Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
New York rarely sleeps. It only changed moods.
At six in the evening, Manhattan was a blur of motion — yellow taxis slicing through traffic, glass towers catching the last wash of winter light, pedestrians moving with the urgency of people who believed every second had value.
From the twenty-third floor of Harrington & Cole Architects, the city looked almost rehearsed.
Aarohi barely noticed it.
She stood near the long presentation table, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows, dark hair pulled into a loose knot that had surrendered hours ago. Rolls of drawings were scattered across the polished surface, along with a tablet, two empty coffee cups, and a mechanical pencil she had been unconsciously spinning between her fingers.
“…If we shift the vertical greens by even half a metre, the façade breathes.”
Her voice was steady, assured, threaded with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what she was talking about.
Across from her, three senior associates studied the digital model rotating slowly on the screen.
“The load distribution?” one of them asked.
Aarohi didn’t hesitate. “Already recalculated.”
She tapped the tablet. Numbers replaced visuals. Clean. Precise.
“The additional weight stays well within tolerance. But the visual impact—” She tilted her head slightly, eyes brightening with familiar enthusiasm. “—is completely different.”
There was a brief silence.
Then, a nod.
Another.
Approval rarely arrived with drama in this office. It came quietly, almost reluctantly.
“Alright,” the lead partner said, leaning back. “Proceed with the revision.”
Aarohi exhaled, not out of relief but satisfaction. A small, fleeting smile curved her lips — the private kind that had nothing to do with politeness.
“Good call,” one of the associates added as they began gathering their things.
“I know,” she replied lightly.
He laughed. “Confidence isn’t your problem.”
“No,” Aarohi agreed, finally reaching for her pencil. “Deadlines are.”
The room dissolved into low conversation. Chairs shifted. Devices clicked shut.
Outside the glass walls, the office hummed with its usual rhythm — designers hunched over screens, muted discussions near drafting stations.
It was a world Aarohi had built for herself. Carefully. Deliberately.
No titles. No expectations. No suffocating corridors of tradition.
Just work.
Just space.
Just her.
Her phone buzzed against the table.
She almost ignored it.
Almost.
The screen lit up with a name she hadn’t seen in weeks.
Bhai
For a fraction of a second, the noise of the office faded.
Not disappeared.
Just… softened.
Aarohi picked up the phone, turning slightly away from the table.
“Hey,” she answered.
There was no hesitation in her tone, no guardedness. Only familiarity — warm, instinctive.
On the other end, her brother’s voice carried the easy steadiness she had known all her life.
“Busy?”
“When am I not?”
“Still designing buildings the rest of us don’t understand?”
Aarohi smiled faintly. “Still pretending you understand business deals you shouldn’t sign?”
He chuckled. The sound travelled across continents, cutting through distance with irritating effortlessness.
For a few moments, they spoke of ordinary things — his meetings, her projects, harmless teasing woven with an affection neither of them ever needed to verbalise.
Then his tone shifted barely but enough.
“Aaru.”
She stilled.That single word — that particular inflection — always meant something.
“Yes?”
“I need you to come to India.”
The pencil stopped spinning between her fingers.Aarohi turned fully toward the window now, Manhattan stretching endlessly below.There was no shock. Only a slow, quiet tightening somewhere beneath her ribs.
“For what?”
“A project discussion. And…” A pause. “Some family matters.”
Family.
Such a deceptively simple word.
Aarohi’s gaze remained fixed on the city, though she was no longer seeing it.
“I don’t do palace renovations,” she said calmly.
“This isn’t that.”
Another pause.
“You’ve been away long enough.”There it was.Not pressure.Not quite.
But something heavier than a casual request.
Aarohi leaned lightly against the glass, eyes narrowing slightly as if the skyline itself required scrutiny.
“I have work here.”
“You always have work.”
“And you always have dramatic timing.”
“Aarohi.”
The softness of his voice was worse than insistence.
Silence stretched between them.New York roared on, indifferent.
“When?” she asked at last.
India.
A country.
A past.
A world she had very intentionally stepped away from.
Mumbai greeted her with humidity and noise.
Even at midnight, Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport pulsed with restless energy — luggage wheels clattering, announcements echoing overhead, families reuniting with theatrical enthusiasm, drivers holding placards with varying degrees of patience.
