The market buzzed with late-morning chaos—children darting between stalls, vendors shouting over one another, and the scent of fresh jalebis hanging in the air like a promise. Avantika stood at a small jewelry stall tucked between a fabric shop and a cart selling sugarcane juice, debating furiously with herself.

Two pairs of earrings gleamed on the velvet tray before her.

One: sleek silver with lapis lazuli drops—modern, edgy.

The other: traditional jhumkas with intricate meenakari work in teal and gold—classic, timeless.

Her fingers hovered.

"Why are choices so hard?" she mumbled.

"Because you're overthinking, as always," a voice murmured behind her ear.

She froze.

There was no mistaking that voice. Low. Smooth. A little amused. A little dangerous.

Him.

Before she could whip around, he leaned in just slightly—so close, she felt the whisper of his breath near her temple.

"I like the jhumkas," Abhimanyu said softly, then added, "They suit your fire."

And—did he just sniff her hair?!

Avantika stepped forward abruptly, putting a solid foot of space between them.

"You really can't help yourself, can you?"

He smiled, unbothered. "Not when you smell like jasmine and sandalwood."

She turned sharply, pointing a finger. "Stop. Talking. About. My. Scent."

"Alright," he said. "But if you buy the jhumkas, I'll stop talking and just admire them."

"You're impossible."

"And you're glowing today."

That almost threw her. She clenched her jaw, trying to remember the resolution she'd made last night after she found his photo online.

Do not be flattered. Do not flirt. Do not fold.

"You're a prince," she said bluntly.

He blinked.

No smile this time.

She folded her arms. "You're the prince. Prince Abhimanyu Singh Rajput. Second son of the House of—whatever. Udaipur royalty. Am I wrong?"

A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, he reached for the jhumkas and handed them to the stall keeper.

"She'll take these."

"Excuse me?" Avantika said, scandalised. "You're not paying for me!"

Abhimanyu ignored her. "Wrap them nicely."

"Hey! Royalty or not, you don't get to make decisions for me—"

"Then say no," he said calmly, turning to face her, jhumkas in hand. "Go ahead. Say no to something you wanted, just because I gave it."

She faltered.

"That's not the point."

"I think it is."

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. The stallkeeper handed her the paper-wrapped jhumkas, clearly sensing the tension but too grateful for the sale to care.

Avantika clutched the packet in one hand and glared at Abhimanyu with the other.

"You lied to me."

"I withheld."

"Same difference."

"No," he said, stepping closer again. "If I had lied, I would have said I was a schoolteacher or a mechanic. I never said what I was. You just didn't ask the right questions."

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you seriously justifying this with technicalities?"

He shrugged. "Would you have spoken to me if I walked up dressed in royal whites with six bodyguards and an air of entitlement?"

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

That was the problem. She didn't know.

"Maybe I would have," she muttered.

"No," he said softly. "You would've assumed I was a spoiled royal boy who thought he could buy people with power."

She scowled. "Still not helping your case."

"I didn't want you to look at me like the rest of the world does," he said, suddenly serious. "With calculated respect or artificial awe. I wanted you—the girl who threw water on me in public, who lectures creeps, who thinks waist chains are just accessories and not seduction tools."

Her face heated. "You—!"

He smiled.

She wanted to slap the smirk off him.

And maybe kiss it off too.

But she shook her head. "This is insane."

"I agree."

"You've been stalking me."

"Following," he corrected. "Admiring."

"Creepily."

"Romantically."

"Oh my god." She turned around to leave. "You need professional help."

"Wait," he said, catching her wrist—not tightly, just enough to make her pause.

She turned back, expecting another line.

Instead, he pulled something from his pocket.

A folded sheet of paper.

She took it slowly and opened it.

It was... a sketch.

Of her.

Sitting in the palace garden. One leg propped up, her hair falling forward, her smile slightly mischievous. The flowers around her had been drawn with painstaking detail.

Her throat tightened. "You drew this?"

He nodded once. "I sketch when I'm overwhelmed. You've given me a lot of overwhelming days."

She looked at him for a long moment, then folded the sketch and slipped it into her bag without a word.

He took that as a small victory.

"You didn't throw it," he said quietly.

"Only because we're in public," she shot back. "And because I might... frame it. Later. Maybe. Shut up."

He laughed—genuinely—and she hated how much she liked the sound.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, finally softening just a little. "Why me?"

His expression turned unreadable.

"Because you make me forget I'm royal," he said. "And then remind me again in the same breath."

Before she could respond, her phone rang—Meher.

She answered.

"Where are you? You vanished! We're heading to that street art lane. Come now!"

"Coming," she muttered, then glanced at Abhimanyu. "You are not following me there."

"I won't," he said, stepping back with hands raised. "Unless you change your mind."

She turned to go.

"Avantika," he called softly.

She stopped.

"You look good in royal blue. But in gold... you'd look divine."

She didn't turn around.

Didn't answer.

But her smile gave her away.

Later that night, she sat on the hotel balcony with Meher, watching the city lights glitter across Lake Pichola.

"So?" Meher asked, sipping from her kulhad chai. "What's the deal with your 'palace boy'?"

Avantika handed her the sketch without speaking.

Meher unfolded it, stared, then let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's... intimate."

"I know."

"He's in love, bro."

"Or he's just insane."

"Or both."

Avantika leaned back, feeling the cool breeze on her face.

She didn't know where this was going.

She just knew that the prince wasn't pretending anymore—and neither was the storm inside her.