The ground floor was buzzing with wedding preparations the faint hum of workers stringing marigold garlands, the smell of fresh flowers and incense clinging to the air. I was coming down from the first floor, carefully balancing a big brass bucket in my arms. It was heavy and awkward, filled to the brim with fresh flower torans that the decorators had asked me to bring down. The bucket was so big it blocked my view entirely, so I had to rely on memory and cautious steps to navigate the narrow staircase

I could just make out the faint sound of someone’s voice below, but the moment I adjusted my grip, the world suddenly tilted into chaos.

CRASH!!!

Something - no, someone slammed into me with enough force to knock the bucket right out of my hands. The clang of brass hitting stone echoed through the high-ceilinged hall, followed by the soft but devastating sound of flower torans spilling in every direction. Strings of orange, yellow, and white blossoms cascaded around us like some ridiculous, romantic rainstorm… except it felt more like a disaster than a dream.

My breath caught as my heel slipped on the edge of a step. My weight pitched backward not onto the ground, but toward the yawning emptiness of the staircase. A flash of pure panic ripped through me.

Oh god.

In that split second, a horrifyingly clear thought tore through my mind...
Great. Just great. I’m going to attend this wedding in a wheelchair. Maybe with a nice little cast to match my lehenga.

But the fall never came.

Instead, I felt it the heat of a hand, firm and steady, wrapping around my bare waist. A single hand gripped my bare waist from the side, fingers pressing just enough to stop my fall. My breath caught, not just from the shock of being saved, but from the sudden awareness of how close that touch was.

Slowly, I opened my eyes I hadn’t even realized I’d squeezed shu in fear and found myself staring directly into a pair of eyes already locked on me.

They were… impossible. Not the warm, friendly kind. No these were sharper, deeper, like they could slice through the air between us. A dark, stormy that wasn’t just a color, but a presence. For a moment, I forgot where I was.

And the rest of him? My brain struggled to process it all at once. His jaw was sharp enough to make sculptors jealous, each line perfectly cut. His skin was warm-toned, sun-brushed, like he’d lived under skies richer than mine. Thick, perfectly disheveled hair framed his face in a way that looked infuriatingly effortless

And then there was the scent... God help me. Rich, clean, expensive. A cologne that didn’t scream for attention but whispered in a way that made you want to lean closer, just to catch more of it.

For what felt like several seconds  maybe more. we just stood there, frozen in the middle of the mess, my waist still in his grip, my pulse hammering far louder than it had any right to.

Reality slammed back in when I realized how close we were. Too close. I stepped back instinctively, my face heating  except I didn’t actually getaway.

Something tugged against me. I glanced down, and my eyes widened. Oh, perfect. Fantastic. The scattered flower torans had done more than just create a mess, they’d wrapped themselves around us like nature’s own idea of a sick joke. One thick string of marigolds looped around my arm and then his, another had somehow managed to knot itself around our waists, and a third hung lazily between us like some ceremonial thread binding unwilling particpants.

I tugged sharply at one, then another, but the flowers were knotted tight. My fingers fumbled, my frustration rising with each failed attempt.

“Ugh—” I hissed under my breath, glaring at the stubborn mess. “Move—”

I tried again, pulling harder this time, but the flowers just tightened, making it worse. It didn’t help that he wasn’t exactly stepping back or trying to help just watching me with an unreadable expression, his hand finally gone from my waist but his presence still annoyingly close

I felt the simmer of anger bubbling in my chest. The words were right there on the tip of my tongue, ready to explode — when his voice cut through the air, deep and heavy enough to drown out my thoughts.

“Can’t you see?” he said, his tone laced with impatience. “Are you blind?”

I blinked, caught between disbelief and rage.

Excuse me? Did this man just—

I straightened, the shock quickly replaced by fire. My voice rose without my permission. “Hello, Mr. Whoever-You-Are! Can’t YOU see? I was carrying a huge bucket. Obviously it wasn’t my fault! I was on my way up. You were the one storming down like the stairs were on fire.”

He didn’t flinch. In fact, his jaw tightened as if my words had only poked some sleeping beast inside him.

“First of all,” he said slowly, his tone clipped, “that wasn’t my fault. And secondly...” He bent suddenly, his movements sharp, and picked something up from the step between us. “because of you, my phone is broken.”

He straightened and held it up for me to see. The screen was a spiderweb of cracks, the damage glittering under the chandelier light.

I stared at it for a moment, then looked back at him, my brows rising so high I was surprised they didn’t fly off my forehead.

“So what?” I shot back, my tone pure disbelief. “You care about your so-called phone? And what if I had fallen from the stairs, huh? What then? It was completely your mistake, so please don’t try blaming me.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but I wasn’t finished.

“In fact,” I continued, the heat in my words dripping with sarcasm, “maybe you should try walking like a normal person instead of stumbling into strangers while staring at your phone like it’s the love of your life.”

For a second, his eyes flickered  something sharp, something that made my stomach twist for reasons I didn’t want to explore. Then, just as quickly, he rolled those same eyes, the motion so slow it felt almost deliberate.

“You’ll pay for it,” he said simply.

The words were low but laced with something not quite a threat, not quite a joke, but enough to make me pause for half a breath.

I forced a laugh I didn’t feel. “Yeah, right,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Dream on.”

And with that, I yanked my wrist free from the last stubborn garland, ignoring the petals clinging to my dress, and stepped past him.

I didn’t look back.

