Chapter 39 His Ritual, Her Rules
Iva had been smiling all morning.
Not the kind of smile you wear for show, or out of politeness.
This one was different-private, involuntary, traitorous.
It bloomed in quiet moments, like when she poured her coffee and caught the scent of him still lingering faintly on her.
Or when she glanced at her phone, half hoping for a message and half annoyed at herself for hoping.
Last night...
Her thoughts kept circling back to that moment-soft and sudden, warm and true. The kiss hadn't been planned, but it had settled between them like it had always been waiting. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just real. Like breath meeting breath.
And now, this morning, she couldn't stop feeling it.
His lips still seemed to linger-against her mouth, her cheek, her thoughts. The memory of how he had looked at her right after, not like he'd won something, but like he'd finally found it.
God, she thought, annoyed and amazed all at once, I kissed Adwait. And it didn't feel like the start of something reckless. It felt like... home.
She took her coffee from the counter at Café Viraha, nodding her thanks, still distracted.
There was a lightness in her body that she didn't trust. Even her sarcasm felt like it was wearing a lace veil this morning-sharp-edged but softer.She tried to school her face in the mirror behind the coffee counter, but the grin tugged at the corner of her lips anyway, smug and unwelcome.
By the time she got to the office, her sarcasm had softened into something gentler. Her colleagues noticed it. One asked if she had a date. Another accused her of switching to decaf. She smiled through it all, half present.
She tried to lose herself in work, but her focus kept slipping between columns and keystrokes.
Finally, she pulled out her phone and typed:
Still not over the fact that your horse rejected me.
Truly the most dramatic heartbreak of my life.
She stared at it for a moment before hitting send. A small part of her hoped he wouldn't respond too quickly, just so her heart would stop skipping.
Good, she thought. Keep it light. Pretend your heart isn't fluttering like a teenage idiot.
A few seconds passed. Then the reply lit up her screen:
I didn't say he liked you yet.
I said I'd help him get used to you.
Come today. We'll try.
She read it twice. Then once more. Her breath caught slightly-not at the message, but at how him it was. No overpromising. Just effort. Quiet, patient effort.
And yet, behind the teasing tone, something else stirred in her: the kiss had changed something between them.
You should say no, a voice in her head whispered. You should pretend to be busy. You should stop smiling like an idiot.
But she wasn't listening.
She closed her laptop with a soft, deliberate snap, stood, and dialed his number.
He answered on the second ring. She didn't bother with greetings.
"I have to ride Kaal today," she said flatly, like it was a business meeting she couldn't cancel. "I need closure. Emotional resolution. Maybe revenge, if it comes to that."
Adwait's low chuckle rumbled through the line. "Let's see if Kaal's in the mood to give you any of the above."
She exhaled quietly and looked out the office window.
"I'll leave by five," she said.
She hung up, heart too full, smile too real.
It wasn't just a kiss, she thought, walking back to her desk. It was a beginning I never saw coming.
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The racecourse was bathed in a soft golden hue as the sun made its slow descent. Long shadows stretched across the open track, and the world felt like it had paused between two heartbeats-quiet, expectant.
Iva stood by the wooden fence, eyes wide as she watched a sleek, powerful black horse gallop across the track. Its movements were impossibly smooth, like flowing ink over silk, each stride powerful yet graceful.
Adwait rode with perfect ease, like he was part of the horse rather than its rider.
As they came to a slow stop before her, Kaal snorted and pawed at the ground, nostrils flaring slightly.
The stallion's coat gleamed obsidian in the dying light, almost unreal.
There was something unreadable in his eyes-something that always made her feel like he saw more of her than anyone ever had.
The horse stepped forward, towering and majestic, yet eerily calm. Iva held her breath as she reached out. Kaal dipped his head slightly, letting her fingers graze his warm, silken skin. His eyes were deep and intelligent-watching her, assessing her, almost... feeling her.
"He's... incredible," she whispered. "He doesn't feel like a horse. It's like he knows what I'm thinking."
Adwait smiled faintly, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "He does. More than most people do."
Adwait dismounted with casual precision, his eyes flicking to Iva. He held out a hand. "Ready?"
