There will never be another you : Chapter 20

The atmosphere shifts the second the heavy oak door clicks shut, sealing the rest of the world—the noise, the family, the shadows of their past—on the other side. In the sudden silence of the hotel suite, the air feels thick, almost pressurized.

Arnav doesn't wait. He pins Khushi against the door, his hands framing her face with a desperation that borders on hunger. For months, they had moved around each other like celestial bodies—constantly pulling, constantly resisting. Now, the gravity has finally won.

"Arnav ji..." she gasps, her breath hitching as his forehead rests against hers. Her hands are lost in the fabric of his shirt, bunching the expensive silk as if she’s afraid he might vanish if she lets go.

"No more talking, Khushi," he rasps, his voice a low, jagged growl. "No more running. Just us."

He kisses her then—not the tentative, questioning kisses of their early days, but something deep, demanding, and certain. It tastes of relief and a long-denied truth. Khushi responds with a ferocity of her own, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there isn't a sliver of air left between them.

The journey from the door to the bed is a blur of frantic movement. The sound of his heavy boots hitting the carpet, the glint of her gold bangles as she reaches for him, The rhythmic thud of their hearts beating in a synchronized, chaotic symphony.

He lifts her, and for a moment, she is weightless in his arms—the only constant in his turbulent world. When he lays her down against the cool white linens, the contrast of her vibrant dress against the stark bed is a visual echo of how she brought color into his monochrome life.

Arnav hovers over her, his eyes dark with an intensity that would have intimidated her once. Now, she only sees home. He pauses, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip, his gaze memorizing every tremor of her lashes.

"You're sure?" he whispers, the "Laad Governor" ego completely stripped away, leaving only the man who loves her.

Khushi reaches up, her palm cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing over the stubble there. She doesn't speak; she doesn't need to. She pulls him down to her, her heart settling into a steady, rhythmic pulse of certainty.

"Hamesha," she breathes against his skin.

In the dim light of the hotel room, the barriers finally collapse. There are no more contracts, no more misunderstandings, and no more "What ifs." There is only the heat of their skin, the intertwining of their souls, and the silent promise that from this night forward, they are no longer two people, but one undeniable force. 

The moon hung low over the horizon, casting a silver sheen across the hotel balcony. Inside, the room was quiet, the lamps dimmed to a soft, warm glow. Arnav had wrapped a silk robe around himself, while Khushi was swathed in one of the hotel’s oversized white duvets, looking small and ethereal against the dark wicker of the balcony chair.

He stood behind her, his arms resting on the railing, caging her in with a protective warmth that felt more natural than anything he’d ever known.

For a long time, neither spoke. The only sound was the distant hum of the city.

"Arnav ji?" Khushi’s voice was a mere whisper, breaking the silence like a pebble dropped into a still pond.

"Hmm?" He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. The scent of her—jasmine and something uniquely Khushi—was intoxicating.

"I used to think..." she started, her fingers tracing the patterns in the duvet. "I used to think that 'Hamesha' was just a word people said to feel better. Like a fairy tale that ends when the book closes."

Arnav turned her around in the circle of his arms. Her face was bathed in moonlight, her eyes reflecting the stars above. "And now?"

Khushi looked up at him, a small, tired but incredibly happy smile touching her lips. "Now I think 'Hamesha' isn't a fairy tale. It’s... it’s the way my heart stops when you look at me. It’s the way I don't feel afraid of the dark anymore because I know you're in it with me."

Arnav’s expression softened, the hard lines of his face dissolving. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear that had escaped her eye—not a tear of sadness, but of overwhelming relief.

"I spent my whole life building walls, Khushi," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought if I stayed behind them, nothing could hurt me. But then you came along and didn't just knock them down—you set the whole building on fire."

He pulled her closer, tucking her head under his chin. "There will never be another you. Not in this lifetime, not in any other. You’re my beginning and my end."

They stayed like that for a long time, watching the stars drift across the sky. The weight of the world—the business, the family dramas, the ghosts of their past—felt miles away. In this small, elevated space between the earth and the stars, they were just two people who had finally found their way home.

