Chapter 7
The Chaturvedi mansion was entirely transformed.
It was the eightieth birthday of Daadi Savitri, the fiercely respected matriarch of the family, and the estate was vibrating with a chaotic, celebratory energy.
For the past three days, hundreds of event planners, florists, and caterers had been rushing through the massive hallways, turning the cold, imposing fortress into a palace of light and color.
Poorvanshi stood by the massive arched window of her guest suite, watching the workers hang thousands of golden string lights in the sprawling gardens. The atmosphere in the house was festive, but for Poorvanshi, it was just another massive stage where she had to play her part.
Tonight, the entire extended Chaturvedi family would be present. Dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins who loved to gossip would be watching her every single move. They would be waiting for her to look sad, to look broken, or to look like she didn't belong.
Poorvanshi turned away from the window and looked at the heavy garment bag resting on her massive king-sized bed.
She unzipped the bag and carefully pulled out the saree she had chosen for the evening. It was not a demure, quiet color. It was a fierce, deep, blood-red silk.
The fabric was incredibly soft, catching the light like liquid fire.
It was completely devoid of heavy, traditional gold embroidery.
Instead, its beauty lay in the pure, rich intensity of the color and the sleek, modern drape.
She paired it with a sleeveless, backless blouse that added a sharp, contemporary edge to the traditional garment.
She spent an hour carefully draping the silk around her waist and pinning the pallu over her shoulder.
She kept her makeup bold but elegant, highlighting her sharp cheekbones and painting her lips a matching shade of deep red.
She left her dark hair completely loose, letting the soft waves cascade down her back, brushing against her bare skin.
She looked in the full-length mirror. She didn't look like an abandoned bride. She looked like a woman who could burn down the entire mansion if she chose to.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Poorvanshi opened her door and began the long walk down the grand sweeping staircase.
The main foyer was an absolute masterpiece of cinematic lighting.
The massive crystal chandeliers above were turned to a warm, golden glow, casting a beautiful, soft bokeh effect across the background of the sprawling house.
The highly polished marble floors acted like giant mirrors, creating stunning, ray-traced reflections of the vibrant floral arrangements and the glittering lights.
Standing at the absolute center of this magnificent setting was Siddhant.
He was speaking quietly to his head of security, Ishaan, going over the final protocols for the evening.
Siddhant was dressed in a completely traditional, sharply tailored black bandhgala suit.
The dark fabric hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, and a crisp white pocket square provided a striking contrast. His jaw was completely clean-shaven, the sharp, perfect symmetry of his facial features looking incredibly handsome and terrifyingly intense under the golden lights.
As Poorvanshi’s silver heels clicked softly against the marble stairs, Siddhant’s voice trailed off.
He slowly looked up.
When his dark eyes landed on her, time seemed to completely stop.
Poorvanshi felt the air leave her lungs.
The look on his face was impossible to describe.
His completely blank, calculated mask fractured in real-time.
His dark, obsidian eyes swept over the fierce red silk wrapping around her body, tracing the bare curve of her waist, the elegant line of her neck, and the bold, challenging confidence radiating from her posture.
For three long, agonizing seconds, Siddhant just stared. He didn't blink. He looked like a man who had suddenly forgotten how to breathe.
"Boss?" Ishaan asked quietly, noticing the sudden silence.
Siddhant violently cleared his throat, his jaw clenching so hard that a tiny muscle twitched in his cheek. He forced his cold mask back onto his face, though it looked entirely strained. He dismissed Ishaan with a quick nod and walked to the bottom of the staircase to wait for her.
As Poorvanshi reached the bottom step, she could feel the intense, burning heat radiating from him. The magnetic pull that had started in the library and exploded on the dance floor was back, stronger than ever.
"Good evening, Mr. Chaturvedi," Poorvanshi said softly, tilting her chin up. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."
Siddhant’s eyes dropped to her red lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to her eyes. He slipped one hand casually into his pocket, desperate to hide the fact that he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch the soft silk wrapping her waist.
"Not a ghost, Miss Rathore," Siddhant murmured, his voice incredibly deep and entirely dry. "I am just trying to determine if you are intentionally trying to cause a fire hazard, or if you simply lack a mirror."
