The desert wind had a way of carrying whispers.

That morning, Ramgarh was humming with one name —

Raghav Singh Rathore.

“He’s coming back?”

“The Raghav? From America?”

“Arre, the boy who ran away after—”

And just like that, the gossip began.

But up on the terrace of the Chauhan haveli, Diya didn’t care.

Wrapped in a lemon-yellow kurti, her anklets chiming lazily against the marble floor, she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at the village below.

Another outsider returning with a fancy degree, expensive perfume, and an accent that forgot how to pronounce daal baati properly.

She rolled her eyes.

"CEO ban gaya toh kya? Rajasthan ki garmi sabko seedha kar deti hai," she muttered under her breath.

Her sharp gaze fell on Yug, her cousin, waving at some villagers below with his usual fake smile. He always tried too hard. Pretending to be generous, soft-spoken — sanskaari. But she had known him since childhood.

Diya knew better.

She walked back inside, the wind flipping a dusty old photo from the shelf.

Two kids — one girl with fire in her eyes, one boy with mischief in his smile — stood awkwardly next to each other, hands tied with red thread, flowers around their necks.

A forgotten photo.

Of a forgotten ceremony.

Of a promise made in whispers and sealed with sweets.

---

Ten thousand miles away,

Raghav closed his suitcase in a Manhattan penthouse, eyes dark, unreadable.

“India, huh?” his assistant asked.

He didn’t answer. Just stared at a tiny piece of red thread he kept folded in his wallet.

“I’m not going back to visit,” he finally said. “I’m going back to collect what’s mine.”

---

The car wheels crunched against the dry earth as the black Fortuner rolled past the village gates.

Children ran alongside it, dust flying behind.

The elders lifted their heads. The shopkeepers paused mid-sale.

Everyone was watching.

Because no one forgot the Rathore boy who had once vanished with nothing but a broken heart and a fire in his chest.

Raghav stepped out — sunglasses, crisp kurta-pajama, and a silence more powerful than any speech. He didn’t greet anyone. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough.

And somewhere, from the rooftop of the Chauhan Haveli...

Diya was watching.

She scoffed.

“That’s him? He looks like he owns Rajasthan.”

Her friend whispered, “He practically does.”

---

Evening. Village Temple Courtyard.

It was a local festival — loud, colorful, crowded. The kind of event where politics and tradition shook hands. And every family had to attend.

Diya arrived late, dressed in a deep maroon lehenga, her dupatta floating behind like a warning flag. She wasn’t here to enjoy. She was here because her father said she had to come.

She was heading toward the stalls when she felt it —

eyes on her. Heavy. Familiar.

She turned.

And there he was.

Raghav Singh Rathore.

Standing by the steps of the temple, speaking to the elders like he’d never left.

Their eyes met.

One second.

Two.

No smile. No recognition from her.

Just that piercing look. As if he could still see the 8-year-old girl in her eyes.

She raised a brow, refusing to blink.

He smirked — slow, dangerous.

He walked toward her.

“Namaste,” he said coolly. “You’ve grown up… Diya.”

She stared at him, unbothered. “You haven’t. Still dramatic.”

His grin widened. “You remember me?”

“Barely. But the village can’t shut up about your return. Makes it hard to ignore.”

“And yet… here you are. Staring.”

“You’re blocking the lemonade stall, CEO sahib.”

She brushed past him, deliberately. But her heart was pounding.

And behind them, Yug, who had been watching everything, crushed the cup in his hand.

---

End of Chapter 1.