"Arnav ji?"

"What now, Khushi?" he asked with a playful, familiar edge of exasperation.

"Can we order Jalebis for breakfast tomorrow?"

Arnav let out a genuine, booming laugh that echoed into the night. He kissed her forehead, his heart finally, completely at peace. "Anything you want, Khushi. Anything you want."

..................

The room was still bathed in the soft, blue light of the pre-dawn hours, but the air between them had shifted from the heavy intensity of the night to something lighter, more intimate.

Arnav was propped up on his elbow, his dark hair messy in a way the media would never see, watching Khushi as she tried—and failed—to maintain her composure. She was sitting up, clutching the duvet to her chest as if it were a shield, her gaze fixed intently on a very interesting pattern on the hotel carpet.

Arnav leaned in closer, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always made her toes curl.

"Khushi," he murmured, his breath fanning her ear. "You’ve been staring at that rug for five minutes. Is there something you want to tell it that you can't tell me?"

Khushi’s face, already a soft pink, deepened into a shade of vivid crimson. "I... I am just thinking, Arnav ji! About... about the sunrise. Yes, the sunrise! It will be very beautiful, no?"

"The curtains are closed, Khushi," he pointed out, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. He reached out, his fingers grazing the bare skin of her shoulder, causing her to jump slightly. "And you’re shivering. But you aren't cold."

He shifted, closing the small gap between them until his chest was brushing her arm. "Yesterday, you were so brave. You told me there would 'never be another me.' You held onto me like you were never going to let go."

"Arnav ji, please!" she squeaked, finally risking a glance at him, only to immediately look away when she saw the sheer mischief dancing in his eyes. "That was... that was nighttime. Things are different when the stars are out."

"Oh? So my wife only acknowledges our marriage under moonlight?" Arnav teased, his hand moving to catch her chin, gently forcing her to look at him. "Because I remember a very specific moment by the balcony door where you weren't thinking about the stars at all."

Khushi let out a small, strangled sound and hid her face in her palms. "Aap bhi na... You are a very, very bad man! Where is the 'Laad Governor' who used to only talk about business? I want that one back!"

Arnav laughed—a genuine, warm sound that filled the room. He pulled her hands away from her face, kissing each of her palms before pinning them gently against the pillows.

"That man is gone, Khushi. You broke him," he whispered, his eyes softening with a sudden, fierce tenderness that cut through the teasing. "But if you’re really that embarrassed... I could always turn the lights off and we could start over. Just to see if you’re still this shy in the dark."

Khushi’s eyes widened, and she swatted at his chest, though she didn't pull away. "Arnav Singh Raizada! Have you no shame?"

"With you?" He leaned down, his lips a breath away from hers. "None at all."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The soft rustle of silk filled the room as Anjali adjusted the pallu of her saree, fresh from her bath. Tiny droplets of water still clung to her damp hair, tracing a delicate line down her neck. The faint fragrance of jasmine oil lingered in the air, mixing with the warmth of the morning sunlight streaming through the curtains.

She stood before the mirror, carefully placing a small bindi on her forehead, when she suddenly felt a presence behind her.

Shivaay.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, but his gaze—completely fixed on her—was anything but casual.

“Are you going downstairs now,” he said slowly, his voice softer than usual, 

Anjali caught his reflection in the mirror and instantly lowered her eyes, a shy smile forming on her lips.

“You’re staring,” she murmured ignoring his question.

“I’m appreciating,” he corrected, stepping closer. “There’s a difference.”

She turned slightly, her cheeks tinged pink. “You’ve seen me before.”

“Not like this,” he replied, his tone sincere now. “Not as… my wife.”

The words lingered between them, deep and new.

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Shivaay cleared his throat lightly, shifting into a more composed tone.

“Actually… I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Anjali looked up, attentive. “Hmm?”

“Mom and Dadi have been planning a reception in Mumbai,” he said. “Next week. They want to formally introduce you to everyone—business associates, extended family…”

Anjali’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of her saree. “Next week? That soon?”

