AUTHOR PERSPECTIVE:

The scent of cedar and old paper was a comforting, familiar anchor, but it couldn't stop the storm brewing inside Aishwarya Singhania. She sat at her mahogany desk, surrounded by stacks of legal briefs and the cold, hard logic of the law. Yet, her fingers found their way to the phone screen, tapping open the only illogical thing she kept: an ancient video file, labeled simply: Our Last Dance.

A soft, hesitant melody drifted from the speakers, pulling her back-not a week, not a month, but six years. Back to a time when her heart was less steel and more sunshine, and the world was painted in the vibrant colors of their romance.

(Flashback: Six Years Ago)

The air backstage was electric, buzzing with the nervous energy of the annual AR University Cultural Night. Aishwarya, dressed in a simple, swirling white lehenga not the sleek gowns she wore now was pacing. Her partner, usually the picture of control, was nowhere to be seen.

"You look beautiful, My Angel," a deep voice murmured, startling her.

She whirled around and instantly felt the familiar, dangerous pull. Aarav Rathore. He wasn't just hot; his looks were a cruel, magnificent joke on the rest of humanity. Tonight, he was wearing a simple white kurta matching with her, his dark hair damp, somehow managing to look both rebellious and regal.

"You're late, Mr. Devil," she scolded, swatting his chest lightly. "We go on in five minutes!"

He simply smiled-a devastating curve of his lips reserved just for her and stepped closer, cupping her chin gently. His thumb brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"I needed a minute to look at you. If I saw you on stage for the first time, I might forget to breathe. And then who would catch you when you fall?" he whispered, his eyes, the color of molten chocolate, holding a promise only she understood.

Her breath hitched, that signature Aarav move disarming her completely. "You talk too much."

"Only to you," he countered, leaning in until the warm mint of his breath fanned her ear. "Just focus on the rhythm. And on me. Only on me."

The announcer's voice boomed their names. He winked, his dangerous eyes sparkling, and led her out onto the stage. The lights hit them, washing the space in soft blue, and the familiar, playful notes of an old classic began.

The stage erupted as the music started the playful, yearning tune of "Ek Ladki Bheegi Bhagi Si".

She took her starting position, her heart a frantic bird against her ribs, but the moment she saw the easy, devastating confidence in Aarav's eyes, the nervousness vanished. All that mattered was the two of them.

Ek ladki bheegi bhagi si,

Soti raaton mein jaagi si,

Mili ek ajnabi se,

Koyee aage naa pichhe,

Tum hee kaho yeh koyee bat hai, hmm...

Aarav began the choreography with a flourish, using his arm like a wide windshield wiper, shielding his eyes from the imaginary rain.

She shook her head, her braid swinging, and feigned annoyance, pushing his hands away as she took playful, teasing steps back. He followed, his eyes sparkling with mischief. The lyrics were about a strange encounter, but the reality was a deeply familiar, exhilarating game of chase. She meets a stranger with no one ahead or behind her. They were alone in the world right then.

Dil hee dil me chalee jatee hain,

Bighdee bighdee chalee aatee hain,

Dundhalatee huwee balkhatee huwee,

Sawan key sunee rato me...

The music shifted to a more rhythmic, teasing sway. Aarav's expression changed, moving from playful to intensely focused. He caught her wrist, pulling her into a close, intimate circle.

His hand settled at the small of her back, sending a jolt of heat through the thin silk of her lehenga. For a moment, they weren't dancing; they were just breathing, held together in the spotlight. She felt the powerful rhythm of his heart against her own. This was the Aarav she knew-the one who saw the chaos beneath my surface and claimed it.

Dagmag dagmag lehkee lehkee,

Bhulee badh kee behkee behkee,

Machlee machlee gharse niklee,

Paghlee see kalee rato me...

The beat picked up, demanding energy. They separated, their movements becoming light and quick again.

He caught her by the hand, twirled her, and then, in a move that wasn't in the rehearsal, he didn't pull her back to face the audience. Instead, he drew her in until their bodies were pressed close, their foreheads touching, creating a single, unbroken silhouette under the lights. The music was playful, but the moment was charged, silent, and entirely theirs.

Tan bhiga hai sar gila hai,

Usaka koyee pech bhee dhila hai,

Tan ti jhuktee chaltee ruktee,

Niklee andheree rato me...

As the music faded towards the end, he held her steady, his strength a counterpoint to her supposed chaos.

The music reached its final, soft piano chord. He slowly lifted his head from hers. The roar of the audience was deafening, but she barely heard it.

He took her face in his hands-his touch was rougher than the gentle touch of the stranger in the lyrics, full of ownership. He didn't kiss her lips, even though the audience was screaming for it.

Instead, he pressed his lips, firmly and softly, against her left cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed, every nerve ending alive. Then, he pulled back, a soft, triumphant smile on his lips.

It was a possessive, public claim, a promise made only to her, right over the spot where her sweetest dimple used to flash.

A collective gasp went through the audience, followed by thunderous applause. She stood frozen, the heat of his skin still burning, while his hand slipped down to clasp hers, turning both to face the blinding applause.

Flick.

The video ended. The screen went black, reflecting Aishwarya's own face: composed, beautiful, and utterly devoid of the innocent light that had just danced on the screen.

She didn't cry. Aishwarya Singhania hadn't cried over Aarav Rathore in six years. She just felt the familiar, cold knot of hatred and resentment tightened in her chest.

"Forever," she scoffed, the word tasted like ash. He had left. Without a word. Without a trace. Six years ago, taking her heart and her belief in love with him.

He hadn't protected her. He hadn't guarded her. He had kissed her, and then left the country without a word, leaving her to navigate the shame and confusion alone. She had spent a year believing she wasn't good enough, only to realize later he was simply The Devil who couldn't handle love.

A shudder ran through her, pulling her completely back to her mahogany study. The memory was painful, but the reality was worse.

Just three days ago, the ghosts of the past had walked into her present again.

Aarav Rathore. Her Mr Devil.

To be continued....

So here is the first chapter.

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Thank you for reading.