The sun dripped molten gold over the domes of the ancient haveli-turned-resort, casting long shadows across its sandstone corridors. Laughter rang out, echoing off the marbled floors and fluttering tapestries. It was a celebration of color, culture, and chaos—the perfect embodiment of a big fat Indian wedding.

And amidst all that vibrant madness… stood Pierre de Rouvray, silent as stone.

He was an anomaly here, wrapped in a sharply tailored ivory bandhgala stitched by an old Delhi designer his friend insisted was “proper for the event.” His posture was rigid, his eyes watchful—deep brown, narrowed, assessing. The golden embroidery on his sherwani shimmered, but it didn’t distract from the sheer stillness of the man.

Pierre wasn’t one for crowds. Or weddings. Or noise. But he was here—for his closest friend, Aryan Mehta.

So he endured the dancing, the endless relatives, the scent of jasmine and ghee. He stood tall and still, sipping his drink, foreign yet flawless, his old-money elegance wrapping around him like a shield.

The scent of sandalwood and rose hung heavy in the warm air. Strings of yellow marigolds twisted around the carved marble pillars, and fairy lights blinked like fireflies across the sprawling staircase of the haveli.

Pierre stood at the base of the grand steps, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a crystal tumbler of single malt. He wasn't interested in the conversations around him. His friend Aryan was telling him something—probably about how insane Indian weddings are—but Pierre wasn’t really listening. His deep brown eyes flicked around the crowd like a man cataloguing a foreign terrain.

He stood tall, regal even in stillness. The ivory bandhgala he wore clung to his broad shoulders with elegant restraint. The silk shimmered faintly under the lights, but it was his presence—the calm, cold quiet of a man who never needed to prove his worth—that made heads turn.

And then he heard it—soft laughter.

He looked up.

{{user}} came down the staircase surrounded by friends, all of them in pastel-colored lehengas and fluttering dupattas. But it wasn’t the group that caught his eye. It was her.

The world slowed.

Pierre’s breath caught in his throat.

He’d seen beautiful women. Models, heiresses, politicians' daughters. But this... this was different. She wasn’t trying to be seen. Which made her impossible to ignore.

She looked up—and their eyes met.

A flicker. Barely two seconds. But something passed between them.

Aryan was still talking beside him. “—and then the priest told my uncle not to drink before the ritual, but you know what he—Pierre?”

Pierre didn’t answer. His eyes followed her as she descended, step by step, moving like a soft storm through silk.

Aryan turned. “Oh.” A grin spread across his face. “That’s {{user}}. Childhood friend. Practically family. Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m not thinking,” Pierre said, voice low and rough. “I’m... watching.”

Aryan laughed. “Dangerous words, my friend.”

Pierre’s gaze didn’t waver. “No. True words.”