ISHA POV 

Morning arrived quietly, like a shy visitor.

A sliver of golden light slipped through the narrow gap in the curtain and brushed across Isha’s face. She stirred beneath the soft blanket, frowning slightly as the warmth touched her eyelids. For a few seconds, she stayed still, trying to remember where she was.

Her lashes fluttered open. The light was real — a calm, glowing beam cutting through the curtain. She blinked twice, confused. Wait… how am I in bed? The last thing she remembered was the rhythmic hum of the car, the endless road ahead, and Shivam ji’s voice telling her to rest for a while.

Her breath caught.

We were in the car… weren’t we?

She sat up, the blanket sliding down to her waist. Her hair fell messily around her shoulders, and the morning chill kissed her bare arms. “Hey Bhagwan…” she whispered, realizing she had somehow fallen asleep in the car and woken up here — inside a house she didn’t even recognize.

Isha swung her legs over the edge of the bed and slipped out quickly, the wooden floor cool beneath her feet. Her eyes landed on a pair of slippers neatly placed near the bed.

“Slippers?” she murmured. “They wear these inside the house too?”

For a moment, she debated whether to wear them or not — the way only half-awake people do when faced with strange logic. Then she decided not to overthink and tip-toed toward the door.

The moment she stepped into the hallway, the tiny silver bells on her anklet chimed softly. Chhan-chhan… chhan-chhan… The delicate sound floated through the air, echoing faintly off the marble floor.

The house was vast — larger than anything she had imagined. The tall walls were painted in pale cream and gold, catching the sunlight like an old palace. The corridor smelled faintly of sandalwood and something else… something warm and nostalgic.

As she descended the grand staircase, her heart began to flutter. Each step felt surreal, like she had stepped into a dream she wasn’t supposed to be in.

Halfway down, the smell reached her — a soft, buttery aroma mixed with fresh spices. Her stomach betrayed her instantly, growling with approval. She smiled despite herself. Food… breakfast… maybe paratha? Or—

Her thoughts froze.

There, in the kitchen, standing by the counter with rolled-up sleeves and an easy smile, was Shivam ji.

He looked effortlessly calm — hair slightly tousled, shirt sleeves folded neatly to his elbows, one hand holding a ladle as steam curled upward from a pan. The sight was almost cinematic. The morning light haloed around him, and for a second, Isha forgot how to breathe.

A rush of warmth spread through her chest — the same fluttery, confusing feeling that always seemed to appear around him.

Before she could say anything, his deep voice floated across the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mohatarma,” he said without turning around. “So, my wife is finally awake.”

The way he said wife so casually sent a spark straight to her face. Heat rushed to her cheeks; her heart skipped a beat. She stood frozen for a moment, clutching the edge of her dupatta.

“Good morning,” she replied softly, her voice almost lost under the clinking of utensils.

He turned slightly, one eyebrow lifting with amusement. “You look… confused,” he said, his eyes glinting.

“I— actually… I could’ve done all this,” Isha said quickly, walking closer. “You didn’t have to cook. I could’ve helped.”

Her tone was shy but firm — the kind of insistence that came naturally to her.

Shivam ji smiled faintly and shook his head. “Not today.”

Before she could protest, he reached out and gently caught her hand. His touch was light — warm but commanding. “No arguments,” he said softly. “Just sit down. Everything’s already ready.”

Isha’s breath hitched. The warmth of his fingers lingered even after he let go. She nodded mutely and moved toward the dining area, sitting down quietly on the edge of a chair. Her heart was still racing.

A few minutes later, Shivam ji appeared with two plates, both steaming and colorful. He set them down in front of her with a small, satisfied smile.

“Wait— is that… pastry?” she asked, eyes widening.

He chuckled. “Surprised?”

Her eyes sparkled. “I thought you were making breakfast, not a bakery!”

Isha instantly reached for the pastry, fingers twitching with excitement — but just before she could pick it up, Shivam ji caught her hand again.

“Uh-uh,” he said teasingly. “Not yet. First, you finish the real breakfast — the vegetables, the toast. Then, dessert.”

She pouted immediately, turning her face away like a sulking child. “You’re mean.”

He laughed under his breath. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” she asked innocently.

“That pout,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “Don’t. I’ve been controlling myself for years, and every time you do that, I’m not sure I still can.”

Her eyes widened, and she blinked at him, completely flustered. “Control? You… people are crazy,” she muttered.

“Crazy for you maybe,” he murmured, barely audible.

She pretended not to hear and focused furiously on her plate.

