Diya had never been afraid of silence.

She had grown up surrounded by it — between her father’s controlled rage and her mother’s quiet submission. Silence was familiar. Predictable.

But ever since Raghav Rathore returned, silence felt… different.

He felt different.

That night, she sat on the rooftop, moonlight washing over her as she played with the corner of her dupatta, lost in thought.

The way he had looked at her at the festival… not like a stranger. Not like an admirer.

Like someone who knew her. Too well.

Like someone who had been watching her long before she ever noticed.

But how?

They barely spoke in childhood. He left years ago. She only remembered vague glimpses — a quiet boy with sharp eyes and the habit of watching the sky like it was hiding secrets just for him.

Then why did his eyes make her heart race like it remembered something her brain didn’t?

She didn’t like the feeling.

Not one bit.

“Diya,” her mother’s voice called softly from the stairs. “Come down, your father wants to talk about the Shukla land issue.”

Of course. Politics before peace.

Love didn’t exist in her house.

Only power, reputation, and deals disguised as destiny.

---

Downstairs, her father was seated at the head of the verandah like a king holding court. Men from nearby villages sat cross-legged around him. Documents were spread across the table like battle maps.

And beside him, as always, was Yug — polite smile, sharp mind, and calculating eyes.

He noticed Diya the moment she stepped down.

Her hair still slightly wet from her late shower.

A few strands stuck to her cheek.

Effortlessly beautiful. Untouchably confident.

His eyes lingered for a second too long.

“You’re late,” he said with a small smirk, walking over to her side. “Did the stars delay your thoughts again?”

“I didn’t realize I owed my thoughts to anyone,” she replied coolly.

Yug’s smile flickered. “You never did. But they’re powerful. Especially when they’re about someone else.”

She looked at him.

Sharp. Quiet. Dangerous.

“Careful, Yug,” she whispered, voice low enough that only he could hear. “Jealousy doesn’t suit your face.”

He stepped closer, his voice tightening. “And secrets don’t suit yours, Diya.”

---

Meanwhile, at the Rathore guest haveli, Raghav stood shirtless at the open balcony, the dry wind brushing against his skin as he lit a diya and placed it before the tiny wooden mandir.

He wasn’t a religious man anymore.

But there was a certain comfort in old rituals. In pretending.

He stared at the flickering flame and whispered,

“Forgive me, Papa. But this time… I won’t walk away.”

Behind him, his assistant entered with a folder. “The Chauhans are moving fast with the Shukla land. If we want to acquire it, we need to act before—”

“They won’t stop me,” Raghav said, cutting him off. “Not again.”

He opened the folder to a blueprint of the village map — every corner marked. Every plan ready.

Except one.

Diya.

She was the only part of the plan that didn’t fit neatly in his box.

Because every time he saw her — bold, stubborn, unafraid —

the boy he had buried inside him whispered,

You made a promise.

And the man he had become whispered back,

And I’m here to break it.

---