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Rukmini stepped out of her room, her fingers lightly brushing the wall beside her as if it could offer her some invisible support. The silence of the hallway wrapped around her like a shawl, soft but heavy. With every step up the staircase, her nerves fluttered more violently in her chest. What would she say? What could she say?

But then—

A sound.

A familiar, gentle tune floated down the staircase and wrapped around her like a warm breeze.

Krishna's flute.

She stopped in her tracks. The melody wasn't grand or dramatic—it was soft, personal, almost like a secret being whispered into the wind. Each note melted into the air, wrapping itself around the night, around her, around the hesitation in her soul.

Drawn forward like a moth to a flame, Rukmini climbed the last few steps and pushed the terrace door open.

And there he was.

Sitting on the ledge with one leg casually propped up, Krishna looked like he belonged to the night sky itself. His hair tousled by the wind, his silhouette carved gently against the starlit background—he wasn't playing the flute anymore, but the echo of his song still lingered in the air like a memory too beautiful to let go of.

There was no moon tonight, but the stars had come out in delicate clusters—tiny whispers of light, scattered like blessings across the sky. The wind rustled through the trees and made the world sway gently, as if time itself was slowing down just to watch them.

And Rukmini?

She forgot how to breathe.

Her chest tightened, her pulse raced, and her thoughts—once loud and chaotic—had turned into a quiet hum. It wasn't the anxiety anymore. It wasn't fear or confusion. It was something else.

Her heart felt full. Not in the way that joy fills you. It wasn't sweet and soft like love in a fairytale.

No, this was different.

This fullness ached. It throbbed. It made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Because standing there, watching him exist like some poetic miracle against a sky of stars, Rukmini felt everything she wasn't ready to admit.

She felt something for Krishna.

And she hated it.

Not because he didn't deserve to be loved—but because loving him, even a little, hurt her in ways she couldn't name. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. But her chest clenched with the weight of emotions she had no right to feel.

Why him?

Why did her heart pick him—the one man who had always been kind, always been chaotic, always been Krishna?

He wasn't hers. He had never been. And yet her heart had the audacity to dream otherwise.

She looked down, pressing her palm lightly against her sternum, as if she could quiet the storm building beneath it.

Krishna hadn't seen her yet.

Good.

She needed a moment.

To compose herself.
To untangle the ache.
To figure out whether she had come here to confess something or to bury it for good.

And as the wind danced around her and the stars blinked gently in the sky, Rukmini realised...

Maybe it was never about ending the feeling.

Maybe it was about understanding why it began at all.

The terrace wind fluttered gently, as if the night itself was holding its breath for what was to come.

Rukmini stood frozen, still hidden behind the doorframe, collecting herself, willing her heartbeat to settle. She thought she had more time—just a few more seconds to figure out what she was going to say.

But then, his voice.

"Are you planning to just stand there all night like a secret admirer, Rukmini?"

Her breath caught.

That teasing lilt, that knowing smile laced in his words—it was so him. She blinked and stepped forward, stunned. How did he even know she was there? She hadn't made a sound.

Still, without another word, she walked toward him, her feet moving before her mind caught up. He hadn't moved from the ledge, still looking out into the starlit night like a god in repose. But when she stood in front of him, Krishna turned his gaze to her.

And smiled.

That smile—that infamous, easy, dazzling smile he wore like second skin—was there. But his eyes... they told a different story.

There was something tired in them. Not physically, no. It was something deeper. A quiet storm behind the usual mischief. She didn't know how she understood that. Maybe she had always noticed, deep down. But tonight... it was as if his eyes had turned into an open book written in a language only her heart could read.

And Krishna... he knew.

"You've been avoiding me," he said softly. No accusations. No bitterness. Just truth, carried on the breeze.

She didn't respond.

So he continued, voice calm, like waves lapping the shore.

"You don't have to run, Rukmini. Not from me. Whatever it is... you can say it. Or not say it. I'll still be here."

The simplicity of those words made her chest tighten. How could he speak with so much ease while her insides felt like an unraveling thread?

"I..." she began, but then stopped.

Her throat clenched with guilt. The weight of unspoken confusion, jealousy, affection—it all twisted together until it felt like her breath itself was wrapped in thorns.

"I don't know where we stand," she finally said, her voice quiet but steady. "And I know it's not fair to put it all on you. You've done nothing wrong. But maybe that's why I feel this way. Because... because we never said what this is."

Krishna tilted his head, his brows furrowed slightly. "What is 'this', Rukmini?"

She looked down at her fingers, clutching themselves. "That's exactly the point. There are no boundaries. No name. No clarity. I've been staying here like... like family. But we aren't. At least, we weren't. We started off as two people brought together by a project, and then things... changed. Or blurred. And now—"

She took a shaky breath.

"I feel like I'm crossing lines that were never drawn in the first place."

Krishna was silent, letting her speak.

