"Tera Hone Laga Hoon"

Cultural Textile Exhibition

The air was rich with the scent of sandalwood and jasmine oil. The old haveli’s courtyards were draped in embroidered curtains that swayed with the monsoon breeze slipping in through carved jharokhas. Folk music from a distant dholak hummed in the background, mixing with the murmur of cultured voices admiring the handwoven saris and intricate zari work. Diyas flickered along the walls like whispers of forgotten stories.

Arnav Singh Raizada stepped onto the marble floor, its chill climbing up through his bespoke Italian leather shoes. His jaw was taut. His eyes, hawk-sharp. Everything about him screamed precision—he was a man carved out of deadlines and silence. These exhibitions weren’t his scene. Too much noise. Too much color. Too many fake pleasantries wrapped in glitter.

But Akash had insisted.

“It’s for our heritage line, Bhai. One walkthrough. That’s it.”

Arnav didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His silence was loud enough.

His gaze swept across the room dispassionately—until something moved. A streak of red soared across the hall. A dupatta, midair. It fluttered like a banner in battle, catching the golden glow of a diya, the embroidery on its edge a glinting trail.

And then she appeared.

A girl in a cream anarkali with red threadwork along the hem, juggling a brass tray filled with diyas. One flame tilted precariously.

“Oh no no no—Hai Devi Maiyya, ab yeh bhi gir gaya!” she gasped. “Sorry, sorry!”

Khushi Kumari Gupta spun sideways to catch the falling diya, her ankle slipping slightly on the polished floor. She twisted—straight into a wall of human steel.

The tray clattered to the floor. Diyas rolled. One guttered out. One sizzled. A diya’s flame kissed the hem of her dupatta.

Arnav instinctively stepped forward, his hand darting to brush the cloth away from the fire.

Time paused.

Her face tilted up, lips parted, eyes wide. Honey-brown eyes. Unfiltered panic and warmth in equal measure.

“I—I didn’t see you there!” she said, breathless, cheeks flushed.

She stumbled back.

Her dupatta didn’t.

It clung stubbornly to the button on his sleeve—caught, like the moment itself.

He didn’t speak. His fingers twitched, halfway to her cheek. Something inside him—something long buried—almost reached for her. But he stopped. Instead, he stared at the red fabric caught like a secret between them.

“It’s… stuck,” she whispered, crouching slightly to untangle it, her fingers brushing against the fine weave of his charcoal grey suit.

“Let it be,” his voice came out rough. Unintended. Deep. Possessive?

She blinked up. His tone startled her.

“I’ll do it,” he added, more controlled this time.

She stilled. He knelt halfway, unhooked the thread from his button with practiced ease. But his eyes didn’t move from her face.

There was too much in her expression. Chaos, apology, defiance, innocence—wrapped in one ridiculous girl.

Finally free, she stepped back. Flustered. Embarrassed.

“Anyway,” she mumbled, smoothing her dress. “Thank you… Mr.—?”

“Raizada. Arnav Singh Raizada.”

Her eyes widened. Recognition bloomed.

“Wait... The Raizada? As in the AR Designs Raizada? The big fashion house?”

He inclined his head, noncommittally.

“Oh no,” she gasped. “I nearly set a diya on you!”

“You set something on fire, alright,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” she blinked.

“Nothing.”

He looked at her again. Not just at her, but into her. “Do you… work here?”

“Me? No no, I was just helping. My Jiji manages some of the embroidery showcases, and I always get diya duty because apparently I’m ‘full of light.’” She rolled her eyes.

He didn’t smile, but something shifted behind his eyes. “Of course.”

Of course she wasn’t just a staffer. She had presence. A strange mix of clumsiness and poise, like a dance choreographed by chaos.

Across the room, a sudden wave of applause broke the spell. A folk dance had begun. Arnav’s phone buzzed. Akash. He ignored it.

She bit her lip. “Well… I should go before I knock over a curtain or set someone else on fire.”

She turned. He didn’t stop her.

But he watched her leave.

As she disappeared into the crowd, her dupatta caught the breeze one more time.

Red. Like memory. Like fate.

He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

And deep inside his mind, where numbers and strategies usually lived, a single word settled:

happiness

---

Across the Hall

Akash Singh Raizada stood with a museum program in one hand and a phone in the other, scrolling through the list of artisanal collaborators his assistant had just messaged. He wasn’t paying much attention to the crowd anymore—at least not until he looked up and realized one very specific, brooding, controlling, suit-wearing presence had vanished.

He frowned. “Where did Bhai go?”

Lavanya Kashyap popped a grape into her mouth from a platter she'd stolen from the hospitality counter. “Probably brooding in a corner. Or threatening a mannequin. Or correcting some poor artisan's color palette.”

Akash chuckled, eyes scanning the crowd. “No seriously. He said fifteen minutes. Tops. It’s already been twenty.”

Lavanya, in a wildly impractical sequined jumpsuit and hot pink heels, was scrolling through her Insta stories. “Ten bucks says he found someone worth glaring at.”

Akash raised a brow. “He doesn’t glare at people. He glares through them.”

“Exactly.”

She leaned against the column, tossing her sleek ponytail behind her. “God, I love this setting though. These curtains. That chandelier. Someone tell Vogue to do a shoot here.”

Akash sighed. “We’re here for the textiles, La.”

“And what do you think Vogue is for, darling?” she retorted.

Akash smirked. “I still can’t believe he came.”

Lavanya folded her arms. “Well, he did. And I think we should mark the calendar. You know it takes either a national emergency or a serious profit pitch to drag ASR to a cultural mela.”

“More like blackmail.” Akash nodded. “I told him the board needed visuals. Heritage line authenticity. A presence.”

“And what do you think happened?” Lavanya tilted her head thoughtfully. “Maybe he saw some khadi silk and fell in love?”

Akash deadpanned. “Do you hear yourself?”

Lavanya laughed. “Oh come on. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed the vibe shift. He walked in like Darth Vader, but he’s been missing for twenty minutes. Either he left—or someone made him pause.”

Akash checked his phone again. Still no reply.

Lavanya leaned toward him conspiratorially. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“Not for Bhai.”

“But what if,” she said dramatically, “fate wrapped up one of those handloom dupattas and flung it directly into his face?”

Akash paused, thoughtful. “Honestly? If any dupatta dared touch ASR, he’d incinerate it with a look.”

Lavanya snorted. “Unless… it came with a girl. A girl with clumsy feet. And loud bangles. And eyes like sweet sugar.”

Akash slowly turned to look at her. “That’s weirdly specific.”

She winked. “I’ve watched a lot of Yash Raj films, darling.”

Just then, a shadow fell over them. They both turned.

Arnav.

Perfectly composed. Back in his full form—stiff shoulders, poker face, and those unreadable eyes.

“You two are wasting time,” he said flatly.

Lavanya grinned like a cat. “Where were you, Mr. Raizada?”

“Looking at embroidery.”

Akash narrowed his eyes. “You hate embroidery.”

Arnav walked past them. “I like patterns.”

Lavanya called after him, sing-song. “What kind of patterns, ASR?”

He didn’t answer.

But Akash watched him go, then looked at Lavanya.

“I think we just witnessed the impossible.”

Lavanya raised her brows. “The beginning of a love story?”

“No,” Akash said, shaking his head slowly.

“The beginning of Arnav Singh Raizada’s existential crisis.”