I hate this outfit."

Her friend tilted her head, laughing lightly. "Lose hope? Vanya, come on! You're amazing. And if Aariv doesn't propose, maybe you should take the lead. Worst case, he says no, and you move forward."

Vanya glanced out the window, her thoughts drifting to quiet afternoons spent preparing lessons, grading papers, and hoping for a glance from Aariv that never came. She shifted awkwardly in the tight kurta. "I... maybe you're right," she admitted, cheeks flushing slightly.

Her colleagues smiled encouragingly. "Exactly! You deserve happiness, Vanya. Don't wait for someone else to decide it for you."

For a brief moment, standing in her hated outfit, she felt a spark of courage. Maybe it was time to step out of the shadow of unrequited love—and finally take charge of her own heart.