Aarohi moved through it all with quiet efficiency, a small suitcase trailing behind her.
Years abroad had altered many things — her accent softened, her pace sharpened, her tolerance for chaos selectively improved.
But Mumbai still felt… familiar.Alive in a way New York wasn’t.Her phone vibrated again as she stepped outside a message from the New York office about schedule update.and client.
“Miss.Aarohi ?”
She turned.
A sharply dressed man approached, posture polite, expression professional.
“Yes?”
“I’m from Rathore Group. Mr. Rathore asked me to receive you.”
Of course.
Work never waited.
Not even for jet lag.
The car ride was a blur of sodium lights, sleeping flyovers, and the distant shimmer of a city that refused to surrender entirely to the night.
By morning, Mumbai had transformed.
Traffic surged.
Horns created their own language.
Glass towers rose beside stubbornly ageing buildings.
Aarohi stood in the lobby of a sleek corporate high-rise, scanning the minimalist interiors with mild appreciation.
Marble. Steel. Neutral tones.
Predictably expensive.
“The conference room is on the third floor ,” the receptionist informed her.
Aarohi nodded, already walking.
Inside, the atmosphere was subdued — executives seated along a long table, screens prepared, bottled water aligned with unnecessary precision.
She barely registered the faces.
Until the door opened again.
The shift in the room was subtle but immediate.
Not tension.
Attention.
A man entered with unhurried ease, as if the space naturally reorganised itself around him.
Tall. Composed. Effortlessly put together.
No loud authority. No theatrical presence.
Just… quiet command.
He offered a brief apology to the room, voice calm, edged with faint amusement.
“Traffic .”
A few restrained smiles followed.
Aarohi, however, found herself watching him with unexpected curiosity.
There was something disarming about his energy — relaxed yet precise, warm yet unreadable.
He took his seat, finally glancing toward her.For half a second, their eyes met.Nothing dramatic happened.No cinematic jolt.Only a flicker of awareness.Interest, perhaps.Then—
“Mr. Rathore,” someone began.
Ah.
So this was him.
Veer Rathore.
The meeting commenced.
But for reasons Aarohi couldn’t quite articulate…
Mumbai suddenly felt far less ordinary.
Mumbai afternoons had a peculiar heaviness.
Not the languid softness of smaller cities, but a dense, vibrating pressure — traffic murmuring endlessly beyond tinted glass, sunlight glaring against steel towers, air conditioning working overtime to convince everyone indoors that the world outside did not exist.
Inside the conference Room, the presentation was ending.
“…and that concludes the structural integration concept.”
Aarohi clicked off the final slide.
Silence followed — the professional kind, thick with evaluation rather than emotion.
Across the table, executives exchanged glances, some nodding almost imperceptibly. Numbers, feasibility, cost projections — all the predictable concerns flickered across their expressions.
Veer Rathore leaned back slightly in his chair.
He hadn’t spoken for the last several minutes.
Not because he wasn’t interested.
Quite the opposite.
His gaze rested on Aarohi with an attentiveness so relaxed it almost went unnoticed. No intrusive intensity, no blatant scrutiny — just quiet observation, sharpened by something he had not yet bothered to name.
She spoke well.
Not rehearsed-well.
Confident-well.
There was a difference.
Most presenters chased approval. They padded their sentences, softened their assertions, waited nervously for reactions.
Aarohi did none of that.
She explained.
She concluded.
As if competence were the default expectation.
Interesting.
One of the senior board members cleared his throat. “Impressive work.”
“Thank you,” Aarohi replied politely.
No excessive gratitude. No visible relief.
Veer’s mouth twitched faintly.
Yes.
Definitely interesting.
Questions followed — technical, financial, procedural.
She handled each with clean precision, voice steady despite the faint fatigue now threading its way beneath her composure.
He noticed that too.
The slight delay before answering.
The almost invisible tightening near her temples.
The way her fingers lingered a fraction longer on the tablet.
Jet lag.
Exhaustion.
Yet no drop in clarity.
By the time the meeting adjourned, the decision was almost unanimous.
They wanted her on the project.
Chairs shifted. Conversations resumed. Devices reappeared.
Veer remained seated.