Iva took it, hesitating just a moment before letting him guide her to the stirrup. "I've never ridden a horse before."
"You've never ridden Kaal," he corrected, smiling as he helped her up. "He's not like the others."
"There's something about him," she said, her voice quiet. "He's... different. The way he moves. The way he listens to you."
Adwait didn't answer right away. He reached forward to pat Kaal's neck, his expression thoughtful.
"That's because he is different," he finally said. "He's not from here."
"Not from India?" Iva's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Where's he from, then?"
A flicker of a smile tugged at Adwait's lips. "That's a story for another time."
She turned to face him more directly, playful curiosity dancing in her eyes. "You're not going to tell me?"
"No," he said, voice deep and soft. "Some stories deserve to be discovered slowly. Like Kaal. Like you."
She waited for more, but it didn't come. "Why won't you tell me?"
He stepped closer, brushing a wind-swept curl from her face. "Because the story behind him is not simple. And once you know it... you can't un-know it. Sometimes the unknown is safer. And sometimes," he added, his voice dipping softer, "it's more beautiful."
The ache in his voice wasn't just mystery-it was memory.
Iva didn't press. Instead, she placed a hand on his chest, right over the steady rhythm of his heart. "Then let me just know him now. Like this."
Adwait helped her mount Kaal, his hands steady and warm at her waist. When he swung up behind her, she felt the strength of him against her back-the way he wrapped around her, protective yet unashamedly close.
They began to ride, slowly at first, then faster, as the world blurred around them. Iva laughed-a pure, breathless sound-as the wind tangled in her hair. And behind her, she could feel Adwait's breath on her neck, and the way he pulled her tighter when she leaned into him.
They came to a slow stop by a field where the grass danced under the last rays of sun. Adwait dismounted and turned to help her down. As she slid into his arms, he didn't let go right away. Instead, he held her there, forehead against hers, breathing her in like she was the only air he trusted.
"Kaal doesn't trust easily," he said, his gaze never leaving hers. "But the day he let you ride him without a protest... "
The world quieted again. Only the faint rustle of grass, the distant sigh of the wind, and the rhythmic beat of her heart remained. And then, softly, she rose on her toes, and he met her halfway.
Their kiss was unspoken poetry, full of warmth and wonder, the kind that lingers long after lips part.
And somewhere behind them, Kaal let out a low, satisfied breath, as if even he approved.
Kaal stamped his hoof, a slow, deliberate motion that drew their attention. His ears twitched, nostrils flaring slightly as he turned his head-watching Iva with quiet suspicion.
Adwait glanced at him, then at Iva. "He still doesn't trust you. Not yet."
Iva tilted her head. "But he let me ride him."
"He tolerated you because I was there. That's a start." Adwait stepped beside her, resting a hand on Kaal's strong neck. "Trust from him... it takes time. Sometimes more than from people."
She nodded slowly, brushing her fingers over her arm where Kaal's warmth had radiated earlier. "Then promise me something."
Adwait's gaze returned to her, calm but questioning.
"Every weekend," she said, her voice soft but sure. "You'll bring me here. You'll teach me. I want to understand him. Not just ride him."
He blinked once, then gave her that quiet, unreadable smile again. "Every weekend."
Iva raised a pinky, half-laughing. "Promise me. Like a real one."
Adwait chuckled, the sound low and rare, and entwined his pinky with hers. "Promise."
And then, as if words had finished what they needed to say, he pulled her into a slow, grounding hug. Not rushed. Not impulsive. Just real.
Her cheek pressed against his shoulder, the scent of leather and wild air clinging to him. His heartbeat was steady. Reassuring.
"I've never felt this calm around anyone," she murmured.
"That's because I haven't let anyone near like this," he whispered into her hair.
A gust of wind rustled the grass, and Kaal let out a huff, circling a few feet away. He kept his gaze on Iva-still cautious, still protective of Adwait.
"I think he's jealous," she joked, peeking over Adwait's shoulder.
Adwait smiled faintly. "He's protective. He senses everything-fear, lies, heartbreak. That's why he doesn't let people in easily."
"Then I'll just have to be patient." She looked up at him. "With both of you."
He tilted his head, amused. "You're more dangerous than you look."