Poorvanshi let out a soft, breathy laugh. She loved this. She loved that she could rattle the famously unshakeable Devil of Delhi.
"You don't like the color red?" she teased playfully, stepping just a tiny bit closer to him, closing the polite distance. "I thought it was festive. Daadi Savitri likes bright colors."
"It is loud," Siddhant countered smoothly, though his eyes betrayed his words completely. He was drinking her in. "It draws far too much attention. You look like a walking warning sign."
"Maybe I am a warning sign," Poorvanshi shot back, her dark eyes sparkling with absolute confidence. "You should probably keep your distance, Siddhant. You might get burned."
Siddhant leaned forward. The sharp scent of his cedarwood cologne washed over her, mixing perfectly with the sweet scent of the jasmine flowers decorating the hall.
"I have been standing in the fire for thirty-four years, Poorvanshi," Siddhant whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, thrilling promise. "Do not think for a single second that a little heat will scare me away."
Before Poorvanshi could formulate a clever reply to that heart-stopping comment, a loud, joyful voice echoed from the main hallway.
"Oh, look at the two of you!"
They both turned to see Daadi Savitri, the matriarch of the family, being wheeled into the foyer by a nurse. Daadi was eighty years old, frail in body but incredibly sharp in mind. She wore a beautiful white and gold saree, and her wrinkled face was lit up with a massive smile.
Siddhant instantly stepped back, the dangerous tension dissipating, replaced by deep, genuine respect. He walked over and gently touched his grandmother's feet in a traditional greeting.
"Happy Birthday, Daadi," Siddhant said softly.
"May you live long, my child," Daadi blessed him, patting his cheek. Then, her sharp, bright eyes turned to Poorvanshi. "Come here, girl."
Poorvanshi stepped forward and respectfully touched the old woman's feet as well. Daadi caught her hand and refused to let go, looking her up and down.
"You look breathtaking, Poorvanshi," Daadi Savitri declared loudly, completely ignoring Siddhant's earlier critique. "That red is magnificent. It takes a very strong woman to wear a color like that and not let the fabric wear her."
She shot a knowing, sly look at Siddhant. "Don't you agree, Siddhant? Doesn't your wife look beautiful?"
The word 'wife' hung heavily in the air.
Poorvanshi stiffened slightly, but Siddhant didn't even flinch. He looked directly at Poorvanshi, and this time, he didn't try to hide his reaction behind dry, sarcastic remarks.
"Yes, Daadi," Siddhant said quietly, his dark eyes locking onto Poorvanshi's. "She is absolutely stunning."
The genuine compliment, delivered with such quiet intensity, made a hot blush rise to Poorvanshi's cheeks. She quickly looked down, a rare feeling of shyness washing over her.
"Good. Now, take her arm, Siddhant," Daadi commanded, waving her hand towards the massive outdoor pavilion. "The guests are waiting, and I want everyone to see that the Chaturvedi family is completely united and completely unbroken."
Siddhant held out his arm. Poorvanshi slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and together, they walked out into the grand celebration.
The outdoor pavilion was massive. The gardens had been covered with beautiful silk tents in shades of cream and gold.
Hundreds of traditional oil lamps, called diyas, were placed on tall, heavy brass stands around the perimeter, casting a flickering, romantic light over the hundreds of elite guests.
Live classical musicians played softly in the background, creating a perfectly cinematic, luxurious atmosphere.
As soon as Poorvanshi and Siddhant walked in, the whispers began.
Poorvanshi felt the immediate, heavy weight of hundreds of judgmental eyes turning towards her.
She could practically hear the gossip. 'The abandoned bride.
The cursed girl.' But as she walked with her head held high, the vibrant red silk of her saree flowing gracefully around her legs, the whispers began to change.
She didn't look cursed. She looked incredibly powerful. And the terrifying man walking beside her, holding her arm with unmistakable possessiveness, only added to her untouchable aura.
For the first two hours, everything was perfectly controlled. Siddhant introduced her to older relatives, keeping her close to his side. He expertly navigated the complicated family politics, shutting down any rude questions with a single, icy glare.
But Siddhant was also the head of a massive business empire, and eventually, a group of foreign investors cornered him near the main dining area.
"I will be right back," Siddhant murmured, leaning down to speak directly into her ear. "Do not wander far."