Shivaay noticed the hesitation immediately. “Hey,” he said gently, “it’s just a function. No pressure. If you’re uncomfortable, we can postpone.”

She shook her head quickly. “No… it’s not that. I just…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Everything is happening so fast. New house, new people… and now a big reception.”

He nodded, understanding. “That’s fair.”

There was a brief silence before he added, a hint of warmth returning to his voice,
“But you won’t be alone in any of it. I’ll be right there. Every second.”

Anjali met his eyes, reassured.

“Okay,” she said softly. “We’ll do it.”

A small smile appeared on Shivaay’s lips.

---

A little later, Anjali made her way downstairs, her steps slow but steady. The house felt grand, unfamiliar—but welcoming.

From the kitchen came the soft clatter of utensils and the voices of the staff.

As she entered, they all paused, looking at her respectfully.

“Bhabhi…” one of them said, unsure.

Anjali smiled gently. “If its ok , I’ll cook today.”

They exchanged glances. “But… you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she said, her voice firm yet kind. “It’s my first day here.”

Understanding her intent, they stepped aside.

Anjali tied her hair into a loose braid and looked around, gathering ingredients. After a moment of thought, she decided on something simple yet meaningful—halwa.

As the ghee melted in the pan, its rich aroma filled the kitchen. She stirred carefully, her movements calm, almost meditative. Memories of her own home, of cooking with her family, flickered through her mind—but instead of sadness, there was a quiet strength.

Unknown to her, Shivaay stood at the entrance, watching silently.

There was something grounding about this moment—about her effortlessly becoming a part of his world.

Soon, the halwa was ready.

Anjali carefully plated it and carried it out.

The family had gathered in the dining area. All eyes turned to her as she approached.

“I… made this,” she said, placing the dish down.

Dadi’s face lit up instantly. “First rasoi?”

Anjali nodded.

Dadi took the first bite, closing her eyes for a brief moment before smiling widely.
“Perfect,”

The others followed, offering their own praise.

Shivaay finally stepped forward, taking a spoonful. He tasted it—and then looked at her, something unspoken passing through his eyes.

“Not bad,” he said casually.

Anjali frowned slightly. “Just… not bad?”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.

“Dangerously good,” he whispered.

Her smile returned, softer this time—no longer shy, but quietly confident.

And just like that, Anjali wasn’t just a guest in the house anymore.

Shivaay’s father placed his teacup down and looked toward him, then at Anjali.

“So..” he began, his tone calm yet firm, “we’ll be leaving for Mumbai in sometime.”

Anjali’s fingers, which were resting lightly on her lap, stilled for a moment. Shivaay straightened slightly. “Today? So soon”

“Yes,” he nodded. “There’s a lot to arrange for the reception. Guests, venue, business circles—it won’t organize itself.” A faint smile touched his lips. “And you know how your Dadi is about these things.”

A soft chuckle passed through the room.

He continued, now addressing both of them, “This reception isn’t just a formality. It’s important—for the family, for the business, and for officially welcoming Anjali into our world in Mumbai.”

Anjali listened quietly, absorbing every word.

“We’ll handle everything there,” he added. “You both stay here in Delhi for a few days. Finish things at your pace, and then come to Mumbai by the end of the week or early next week.”

There was a pause before he said something more personal, his voice gentler now—

“And… it will give you both some time alone. To understand each other without the chaos of the whole family around.”

That made Anjali lower her gaze again, a soft blush creeping onto her cheeks automatically.

Shivaay glanced at her briefly, then back at his father. “Alright,” he agreed. “We’ll join you soon.”

Dadi chimed in immediately, “There’s already too much to do. Outfits, guest lists—Anjali beta, you’ll have to be very patient with us.”

Anjali smiled politely. “Ji, Dadi.”

After breakfast she received gifts for her first rasoi from everyone. 

---

A couple of hours later, the house that had been bustling with voices and movement slowly quieted down. Suitcases were loaded, goodbyes exchanged, and one by one, the cars drove away.

