The late afternoon sun dipped low over Lake Pichola, casting golden ripples across the water. Boats floated like lazy dreams, their reflections shimmering in the soft light. The city felt quieter at this hour—less touristy, more intimate. It was Avantika's favorite time of day.

She needed the solitude.

After the restaurant incident, she hadn't spoken much. Meher had poked and prodded, but eventually dropped it when Avantika gave her the I'll-kill-you-with-a-stare glare. Now, she wandered the lakeside promenade, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans, the ends of her lilac kurti dancing with the breeze.

She paused to take a picture of the water, framing the Aravalli hills in the background. A soft click, a smile tugging her lips. For a brief moment, she forgot the mysterious stalker-prince-psychopath from the morning.

And then she heard it.

"Lilac looks better on you than it did in my imagination."

She spun around so fast that her dupatta fluttered off her shoulder.

He stood a few feet away, holding a bouquet of lilac tulips.

Of course.

She stared at him, stunned—and silently cursing herself for walking alone. She looked around. The promenade had a few scattered tourists, some elderly locals. But no one close enough to witness a full meltdown.

"You have got to be kidding me," she snapped.

"I'm not," he said, stepping closer. "I never joke about flowers."

"You followed me again!"

"I prefer the term serendipity."

"Are you... are you mentally unstable? What part of 'leave me alone' sounded like an invitation to escalate the stalking?!"

He stopped, now only a foot away.

The sunlight bathed him in gold, highlighting the sharp planes of his face, the steady calm of his dark eyes. He looked like something out of a painting—still, commanding, untouched by guilt or nerves.

"I had these brought from the palace gardens," he said, holding out the flowers. "They're rare. Like you."

"Oh my god," Avantika muttered, half-laughing, half-furious. "That is the most manipulative, cheesy thing I've ever heard. What's next? You gonna sing 'Tum Hi Ho' with a background score and a fog machine?"

He grinned. "Would that work?"

"No! Nothing's going to work. You're delusional!"

She turned to walk away, but he reached out and gently caught her wrist.

She stopped.

His touch wasn't forceful—just firm enough to pause her. She could have pulled away easily. She didn't.

"I'm not trying to scare you," he said quietly.

She turned back to him, eyes blazing. "Then what are you trying to do? What is this little act you're playing? Are you rich and bored? A prince on vacation pretending to be a nobody? Do you just collect women like souvenirs?!"

"I don't collect anything," he replied. "And I'm not pretending. You just haven't asked the right questions."

"Oh, shut up with the mysterious riddles," she said. "If you don't tell me your name and why you keep appearing out of nowhere, I swear I'll scream."

He didn't flinch.

Instead, he stepped closer.

Too close.

She instinctively took a step back—but her heel hit the low edge of the stone promenade. The lake was just beyond. Her balance wavered.

And that's when he pulled her close.

Tightly.

Flushed against him.

She gasped. The flowers fell to the ground.

Her hands were pressed against his chest, fingers curled in surprise. His arms wrapped around her waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She tried to push him away, but he didn't budge.

"Let. Go."

"Not yet," he said, his voice low, husky, brushing her ear.

She froze.

The heat of his breath. The strength of his grip. The scent of something subtle and expensive—musk and spice, like sandalwood and saffron, embedded into the folds of royalty.

"You want to fight," he murmured, "and that's fine. You're fiery. You're fierce. But don't throw around words like 'mentally unstable' and 'souvenir' just because you're afraid of what's happening."

Her breath hitched.

"What's happening," she said, her voice tight, "is that a stranger is invading my personal space and I'm two seconds from kneeing you."

He chuckled softly. "If you wanted me gone, you wouldn't be shaking."

She stiffened. "I'm not—"

"You are."

His hand slid a little lower on her waist—still respectful, but undeniably intimate.

She shoved him back, finally breaking free.

Her face was flushed. With rage. With embarrassment. With something worse—attraction.

"I don't care how many flowers you bring," she snapped. "You don't get to touch me. You don't get to whisper in my ear like we're in some smutty fanfiction. This isn't cute. It's creepy."

He didn't defend himself. Just looked at her with that same frustrating calm.

"You're right," he said. "You didn't ask for this. I crossed a line."

She blinked. That was unexpected.

"But," he added, eyes narrowing slightly, "you crossed one too, when you decided I was a villain without knowing a damn thing about me."

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

He bent, picked up the bouquet, and handed it back to her. She didn't take it.

"I'll stop," he said. "If that's what you really want."

"It is what I want," she said firmly. "I don't care what palace you crawled out of. Stay away from me."

He nodded once.

And then... he smiled.

That infuriating, unreadable smile.

"I look forward to the next time you lie to yourself," he said, and walked away—hands in his pockets, casual, leaving behind the tulips and a girl whose pulse was beating entirely too fast.

Back at the hotel that evening, Avantika stared at the lilac flowers lying on her bedside table.

Meher peeked into the room and leaned on the doorframe.

"He found you again, didn't he?"

"Don't ask," Avantika muttered.

"Was it cinematic?"

"Too cinematic."

"Kiss?"

"Meher! No! Are you out of your mind?! He grabbed me!"

Meher raised her brows. "And... you're still holding the flowers."

Avantika looked at the bouquet, then groaned and shoved it into the wastebasket.

Meher just smiled. "Right. Totally not interested."

Somewhere across the city, inside the quiet halls of a sprawling palace, Abhimanyu Singh Rajput sat in his chambers, staring at a picture on his phone.

It was the one he'd taken earlier—of Avantika, standing by the lake, hair tousled, sunlight catching the side of her face like poetry.

He traced a thumb across the screen.

"Lilac," he murmured, "definitely your colour."