But I didn’t have to , I could feel his eyes on me, hot and unblinking, as I walked away. The flowers lay scattered in my wake like a battlefield after a losing fight, his broken phone glinting in his hand, and his anger hanging in the air behind me like an unspoken promise. But i didn't care.

My heels clicked against the grand corridor, the soft jingling of my anklets competing with the pounding in my chest. My fingers still tingled where his hand had been on my waist firm, warm, uninvited and the thought alone was enough to make me clench my jaw.

God, the audacity. He had the nerve to blame me. Me. When he was the one staring at his phone, walking like he owned the palace corridors.

The scent of fresh mogra still clung to my hair and dupatta from that mess, but instead of feeling like a bride’s guest at a royal wedding, I felt like the aftermath of a florist’s nightmare.

I was halfway across the courtyard when a clear, melodic voice called out.

“Hey! You!”

I stopped mid-stride and turned, confused. “Me??”

A woman in a peach colour lehenga was walking toward me, her skirts swaying in perfect synchrony with her delicate steps. She was breathtaking in that effortless, regal way her blouse glittered faintly under the sunlight streaming through the palace archways, and her hair was pulled back into a loose, romantic bun decorated with fresh orchids.

“Yes, you,” she said again, smiling warmly but with a hint of curiosity in her eyes. “Your dress… I mean…” She gestured toward my skirt, the bangles on her wrist chiming softly. “There are petals all over your lehenga. So many flowers… you look like you just walked out of a mandap.” something was off in her voice, as if she was judging me.

I blinked and looked down.
Oh. My. God.
She was right

Small yellow and white petals were scattered across my heavy peach-pink lehenga, clinging stubbornly to the silk embroidery and pooling near my shoes. It looked like I had rolled down a decorated wedding aisle.

And instantly, my jaw tightened.
That Mr. Bastard.

He must have walked away with his stupid cracked phone, but here I was looking like a walking garden exhibit. If he had even a speck of decency, he would have at least helped pick the petals off. But no, of course not. Why would he?

That male ego wouldn’t bend that low.

I forced a polite smile for the lavender-lehenga lady. “Ooo… thank you,” I said, brushing some petals off with my hand. “I’ll… go manage it.”

She nodded with a straight face. I gave her a small nod in return, then quickly made my escape, moving toward the quieter side of the palace. But I heard her muttering something classy and dressing sence. But ignored her.

The air shifted as I entered the shaded corridor the heat of the courtyard replaced by a cool, faintly perfumed breeze that carried the scent of sandalwood. My footsteps echoed softly against the polished white marble floors. Above me, arched ceilings gleamed with hand-painted motifs of lotuses and peacocks, and every window framed a perfect view of the shimmering lake outside.

But I barely registered any of it because my mind was still replaying that ridiculous encounter. His voice deep and sharp still rang in my ears: Can’t you see? Are you blind?

Oh, I saw alright. I saw his perfectly sculpted jawline, his annoyingly flawless hair, and those eyes dark, steady, unflinching. The kind of eyes that didn’t blink even when they were two inches away from yours. And the way he smelled… God, why did he have to smell so expensive? That subtle mix of oud and cedar that seemed to linger even after he was gone.

I shook my head, muttering under my breath. “Forget him, Mayra. Forget him.”

By the time I reached the grand staircase to the third floor, I was already regretting my decision. The Udaigarh Palace was magnificent, yes, but apparently “magnificent” did not include installing a lift.

And climbing these endless marble stairs in a heavy lehenga with layered can-can net, matching dupatta, heavy kundan necklace, earrings, bangles, and a matha-patti? This was less like attending a wedding and more like surviving an Agnee-Pariksha.

Step after step, the pleats of my skirt dragged against the polished marble. My ankles ached, my breath grew shallow, and my jewellery jingled like an announcement of my suffering. I could already hear my mother’s voice in my head: “Beta, this is why you should do more exercise instead of sitting with your novels all day.”

Finally—finally the last step brought me to the third-floor corridor. I paused, leaning slightly against the carved sandstone railing, trying to catch my breath. My fingers curled around the cool stone, tracing the delicate floral patterns that had been chiseled into it centuries ago.

The palace really was a masterpiece. The walls were a soft ivory, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and mirrors that caught stray beams of sunlight, scattering them into tiny stars across the floor. Arched doorways framed courtyards filled with bougainvillea, and the faint sound of sitar music drifted up from somewhere below.

I smiled faintly despite my exhaustion. For a moment, the drama of Mr. Bastard and his precious broken phone faded, replaced by a quiet awe at the sheer beauty around me.

Still… I wasn’t going back to my own room. That felt boring.
Why waste time alone when my best friend’s room was just around the corner?

Kavya had been given one of the most beautiful suites in the palace. Sunlight all day, a balcony with a lake view, and the kind of antique furniture that looked like it belonged in a royal museum. I could already imagine her sitting there, probably sipping nimbu-paani in her silk robe, looking like she had stepped out of a bridal magazine.

Grinning to myself, I walked toward her door, my steps lighter now.
I raised my hand and knocked once.

There was a brief pause, and then a sweet, cheerful voice called from inside, “Come in!”

Something in my chest softened at that sound. After all the chaos of the morning, hearing her voice felt like stepping into a safe space a reminder that I wasn’t here alone, that I had someone who understood me without needing too many words.

I turned the brass handle and pushed the door open.

Thank you for reading!!!