I don’t move at first. I don’t want to look. Because once I do, there’s no going back—no pretending this is just another political mess, another obligation I can reason my way through.
But the sound comes again, louder now, careless.
I turn.
And there he is.Ayush Chauhan.
He is leaning against the doorframe like he has every right to be there. One shoulder braced against the wood, hands tucked lazily into his pockets, chin tipped up in faint amusement. He looks… comfortable. As if the tension in the room is a performance staged for his benefit, as if the raised voices and clenched fists are nothing more than background noise to entertain him.
The ease of him makes my stomach turn.
“You hold grudges, Raja-sa,” he says lightly, the words careless, almost playful. His gaze flicks over me with deliberate slowness, assessing, provoking. “You want an apology? That’s simple. I’ll give her one.”
He straightens, pushing off the doorframe, shoes scraping softly against the floor as he starts walking toward us. Each step is unhurried, confident in a way that feels deeply offensive given what he’s standing in the middle of.
“After all,” he adds, lips curving into something that might pass for a smile if it weren’t so cruel, “I did push her into marry you.”
Something inside me snaps.
My vision blurs, red bleeding into the edges of everything I see. I shift forward instinctively, muscles coiling—
But I don’t move first.
Devraj does.
The punch lands with a sharp, brutal crack that echoes in the room. Ayush’s head jerks to the side, the sound of impact loud enough to make my chest tighten. He stumbles back a step, then another, shock written plainly across his face as he struggles to regain his balance. One hand comes up to his cheek, fingers trembling slightly as if his body hasn’t yet caught up with what just happened.
He blinks. Once. Twice.
Like he genuinely can’t believe someone dared to touch him.
Devraj doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. His voice, when he speaks, is low and steady, carrying more threat than any raised tone ever could.
“You have no right,” he says calmly, eyes locked on Ayush with terrifying focus, “to even think about her.”
For a brief second, Ayush looks rattled.
Then his lips twist.
The shock fades, replaced by something uglier—something smug. The corner of his mouth lifts slowly, deliberately, as that familiar smirk crawls back onto his face, like a challenge he’s daring us to answer.
“If you think I’d want to think about her,” he scoffs, the corner of his mouth lifting in something ugly and careless, “you’re absolutely wrong, Maharaj. Your sister isn’t really much to think about.”
The room shifts.
It’s not loud. There’s no dramatic sound, no sudden chaos. It’s quieter than that—like the air itself tightens, thickens, pressesin on us. My chest locks up, breath stalling halfway, and for a fraction of a second I don’t know whether I should move, speak, or tear him apart with my bare hands.
Devraj moves before I can.
His fist connects with Ayush’s face with a force that echoes off the walls. There’s a dull, sickening sound as Ayush stumbles back again, nearly losing his footing, one hand flying up to his cheek. He laughs as he reels, a broken, mocking sound, like pain is nothing more than an inconvenience.
“What?” he says, wiping at his mouth, eyes bright with something twisted. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Yes.”
The word cuts through the room, sharp and steady.
I turn. Sitara stands near the doorway.