A few moments later, she took a bite of the warm paratha — and a soft moan escaped her lips before she could stop it. “Oh my God… this is so good!” she said with genuine delight.

Shivam ji grinned, obviously pleased. “Told you.” He sat down opposite her and began eating too, watching her reactions with quiet amusement.

Isha tried to act normal, but every time their eyes met, she felt a strange rush — as if the room had suddenly become warmer. The morning sunlight, the aroma of food, and his quiet smile all wrapped around her like a slow, dreamy spell.

And just like that, their morning began — simple, sweet, and slightly chaotic in its own beautiful way.

__________________________________

The morning sunlight slowly crept across the marble floor, spreading warmth like spilled honey. The soft clinking of plates and the distant chirping of birds were the only sounds in the vast house. For the first time, Isha truly noticed how still everything was — as if even the air refused to disturb this fragile moment.

She nibbled the corner of her toast, trying hard not to look at him, but her eyes kept betraying her. Shivam ji sat opposite her, sleeves still rolled up, his focus half on the food and half on… well, her. He didn’t even try to hide it.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she finally asked, not looking up from her plate.

“Like what?” His voice was calm, but she could hear the playful curve of a smile in it.

“Like… like I’m the breakfast,” she said, instantly regretting it as soon as the words escaped her lips.

He raised a brow. “You mean delicious and tempting?”

Her eyes widened. “That’s not what I meant!” she protested, cheeks blazing.

“Of course not,” he said, pretending to go back to eating, though his smirk gave him away.

Isha sighed, trying to find her footing in this easy, teasing energy of his. Every word felt like a tug-of-war between annoyance and… something else. Something fluttery. Something dangerous.

The aroma of cardamom tea soon filled the air. She watched as he poured two cups and slid one toward her. The simple gesture made her chest warm. No words, no drama — just quiet care wrapped in morning sunlight.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“You’re welcome, Mohatarma,” he said softly. “I wasn’t sure how you take your tea, so I made it the way I do — strong, a little sweet.”

She took a sip. It was perfect. “You’re lucky,” she said, eyes meeting his briefly. “If it was too bitter, I would’ve scolded you.”

He chuckled. “I’d have gladly accepted it. Getting scolded by my wife in the morning sounds oddly domestic.”

Isha blinked, unsure if he was joking or serious. The word wife again made her heartbeat stumble. She looked away, pretending to examine the flower vase on the table.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” she asked quietly, after a pause.

“Because that’s who you are,” he replied, as if it was the simplest truth in the world. Then, after a heartbeat, he added, “Or will be. Soon enough.”

Her spoon froze mid-air. Soon enough? The thought sent a quick chill down her spine — not fear, but something that felt suspiciously close to excitement.

“Shivam ji…” she began, her voice uncertain, “you say things like that too easily.”

He looked at her, eyes soft but unreadable. “And you get flustered too easily.”

“Because you’re impossible,” she muttered.

“And yet,” he said with a quiet smile, “you’re still sitting here, eating the breakfast I made.”

She had no comeback for that. None. So she just bit into her paratha again, deciding to let her silence be the answer. But her cheeks betrayed her again — pink and warm, like the inside of a ripe strawberry.

A small breeze drifted in through the half-open window, fluttering the curtain. The sound of the anklet bells on her ankle chimed softly again as she shifted her leg under the table. It was such a small sound, yet it caught his attention instantly.

“Those anklets…” he said suddenly.

She glanced down. “Hmm?”

“They sound like you,” he said quietly.

Her brows furrowed. “Like me?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes softening. “Restless, but beautiful. You enter a place and everything starts to move — even the silence.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The compliment was so unexpected, so disarmingly poetic, that she forgot to breathe for a second. She looked at him — really looked. There was no smirk this time, no teasing grin. Just calm honesty.

She smiled faintly. “You’re strange, you know that?”

He leaned back, laughing softly. “I get that a lot. Usually from you.”

She giggled despite herself, and that single sound — light, genuine, and sweet — filled the room like music. Shivam ji froze mid-bite, watching her laugh. Something inside him shifted quietly; something tender and unspoken.

For years, his mornings had been filled with deadlines, phone calls, and documents — everything precise, everything perfect. But this — watching Isha giggle over tea and parathas — this felt more alive than all of it combined.

After breakfast, Isha stood up to help him clear the table. “I’ll wash these,” she offered, reaching for the plates.

But he shook his head. “You don’t need to.”

“Why not?” she challenged. “You did the cooking. It’s only fair.”

He gave her a look and that's enough for her to step back.

