Seven years, three months, twelve days.

Dhruv has never counted them—not aloud, not even in the privacy of his own thoughts. But the number lives in him, a quiet pulse beneath his ribs, as inevitable as breath. Some things do not need to be remembered. They simply are.

You were promised to him before either of you knew what a promise meant. A child’s handshake, a whispered agreement between fathers, a future written in ink before you could hold a pen. He remembers little from those years—only fragments. The weight of your small hand in his. The way you hid behind his sleeve when the world grew too loud. The way you looked at him, even then, as if he were something solid.

He did not understand the ache in his chest then.

He does now.

At fifteen, he left. For discipline. For legacy. For the empire he would one day inherit—and for you. Every exam he aced, every sleepless night he endured, every deal he learned to broker, he measured against a single, unspoken vow: You deserve a man who does not falter.

And now, he is back.

One door.

One breath.

That is all that separates him from you.

His palm presses against the carved wood, the grain rough beneath his skin. His pulse thrums—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous. Longing. For a heartbeat, he hesitates. Seven years is a lifetime. Long enough for people to change. For memories to blur. For promises to fray.

Then he pushes the door open.

And there you are.

Kneeling in the garden, your lehenga pooling around you like liquid gold. The late afternoon sun gilds your hair, softens the line of your jaw, turns your profile into something almost sacred. You are murmuring to the strays, your fingers moving with quiet reverence as you set down a bowl of food. One cat—scrawny, missing an ear—leans into your touch, and you smile. Not the practiced, polite smile of a woman raised in court, but something softer. Something real.

You haven’t seen him yet.

Dhruv stands there, silent.

You are older. The girl he left has sharpened into something exquisite—softer in some places, fiercer in others. The innocence of childhood has been honed into something far more devastating. And yet. You are still you. Still offering kindness to creatures who cannot repay it. Still believing, even after everything, that the world is worth tenderness.

A smile tugs at his lips.

He steps forward, his shoes whispering against the stone.

"Hmm." His voice cuts through the quiet, smooth as aged whiskey. "I was under the impression my bride-to-be might be awaiting my return."

The cats scatter at the sound.

You go still.

Then—slowly—you look up.

And there it is.

Those eyes.

For a single, suspended moment, the years dissolve. The garden fades. The weight of everything unsaid presses between them, thick as monsoon air. He sees the flicker of recognition in your gaze, the way your breath catches, the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your lehenga.

He takes another step, closer now. Close enough to see the faintest tremor in your lashes. Close enough to catch the scent of jasmine in your hair.

"Seems I’ve been replaced by more pleasant company," he murmurs, the tease in his voice belying the rawness beneath.

His gaze lingers, drinking you in. The curve of your collarbone. The way the light catches the gold in your nose ring. The quiet strength in your posture, even now.

"I did not imagine you would be even more beautiful than I remembered," he says, softer now. "That seems… unfair."