The Rajvansh mansion never looked like a home.

It looked like power.

Standing in the heart of New Delhi, the massive estate rose behind black iron gates with carved gold detailing, surrounded by manicured gardens and silent fountains that reflected the evening lights. White marble stairs led to enormous double doors, and every corner of the property whispered wealth that most people could only imagine.

This was not just a family.

This was a legacy.

And the heir to that legacy was—

Abhimaan Singh Rajvansh.

At twenty-nine, Abhimaan was already one of the richest men in India. Business magazines called him brilliant. Rivals called him dangerous. The media called him untouchable.

His family simply called him difficult.

He was a man who rarely smiled. Rarely spoke. And never let anyone close enough to understand him.

That evening, he stood near the long dining table in a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, charcoal trousers, and a silver watch resting against his wrist. His sharp jaw was tense, his expression unreadable, and his dark eyes carried the kind of cold that made people lower their voices around him.

At the head of the table sat his grandfather, Pratap Singh Rajvansh, a man whose presence still commanded the room despite age. Beside him sat his grandmother, Meenu, whose gentle heart was perhaps the only thing in the world Abhimaan secretly softened for.

His parents, Akaash and Sakshi, sat nearby, while his younger brother Krish and sister Riya exchanged knowing looks.

Because they all knew what was coming.

“Abhimaan,” his grandfather said calmly, folding his napkin. “It is time for you to get married.”

The room fell silent.

Abhimaan did not even look up from his glass.

“No.”

Riya sighed dramatically. “That was fast.”

Krish smirked. “At least pretend to think about it.”

Sakshi looked at her son with tired affection.

“You cannot avoid this forever.”

Abhimaan finally lifted his gaze.

“I am not interested.”

Meenu watched him quietly before speaking in a soft voice.

“We are not asking you to fall in love immediately.”

Her eyes held his.

“We are asking you to allow someone into your life.”

Something in that sentence made the room go still.

Because beneath all the wealth, all the power, and all the coldness, everyone in that room knew the same truth—

Abhimaan was lonely.

He just never let anyone see it.

After a long pause, he set his glass down.

“Do whatever you want.”

Every head turned toward him.

Even Pratap looked surprised.

Krish blinked. “You’re agreeing?”

Abhimaan stood from his chair.

“I said do whatever you want.”

And without another word, he walked out.

The family stared after him in stunned silence.

Then Meenu smiled softly.

“That means yes.”

Across the country in Jaipur, life could not have been more different.

The Sharma house was warm.

Not because of luxury. But because of love.

Laughter filled the hallways, the smell of cardamom tea drifted from the kitchen, and sunlight poured through cream curtains into a home that felt lived in.

In the center of it stood—

Aarohi Sharma.

At twenty-four, Aarohi had the kind of beauty that never demanded attention, yet always received it.

She was soft where the world was harsh. Gentle where others were loud. And kind in a way that made people feel safe around her.

That evening she wore a pale blue cotton kurta with delicate white embroidery near the sleeves, her long dark hair loosely braided over one shoulder, tiny pearl earrings in her ears, and no makeup except a hint of kajal that made her large brown eyes even softer.

She looked like grace without trying.

And everyone who knew her adored her for it.

Her older brother Kartik leaned against the doorway with a teasing smile.

“Aaru.”

She looked up. “Yes?”

He grinned. “Someone is coming to see you tomorrow.”

Aarohi froze.

Her sister-in-law Shubhi smiled from the sofa.

“A marriage proposal.”

Aarohi stared.

“You’re joking.”

Little Prisha, her five-year-old niece, clapped excitedly from the floor.

“Maasi is getting married!”

Aarohi pressed a hand to her forehead.

“Bhai…”

Kartik’s smile softened. “Just meet them first.”

Aarohi looked between them.

“Who is he?”

For a moment, the room became strangely quiet.

Then Kartik said—

“Abhimaan Singh Rajvansh.”

Aarohi’s eyes widened.

Everyone knew that name.

The business world spoke of him like a king. The media called him ruthless. And women across the country admired him from a distance.

But Aarohi had heard something else too.

That he was cold. Arrogant. And impossible to understand.

Which was exactly why her heart suddenly felt nervous.

The next morning, her room looked like a battlefield of outfits.

Three suits were spread across the bed.

Ivory chiffon. Rose pink silk. Peach organza.

Aarohi stood staring at them in confusion.

“I don’t know what to wear.”

Shubhi walked in carrying bangles and smiled.

“The peach one.”

Aarohi looked at her uncertainly. “Isn’t it too much?”

Shubhi laughed softly.

“Aarohi, you could wear a curtain and still look beautiful.”

By noon, Aarohi stood before the mirror.

The peach organza suit fit her perfectly, with delicate threadwork across the neckline and tiny pearl details along the sleeves. The dupatta rested lightly over one shoulder, and her hair was left open in soft waves that fell down her back.

A thin bracelet rested on her wrist. A small bindi sat between her brows. And the soft shimmer of her earrings caught the light when she moved.

She looked elegant.

Timeless.

Beautiful in a way that never needed effort.

When the Rajvansh family arrived, the atmosphere changed.

Luxury black cars lined the front gate.

And then he stepped out.

Abhimaan.

He wore a deep black bandhgala with silver buttons, tailored perfectly against his broad frame. His hair was brushed back neatly, and his face carried the same unreadable expression everyone feared.

He looked less like a man arriving for a marriage meeting—

and more like a man who owned every room he entered.

Riya leaned closer and whispered,

“You could at least pretend to look human.”

Abhimaan glanced at her.

“No.”

Krish nearly laughed.

Inside the sitting room, formal greetings were exchanged.

Tea was served.

Polite smiles were shared.

Then Aarohi entered carrying the tea tray.

And for the first time—

Abhimaan looked at her.

Really looked at her.

And something inside him paused.

The room disappeared. The voices faded. Even time seemed to slow.

Because standing in front of him was not the kind of woman he usually saw around him.

She was softness. Warmth. Calm.

Everything his world had never been.

Aarohi gently held out his tea.

As he reached for it, their fingers brushed.

Just for a second.

But both of them felt it.

Aarohi looked up.

And their eyes met.

For one silent moment, neither looked away.

Later, both families insisted they speak alone.

So now they stood on the balcony under the soft winter sunlight.

Neither said anything for several seconds.

Aarohi finally broke the silence.

“Do you always scare people this much?”

Abhimaan slowly turned toward her.

His expression unreadable.

“You seem unaffected.”

Aarohi folded her hands.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

To his own surprise—

the corner of his mouth almost moved.

Almost.

And for the first time in years,

Abhimaan Singh Rajvansh felt something dangerously unfamiliar.

Interest.

_________

And so their story begins… ♡

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