"Only if you break the promise," she teased.
He didn't answer that. Instead, he brushed his lips lightly over her forehead and turned to lead Kaal back toward the trail.
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The scent of sandalwood and jasmine lingered in the marble corridors of Leela Rêve - the ancestral estate that wore time like a silk shawl, rich with stories and shadows.
Iva had just returned, cheeks still flushed from the ride with Adwait, when the sound of tires crunching the gravel driveway echoed through the arches.
She frowned.
No one was expected.
She moved to the balcony above the main entrance, fingers lightly gripping the iron rail, just as the sleek black car rolled to a stop beneath the banyan tree.
The back door opened first.
Out stepped Vayu.
He looked up and saw her.
A slow grin crept onto his face. "Iva"
Iva's breath caught. "Vayu?"
Before she could call out again, the other door opened.
And out stepped a woman in slate-gray linen and soft leather sandals, carrying a single silk scarf draped across her shoulders like it meant something more. Her face was ageless, beauty untouched but not unnatural-eyes like thunderclouds before rain.
Iva's body stilled.
Olivia Maasi.
[Olivia aunty]
The tall French windows of Leela Rêve cast golden rectangles on the marble floor as Olivia stepped into the main hall.
Her eyes found Iva - standing in the center, backlit by the early evening sun. For a moment, Olivia didn't move.
"I can't believe it," she murmured. "It's like seeing her again."
Iva smiled cautiously. "My mother?"
Olivia nodded, stepping forward, her fingers fluttering near her mouth like they were unsure whether to cry or laugh. "You have her eyes. Her mouth. But-" she leaned in, narrowing her eyes playfully- "that slight rudeness in your jawline? That's your father."
Iva blinked, then laughed, unsure.
"Oh, don't worry," Olivia waved a hand, teasing.
"I hated him when he stole my sister away.
Christina was all New York, ambition and fire.
Then she met your father and-poof-next thing I know she's moving to India, draped in a red saree, madly in love, and leaving me behind with the bills and the dog. "
There was no bitterness in Olivia's voice now - only mischief. "I used to curse his name every morning when I made my own coffee."
Just then, a deep voice echoed from the other end of the corridor.
"Still cursing me, Olivia?"
Viren Ambani stepped in with Virya beside him, both dressed sharp but relaxed. The moment Olivia turned, something softened in Viren's expression.
They stood for a second - the ghost of a younger time passing between them.
And then Olivia laughed. "Look at you, Viren. Still smug. Still handsome. Still completely unaware of how lucky you were."
Viren strode forward and opened his arms. "And still cursed, apparently."
They hugged.
Not stiffly, not with ceremony - but with the quiet affection of two people who had once been on the edge of something complicated... and had chosen different paths.
Virya smiled as he approached Iva and gave her a half-hug. "So this is our famous Maasi?"
"I don't know about famous," Olivia said, raising a brow. "But definitely more interesting than your father."
Viren rolled his eyes. "I walked right into that."
They laughed together - for the first time in years, maybe.
That night, dinner was light. Warm.
Stories spilled. Old memories resurfaced. No one mentioned Christina directly too often - but she was there in the air. In the candles, in Olivia's smile, in the way Iva tilted her head when listening. In the pauses between sentences.
And when they retired to their rooms, it was with full stomachs, full hearts, and the quiet ache of reunions that come too late, and still mean something.
Next morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Leela Rêve, warm and diffused, gilding everything in a quiet hush.
Ivikaa smoothed the cuff of her ivory blouse, then reached for her delicate gold studs-simple, intentional. Her trousers were sharply tailored, the kind that made her look like she belonged both in boardrooms and art studios. But something about today tugged at her-something unfinished.
"Maya," she said, turning halfway toward the doorway, "can you take Olivia to the office this morning? I'll join you in a bit."
Maya gave a knowing look, one that didn't press with questions. Just a nod.
Ivikaa stepped out into the bright morning, sliding her sunglasses on as she entered the car. The city was still waking up, its chaos a few decibels softer at this hour. As they drove through quiet Mumbai lanes, the air felt charged with something unsaid.