"So," she said, looking up at him now, the night air stinging at her eyes, "maybe we need to draw those lines. Maybe we need to call this... something."

Krishna's expression softened.

"Like what?" he asked, gently.

"Friends," she said. The word was deliberate. Firm. "It's simple. It's easier. It has clear rules. No room for confusion or... complicated emotions. Just two people... who care. But not too much."

She gave him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I think it's a good start."

But her tongue tasted bitter, and she didn't know why.

Krishna stared at her for a moment—just a moment—and then slowly nodded. The corners of his mouth curved upward, but the smile didn't bloom. It stayed small, tight.

"Friends," he echoed, like he was trying the word on for size.

Then he looked up at the stars.

"Maybe that is for the best."

The wind moved again, brushing past them like an unseen witness.

For a long moment, they didn't speak. Just stood side by side beneath a sky that glittered with quiet possibilities.

And for the first time, even as Rukmini felt a sense of relief...
She also felt something quietly slip away.

.

.

.

True to their words, things between Rukmini and Krishna returned to normal.

.

.

.

The next morning, when she walked into the kitchen, Krishna was already there, humming an old Bollywood tune as he flipped a paratha with surprising grace. He looked up and flashed that signature smirk.

"Good morning, friend," he said with extra emphasis, wiggling his brows.

Rukmini rolled her eyes but smiled. "Is this your way of saying you burnt the first bread again?"

He gasped dramatically. "Excuse me, madam! I'll have you know I am evolving. This one is only slightly burnt."

She chuckled, taking the plate he offered her. The rhythm between them returned easily, almost like a favorite song played on repeat. Their banter, the shared jokes, the casual touches when passing things across the table—it was all the same. Everything looked the same.

It felt safe. Familiar.

And yet... it was almost too familiar.

Too easy.

Too normal.

And that's what unsettled Rukmini the most.

She laughed when he teased her. Nudged him back when he got too cocky. Mock-argued over the last piece of chocolate. Her smile reached her lips—but never quite her eyes. No one noticed.

Or so she believed.

The ache she had confessed to herself—the one that surfaced every time Krishna looked at her too long or said her name too softly—didn't go away. It just found a quiet corner inside her to live in. She had packed it neatly with silent acceptance, layered it with reasons and tied it with a bow called "friendship."

But it was still there.

It pulsed beneath her skin when he leaned in to fix her hair without thinking.
It stung a little when he laughed at something Subhadra said instead of her.
It made her heart pause when he texted, "Don't forget your scarf. It's cold today."

It was a quiet ache, one that smiled on the outside and cried a little on the inside. But she wore it well. After all, she had learned how to carry many emotions without letting them spill.

And no one seemed to suspect anything.

Or so she thought.

Because she didn't notice the way Subhadra sometimes looked at her with narrowed eyes when Krishna left the room. Or how Ram paused mid-sentence during dinner and gave her a second glance. She didn't see the way Krishna's smile faltered for a split second every time she laughed a little too hard.

They didn't say anything.

Because she had made it clear—everything was fine.

So it stayed that way.

Until it couldn't anymore.

The ride to the meeting was mostly quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of wind against the car windows. Rukmini sat beside Krishna, her thoughts scattered like the morning mist that clung to the glass. She turned to him, her voice gentle but curious.

"Is Draupadi not coming with us?"

Krishna, one hand on the steering wheel, gave a small shrug. "She'll come on her own."

Rukmini blinked. "Why didn't you pick her up?"

"I offered," he said with that infuriatingly nonchalant smile. "She said no. So, I said okay."

Her brows furrowed just slightly as she turned her gaze back to the road ahead. Krishna glanced sideways at her, noting the quiet shift in her mood. Naturally, he couldn't resist.

"Jealous?" he asked, his tone teasing.

"Of what?" she shot back without looking at him.

"Of Draupadi, of course. She's coming alone... which means she'll make a dramatic entrance."

"And?"

"And that's your thing, isn't it?"

She turned to him, arching a brow. "Please. If anyone here is dramatic, it's you. You once entered a room by sliding across the floor on socks."

Krishna gasped, mock-offended. "That was for morale. Ram and you were stressed."

"And that made it better?" she laughed.

"Absolutely. You should've seen Ram's face."

They both laughed, the moment light, warm... fleeting.

Soon, they pulled into the sleek circular driveway of Krishna's company headquarters. The building rose like a monument of modern design—glass panels gleaming in the sunlight, marble pillars standing tall like sentinels. The guards at the gate bowed their heads slightly in greeting as Krishna stepped out, exuding effortless charm and authority.

Rukmini followed, her steps purposeful. Inside, the lobby opened into a vast space with polished floors, a central water feature, and employees who all paused just a second longer when Krishna walked by.

As they neared the meeting hall, a familiar figure appeared at the far end of the corridor—Draupadi.

She walked with a confidence that demanded attention, her dark hair flowing behind her like a banner and her eyes sharp as ever. She was wearing a deep wine-colored kurta with silver embroidery, elegant and understated but striking.

