The courtyard had transformed.
Soft fairy lights glittered across the carved arches, candles flickered along the low marble boundary, and rose petals were strewn across the floor like a silent promise of enchantment. After dinner and games, Rajeshwari surprised everyone by saying—
"Tonight, no traditions. Let's be girls—not queens, not bahus, not betis—just us."
And that's when the fun truly began.
Inside the mirrored dressing room attached to the inner courtyard, laughter echoed as trunks and closets were flung open. It was Anika who had found the hidden stash of clothes first—western dresses, cocktail gowns, even some sleek jumpsuits gifted from Paris and Dubai.
"Maa!" Anika gasped, holding a black off-shoulder dress with scandalous excitement. "You've been hiding these!"
Rajeshwari smirked like a teenager. "A queen always has secrets."
Myra stood quietly near the long mirror, her fingers brushing the silky fabric of a deep wine-colored dress that Anika had held up to her.
"You should wear this," Anika said, her voice low and teasing. "It's bold. Just like you pretend not to be."
Myra shook her head, flustered. "No… it's too—too much."
But before she could escape, Rajeshwari walked over and whispered gently, "Your mother loved this color. It brings fire to skin like yours."
Those words were enough. Myra didn't argue. She turned away quickly, not letting anyone see the tight lump in her throat.
When she finally stepped out—awkward, unsure, fingers tugging nervously at the hem of her dress—there was a silence.
The dress wrapped her like dusk clinging to twilight. Sleeveless, hugging gently at the waist, it dipped slightly off one shoulder where a delicate mole rested, drawing attention to the soft curve of her collarbone. Her hair was down, tousled waves falling to her waist.
Dadi sa whistled.
"Myra," Anika grinned like a proud devil, "you look… like heartbreak waiting to happen."
Myra rolled her eyes and sat quickly, crossing her legs and folding her arms like it was no big deal. "You're all exaggerating."
But her ears were pink. And somewhere inside, she felt a flutter of a storm.
As the girls settled with mocktails in hand, fairy lights glowing behind them, the mood shifted—soft, honest, gentle.
"Let's… confess something," Anika suggested, leaning against a cushion. "Something we haven't told anyone."
Rajeshwari arched a brow. "Like?"
"Something silly. Or secret. Or scary."
Anika began, brushing invisible lint off her denim shorts. "Okay fine. I'll go first. I once almost eloped at age seventeen. The guy had a motorcycle, a horrible tattoo, and zero brains."
"WHAT?!" Myra choked.
Dadi burst into laughter. "Tell me you didn't!"
"I didn't!" Anika held up her hands. "His mother caught us halfway down the lane and dragged him back by his ear."
They all erupted into giggles.
Rajeshwari, sipping mocktail, shared next. "I once got caught writing love letters to my husband when we weren't married. My mother thought it was some poet from the city. She nearly summoned a priest to 'purify' me."
Even Dadi was chuckling.
Myra sat quietly, smiling, fingers brushing the rim of her glass. But when it came to her turn, she shook her head. "I… don't have anything interesting."
Anika nudged her. "You blush at the mention of a certain someone. That counts."
"I don't," Myra replied way too quickly. "Anyway, this isn't about him."
"Oh ho," Dadi grinned. "Him."
Myra blushed furiously. "Please."
But even as she looked away, her hands curled into her lap, and the memory of his voice, that night, whispering "I need you even to breathe," echoed faintly in her chest like forbidden music.
She swallowed it down.
Far from the courtyard, Shiv leaned against the hallway wall, chewing on dried fruit, eyes narrowed toward the courtyard's blocked entrance.
"Still locked?" Ranvijay asked, appearing beside him.
Shiv yawned. "Still locked. No one's even peeked out. What are they doing in there?"
"Living peacefully without us."
"Do you think they're… wearing something different?" Shiv asked, casually.
Ranvijay stared at him. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing. I just…" Shiv scratched his neck. "Never mind."
Ranvijay's face was unreadable. But he too was imagining Myra. In silk, perhaps. Or laughing with her hair loose. His jaw clenched softly.
Inside, Anika was now dragging everyone for a photo session—posing like models, pouting dramatically, hugging close, and collapsing into laughter every time Dadi sa photobombed with her thumbs-up.
Myra stood with Rajeshwari under the fairy lights, caught mid-laugh in a photo where her eyes shone brighter than any jewel.
She didn't know that this photo would become Ranvijay's most guarded possession later.
But for now, she was just Myra. Quietly glowing. Quietly fighting the storm of feelings she didn't yet understand—especially the one that came with the sound of his name.
The palace had fallen into deep slumber.
Soft breaths rose and fell in the chamber where Dadi sa and Anika had finally curled up after hours of laughter. A few doors down, Rajeshwari was already asleep, peaceful and motionless, the flickering diya casting dancing shadows on the walls.
Myra sat on the edge of the bed beside her — her body aching from the long day, the laughter still echoing faintly in her ears.
Myra's fingers struggled behind her neck. She was trying to undo the thin string that held her backless red wine dress in place. The palace was asleep, and the girls' night had drained her—but this dress was testing her patience.
She bit her lip and sighed, frustrated, when she suddenly sensed a shift in the room's air.
A warm silence. A quiet inhale. A gaze.
Her body froze.
Slowly, she turned her head—and her eyes met his.
Ranvijay.
Leaning against the balcony's entrance, where the curtain fluttered lazily beside him. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were anything but calm.
"You—!" she whispered, clutching her chest. "You're not supposed to be here!"
He didn't move. He just looked at her. And then he spoke, voice gravelly from restraint.
"It's only been a day, Myra… Just one day. And I've already gone mad without seeing you."
He stepped forward slowly, like a predator careful not to startle prey.
"I thought I'd just take a look. Just one glimpse. But the moment I saw you in this—" his voice dipped— "I lost every shred of self-control I had left."
Myra's cheeks flushed a violent pink. She stepped backward, trying to shield herself with the fabric, whispering, "Leave. Maa is sleeping. You shouldn't be here—this is wrong."
He ignored her words, his eyes trailing her arms, the curve of her collarbones, the way the dim light kissed the mole near her shoulder.
"Do you know what you're doing to me?" he muttered, voice almost trembling. "You walk around in that palace, pretending I don't affect you... And yet here I am, going insane just knowing you're sleeping in the next room."
Her breath hitched. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" he said darkly, closing the gap between them. "Then why is your heartbeat racing, Myra?"
She clenched the fabric at her chest tighter.
"You can't barge in like this…"
"I can," he said softly but fiercely, "and I will. Every time I miss you. Every time you avoid me. I can't stop, Myra. I don't know how."
Suddenly, he knelt in front of her—without warning—his arms circling her waist, pulling her into a gentle but possessive embrace.
"I came here to breathe," he whispered against her abdomen. "Because I've forgotten how to without you."
Myra's hands trembled at her sides.
He didn't move for a moment. Just stayed there, as if holding on to her grounded him.
Then, carefully, his fingers reached for the tangled knot she had been trying to undo. She gasped.
"Stop! Don't—!"
"You were struggling," he murmured, his voice like velvet laced with steel. "Let me do this one thing for you."
The knot came loose.
Her back was bare now, the dress hanging only by her grip at the front.
Her body flared with warmth—shame, awareness, fear, confusion—and his eyes, as dark as they were, softened just a little.
He didn't touch her again. He only said:
"You always say you don't need me, Myra. But this... this right here?"
"I need you more than I've ever needed anything in my life."
And then—he left. As silently as he had come.
But his scent lingered. His warmth. His voice.
And Myra stood there trembling, not because she was afraid of him—
but because he saw through her.