Aarohi began gathering her materials with efficient focus, attention entirely on rolled drawings and digital files.
No lingering. No unnecessary social gestures.
Veer watched this for a moment before speaking, tone easy, threaded with mild amusement.
“You make that look dangerously effortless.”
She glanced up.
Just briefly.
There was no visible surprise in her expression — only a measured, slightly distracted acknowledgment.
“I assure you,” she said, sliding the tablet into her bag, “it wasn’t.”
He smiled.
Not the polished corporate smile he used when required.
A genuine one — warm, unforced.
“Disappointing. I was prepared to feel deeply inadequate.”
That earned the faintest reaction.
Not quite a smile.
But close.
“I doubt that happens often to you, Mr. Rathore.”
“Veer,” he corrected lightly. “The ‘Mr.’ makes me sound older than I’m emotionally prepared for.”
For the first time, her eyes held his for more than a passing second.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied.
Still polite.
Still distant.
Still—
Tired.
Veer recognised it now with certainty.
The subtle dullness beneath her otherwise alert gaze. The energy carefully held together by discipline rather than rest.
“You came straight from the airport, didn’t you?”
Aarohi paused, adjusting the strap of her bag.
“Yes.”
“No sleep?”
“Not yet.”
The answer was simple, devoid of complaint.
Yet Veer felt an unexpected flicker of irritation — not directed at her, but at the invisible chain of schedules and obligations that had placed her here in this state.
Unreasonable reaction.
Entirely unnecessary.
He suppressed it effortlessly.
“Then I feel morally obligated to stop talking before you begin to resent this project.”
That finally drew a small, genuine smile.
Quick.
Soft.
Disarming.
“I don’t resent projects,” she said. “Only people who delay them.”
Veer laughed quietly.
A low, warm sound that seemed oddly at ease in the otherwise sterile room.
“Duly noted.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
The room had emptied almost completely now, the distant hum of corporate life resuming its dominance.
Veer rose at last.
“I hope Mumbai is being kind to you so far.”
Aarohi shifted her bag higher on her shoulder.
“I haven’t seen enough of it yet to form an opinion.”
“Fair answer.”
He hesitated — not visibly, but just enough to register internally.
Strange.
He did not usually hesitate.
“If you need anything while you’re here—”
“I’ll manage,” she said gently, not dismissive but firm.
Independent.
Self-contained.
Another detail filed away.
Veer inclined his head slightly, amusement flickering again.
“I don’t doubt that.”
And with that, she left.
No dramatic exit.
No lingering glance.
Just a tired architect walking out into the machinery of Mumbai.
Veer remained where he was for several seconds.
Staring at the closed door.
Annoyingly aware of the unfamiliar pull of curiosity.
The hotel room was blissfully silent.
Muted curtains filtered the afternoon glare into a subdued golden haze. The air carried the faint, impersonal chill of central cooling, untouched by Mumbai’s humidity.
Aarohi dropped her bag onto the armchair.
Then sat on the edge of the bed.
For a long moment, she did nothing.
No phone.
No unpacking.
No thoughts she cared to articulate.
Only exhaustion — deep, bone-level, accumulated across time zones and compressed into the narrow space between responsibility and memory.
India.
Even after all these years, the country possessed an unsettling ability to stir things she had long ago disciplined into stillness.
Her phone vibrated against the bedside table.
She already knew who it would be.
“Hi, Bhai.”
“You sound dead.”
“I feel worse.”
A soft chuckle answered her.
“Directly to the meeting?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t changed.”
Aarohi leaned back slowly, staring at the ceiling.
“Neither have you.”
A brief silence followed — comfortable, familiar.
Then—
“Flight booked?”
“Evening.”
“To Jaipur.”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Different this time.
Heavier.
“I’m glad you came.”
Aarohi closed her eyes.
Outside, somewhere beyond insulated glass, Mumbai roared on. Unaware. Indifferent.
“Me too,” she said quietly.
Not entirely certain if it was true.
But not entirely false either.
Tomorrow would not be about projects or cities.
Tomorrow would belong to memory.
To absence.
To a mother she had never known, yet somehow always missed.
And Aarohi, despite everything she had built, despite the oceans she had crossed…
Was not prepared for how much that still mattered.
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