She glared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet here you are again,” he said lightly, leaning against the counter.

Isha rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, “Unbelievable and irritating.”

He chuckled. “You forgot handsome.”

Her lips twitched before she could stop them. “Overconfident,” she corrected.

“Acceptable compromise,” he said with a grin.

She shook her head and walked away, pretending to be annoyed — though her smile betrayed her.

But as she reached the doorway, she turned slightly and looked back. He was still there, wiping the counter, humming something under his breath — calm, steady, unaware of how much he was affecting her.

Something warm tugged at her heart. Maybe it was the way he said “my wife” like it wasn’t a joke. Or maybe it was just the morning sunlight — soft, golden, and impossibly kind.

Either way, as Isha stood there watching him, she knew one thing for sure —

This was not just another morning.

It was the beginning of something that already felt like home.

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

Unknown place ~

The dimly lit room reeked of tobacco and secrets. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling fan, slicing through the haze in slow, deliberate circles. A heavy silence hung in the air—one that only power and danger could create.

“So… were the evidences removed like I asked?”

The voice came from a man seated on the far end of the room, his back half-turned to the light. Calm, confident, and frighteningly controlled.

“Yes, boss,” his assistant replied quickly, his tone cautious but respectful. “But… I don’t think we can keep them hidden for too long.”

The man paused, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. A flicker of irritation crossed his face before disappearing behind his usual mask of composure.

“Hmm…” he muttered, dragging slowly on his cigar. The ember glowed bright red in the dark, briefly revealing the sharp line of his jaw and the glint in his eyes. “That doesn’t mean he’ll find out.”

The assistant frowned, confused. “Sir… what do you mean?”

The man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. He exhaled a cloud of smoke that drifted between them like a veil of menace.

“I mean,” he said softly, “it’s not your job to worry about that. Leave the thinking to me. Just make sure the others stay quiet.”

The assistant nodded nervously, though his eyes betrayed unease. He had worked with the boss long enough to know when danger was close.

“Understood, sir. Should I inform the rest of the team?”

The man’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Not just inform them. Call every one of them. I want a meeting tonight. We’re changing the plan.”

He rose from his chair, the faint creak of leather echoing in the stillness. His tall frame moved toward the window, where faint streetlights painted ghostly streaks on the blinds. He took one last puff from his cigar before pressing it out in the ashtray with calculated finality.

“I heard he’s got a weakness now,” he murmured, his voice almost amused. “Let’s see if we can use that to our advantage.”

The assistant swallowed. He had seen that smile before — the one that meant someone, somewhere, was about to get trapped in the boss’s web.

“Should I find out what the weakness is, sir?”

The man turned his head slightly, a cruel glimmer in his eyes. “No need. I already know enough. You just make sure everything else is clean. I don’t want a single trace of what we did left behind.”

The assistant hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, boss.”

“Good,” the man said quietly, picking up his coat from the back of the chair. “Because this time, we don’t make mistakes. We can’t afford to.”

He walked toward the door, every step echoing across the marble floor. The air seemed to shift around him — heavier, colder — as if even the walls feared his presence. Before leaving, he turned slightly, looking back at his assistant.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he said, almost casually. “If anyone asks questions… you never heard anything. Understood?”

The assistant nodded quickly, his throat dry. “Understood, sir.”

The man smirked. “Good boy.”

Then, without another word, he stepped out, the door shutting softly behind him. The faint sound of his shoes faded down the corridor until only silence remained.

The assistant stood still for a long moment, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart. His palms were sweaty; his shirt clung uncomfortably to his back. He had worked in this game long enough to know that the boss’s calmness was far more dangerous than his anger.

He slowly walked over to the window and peeked outside. The night was still — too still. The city lights blinked distantly, and the occasional car passed by on the wet street. Somewhere out there was the person his boss had just spoken about — “his.” Whoever she was, she clearly mattered enough to change the course of the plan.

“His weakness,” he murmured under his breath. “What could that be?”

He shook his head. Better not to think too much. Curiosity had killed better men than him in this business.

The assistant walked back to the desk and picked up the landline phone. His fingers hovered over the dial for a moment before pressing the buttons.

One by one, he began calling the other members.

“Code Black,” he said each time in a low voice. “Boss wants everyone at the hideout. Tonight.”

Each voice on the other end responded the same way — a short pause

, followed by a tense acknowledgment. They all knew what “Code Black” meant.

It meant trouble.

It meant someone had messed up.

It meant the game was changing.

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Muahh 💋 💋

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