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Morning light filtered in through the jaali windows, casting sacred patterns across the cool marble floor of the Agnivanshi palace. The air was scented with sandalwood and rose petals, soft mantras playing faintly from somewhere unseen. The world outside felt far away-unimportant, almost imaginary.
Ivikaa stood just inside the threshold of the temple, her eyes settling on the idol of Krishna, serene and blue beneath the flickering flame.
She didn't know why her heart was racing.
Maybe because she hadn't told anyone she was coming.
Maybe because he hadn't looked at her yet.
Maybe because something was about to happen-and she could feel it.
The house was silent.
But inside, she heard him.
The low hum of ancient mantras.
The faint crackle of flame.
Adwait stood in the heart of the temple, dressed in an unassuming white linen shirt, sleeves casually rolled.
His posture was calm, grounded-like the world couldn't touch him here.
He was lighting the diya in front of the Krishna murti-steady hands, no rush, no ceremony. Just presence. Silent. Anchored.
He didn't turn. But he knew she was there.
She stepped in.
The air smelled of sandalwood and rosewater. Light poured in through the jaali windows, casting honeycomb shadows across the floor.
He lit a diya before the Krishna idol-fluid, unhurried. The flame steadied, glowing.
And beside it... a second diya. Its flame flickered alone.
[Indian lamp]
No idol behind it. Just space.
She stepped closer, barefoot on the cool stone, stopping just behind him.
He still didn't speak.
Without turning, he reached into the small drawer beneath the altar and retrieved an old silver kumkum dibbi. The edges were tarnished, softened by time and use.
She watched as he poured a few drops of water into the lid, stirring the red powder with his finger into a smooth, rich paste. It was a motion he'd probably done a hundred times. Ritualistic.
But this time, he didn't place it on the idol.
Then he turned to her.
No words.
Just that gaze-intense, unwavering.
Ivikaa's breath caught. The soft light of the temple kissed her skin as she lifted her eyes to his.
Adwait didn't ask permission.
His hand rose slowly. Gently.
And then, with a reverence that stole the breath from her lungs, he pressed the warm kumkum to her forehead. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long.
[Kumkum means red powder]
A round tilak. Centered. Silent. Sure.
It wasn't about religion.
It wasn't about tradition.
It was acknowledgment.
Of something already known. Something that didn't need naming.
Ivikaa didn't flinch. Her breath stilled.
Of something ancient. Something already known, even before it had been spoken.
He stepped back. She blinked, once. Slowly.
Something shifted. Not just in her-but around them.
The moment held.
It wasn't about religion. It wasn't even tradition.
It was about being seen.
Being acknowledged.
Being chosen-not with grand words or broken promises-but with something unmistakably sacred.
And somewhere beyond the temple walls, the world continued spinning.
But inside-everything had changed.
She glanced once at the second diya.
Still burning.
Still without a god beside it.
She didn't ask. And he didn't explain.
But some flames didn't need altars.
Some were lit for what was yet to come.
They stepped out of the temple, the hush of the sanctum falling behind them like a curtain. The marble hallway was bathed in morning gold, the palace coming slowly to life around them.
Ivikaa didn't speak.
She just reached for his wrist.
Adwait raised an eyebrow, but followed as she led him-past the quiet archways, down a side corridor-and stopped near a velvet-lined antique sofa set against the courtyard-facing wall.
Then, in one fluid motion, she turned to him.
Her fingers slid up, lightly gripping the front of his shirt collar.
And without a word, she leaned in and pressed a kiss right on the fabric
A soft, deliberate mark.
Faint red from her lipstick now stained the pristine white.
She stepped back half a pace, her eyes dancing.
"You marked me," she said, tilting her head with a mischievous smile. "I marked you."
Then she winked-sharp and sweet-and broke into a light, unfiltered laugh.
Adwait blinked. That smile curved on his lips, slow and helpless.
She was wildfire and silk in one breath.
And just like that, she turned on her heel and walked away-shoulders squared, chin high, heart still racing beneath her Parisian calm.
Behind her, Adwait stood by the sofa, watching her disappear around the corridor.
His hand brushed over the kiss-stained collar.
And for the first time in a long time, he smiled like a man who had just been claimed.
Tradition suits him. She prefers temptation.
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