Rukmini took a glance at Krishna.

He was smiling.

Not the kind of smile he gave everyone else—but a softer, nostalgic one.

Something squeezed in Rukmini's chest. She looked away quickly.

"Draupadi," Krishna greeted, nodding.

"Krishna," she said with a half-smile. "Rukmini."

Rukmini gave a polite nod, matching her smile. "Good to see you again."

Draupadi's expression flickered for a second before softening. "Likewise."

Together, the three of them walked down the hallway, where the large doors to the conference room opened automatically. Inside, Ram was already there, flipping through some documents. The setup was crisp and formal—glass table, touch panels, and a screen already glowing with the mission's progress map.

Ram looked up and gave them a brief nod. "All set. Just waiting for Arjun."

As if summoned, the doors clicked open again.

In walked Arjun.

And somehow, he looked even better than he did on television.

Tall, poised, with a calm but commanding presence, Arjun carried himself like someone who knew the weight of the world and still bore it with quiet strength. His sharp features softened when his eyes landed on Rukmini.

"We've never met before," he said, extending his hand. "But I've heard so much about you. You're a crucial element in all of this. Honestly, it's impressive."

Rukmini shook his hand, caught off guard. "Thank you," she said, a bit unsure, glancing at Krishna for a second.

Krishna had that unreadable expression again—one eyebrow slightly raised, arms folded across his chest, lips pressed into a line that threatened a smile.

"Arjun," he said casually, "You're late."

Arjun smirked. "You're always the one complaining."

"And you're always the one giving me reasons to," Krishna replied. "Anyway, shall we begin before you start a TED Talk about punctuality?"

Everyone chuckled lightly. The room settled. The meeting began.

But even as words were spoken and plans laid out, Rukmini couldn't shake the feeling.

Something about the dynamic had shifted. Draupadi, Arjun, Krishna... and herself.

The game board was full now, the pieces in place.

And the real game was just beginning.

The meeting room was thick with strategy and tension. Screens displayed maps, names, and shifting alliances—everything that had built up to the present moment, all leading to one name: Jarasandh.

As Ram pulled up another report onto the screen, Arjun leaned forward, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes sharp and focused.

"There's going to be an event," he said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "A party, more like a gathering of the elite. Politicians, businessmen, foreign investors... people Jarasandh's empire relies on to keep the web running."

Rukmini raised an eyebrow. "And we're just... crashing the party?"

Arjun gave a small smirk. "Not crashing. Attending. With style. If we're inside, among them, we might catch a whisper or two. Maybe more. People talk freely when they think they're safe."

Krishna tilted his head. "Well, if the goal is to blend in, I'm definitely out." He threw a sideways glance at Draupadi, who smiled with the barest curve of her lips.

"Me too," she added smoothly. "Our faces are too familiar. If either of us shows up there, half the room will scatter and the other half will try to have us shot."

"Charming," Rukmini muttered under her breath.

"Which is why," Arjun continued, turning his gaze to her, "you and I will go instead."

There was a pause.

A flicker of something unreadable passed through Krishna's face, but he said nothing.

Rukmini opened her mouth to agree—but then hesitated.

"There's something you should know," she said quietly, her fingers unconsciously fiddling with the ring on her hand. "Jarasandh knows me too."

Everyone looked at her.

Arjun frowned. "Knows you?"

She gave a small nod. "Quite well, actually."

Ram looked up from his tablet. "From when they attacked your apartment?"

"No," Rukmini replied, her voice firmer now, eyes steady. "Before that."

That caught Krishna's attention fully. He turned to her, brows raised in concern. "You never told me that."

She shrugged, but the motion was defensive. "It's personal."

The air grew still for a moment.

Draupadi's gaze sharpened, her mind clearly calculating the implications.

Arjun leaned forward slightly, his tone softer now. "But if they knew you before, and they didn't act on it... then maybe it wasn't personal for them. They only came after you once you stood up against them, right?"

Rukmini hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yes."

"Then it's settled," Arjun said, sitting back. "You and I will go in. Our names aren't attached to any previous exposés, and Jarasandh's people won't see us coming. We'll gather whatever we can from inside."

"And Draupadi and I," Krishna said, finally speaking, "will work from the outside. There's always a shadow when light shines on the front stage. We'll be there—hidden, but ready."

Draupadi's eyes flicked toward Krishna, and a silent understanding passed between them.

Rukmini noticed it.

And she also noticed the shift in Krishna—how his expression hadn't quite returned to its usual smile after she'd spoken about her history with Jarasand. He was thinking. Processing. Maybe even worried.

She didn't like that.

But there wasn't time to unpack any of it now.

"So," Ram said, breaking the silence, "we're doing this?"

"We're doing this," Arjun affirmed.

He looked at Rukmini again. "You okay with it?"

Rukmini gave a quick breath and nodded. "Let's bring him down."

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