The echo of their departure lingered for a few seconds.

Then—silence.

Anjali stood near the entrance, watching as the gates closed. The enormity of it hit her all at once.

The house felt… bigger now.

Quieter.

And suddenly, it was just the two of them.

She turned slowly—and found Shivaay already looking at her.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then he exhaled lightly, loosening the stiffness in his shoulders. “Well,” he said, a hint of amusement returning, “that was… efficient.”

Anjali let out a small laugh. “They didn’t waste any time.”

“No,” he agreed. “They never do.”

There was a brief pause before he added, more softly,
“Looks like it’s just us now.”

The words carried a different weight this time—more personal, more real.

Anjali nodded, her hands clasping together unconsciously. “Yes…”

Shivaay took a step closer, his voice gentler than before. “Does it feel strange?”

“A little,” she admitted honestly. “Everything is still so new.”

He studied her expression, then gave a small, reassuring nod. “Good,” he said.

She blinked. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he replied, a faint smile forming. “Because it means we get to figure it out… our way.”

That eased something inside her.

He walked past her toward the living room, then paused and looked back. “What time mami and mama coming to pick you?”

"After one hour I guess"

Anjali replied, following him.

Yesterday after her grihpravesh she didn't get the time to roam around and explore the house. He took her to every room and showed her everything and also introduced her to all staffs.

After almost one hour she went to change her outfit to a dark red saree. It is her Pagphere rasam toda. Her first visit to Shantivaan after marriage. Well its not her first. she did all this before but this time it was not like before. 

A soft knock on the door broke her thoughts.

“Come in,” she said gently.

The door opened to reveal Shivaay, his usual composed self—but his eyes softened the moment they landed on her.

“You’re ready?” he asked.

Anjali nodded, her fingers lightly clutching the edge of her pallu. “Mama and Mami must be here…”

Almost on cue, a voice echoed from downstairs—

“Anjalliii Bitiyaaa!”

Anjali’s face lit up instantly. “Mami!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with warmth she hadn’t realized she missed so much.

Shivaay raised an eyebrow, amused. “That sounds… energetic.”

“You have no idea,” Anjali smiled, already moving toward the door.

As they reached the living room, the scene unfolded just as expected.

Manorama Mami stood dramatically in the center, one hand on her hip, the other mid-gesture, while Manohar Mama stood beside her with a gentle, affectionate smile.

“Arre wah!” Manorama declared the moment she saw Anjali. “Dekho toh zara, humaari bitiya kitni chamak rahi hai! Bilkul filmy dulhan!”

Anjali rushed forward, her eyes misting slightly as she bent to take their blessings.

“Mami…” she said softly.

Manorama immediately pulled her into a tight hug.

Manohar Mama placed a gentle hand on her head. “Khush raho beta"

Shivaay stepped forward then, greeting them respectfully. “Namaste, Mama ji, Mami ji.”

Manohar Mama added “Hum Anjali ko lene aaye hain. Pagphere ki rasam ke liye.”

Shivaay nodded immediately. “Of course. She’s ready.”

For a brief moment, his gaze shifted to Anjali—something quieter, more personal passing between them.

“Call me when you reach,” he said, his tone low.

Anjali gave a small nod. “I will.”

A little later, as Anjali stepped out of the house with her Mama and Mami, she turned back once.

Shivaay stood at the entrance, watching her leave.

There was no grand gesture, no dramatic words—

Just a silent understanding.

The car ride to Shantivan was anything but quiet.

Manorama filled every second with animated chatter—asking questions, making comments, complaining lovingly, and praising Anjali all at once.

And for the first time since her wedding, Anjali laughed freely—completely at ease.

As the gates of Shantivan opened, her heart skipped a beat.

Home.

Before she could even step out, the doors burst open and familiar faces rushed forward.

“Di!”

“Anjali!”

“Bitiya!”

She barely had time to react before she was surrounded—hugged, welcomed, overwhelmed with love.

Tears slipped down her cheeks—but this time, they carried only warmth.

Love,

ST