The marble floors of Rathore Mansion gleamed like mirrors as Aarohi Mehta stepped inside, her worn canvas bag slung over her shoulder. The contrast between her world and his hit her instantly — chandeliers dripping in crystals, golden pillars, air scented with jasmine and power.

For a moment, she felt small. But then she remembered the deal.
One week. One impossible deadline.
And a man who wanted her to fail.

She straightened her dupatta, lifted her chin, and walked in.

“Miss Mehta, this way please,” a butler said politely, leading her to the grand hallway where a large antique mural stood half-restored — the very project she’d been hired, fired, and re-hired for.

She took a deep breath, fingers brushing the centuries-old paint. “Don’t worry,” she whispered to the mural, “we’ll both survive this.”

“Talking to walls now?”

The voice behind her froze her mid-motion.
She turned — Arnav Rathore stood there, crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

“Only when the walls have more heart than the people around them,” she shot back, not missing a beat.

For a second, a flicker of surprise passed through his expression. Then — that faint, taunting smirk again.

“Let’s hope your art speaks better than your sarcasm.”

“Oh, it will,” she said. “My art doesn’t need approval from someone who cancels contracts over a five-minute delay.”

“A five-minute delay,” he repeated slowly, stepping closer, “can cost a company millions, Miss Mehta.”

“And cost someone their dream,” she whispered, meeting his gaze without blinking.

Something in her voice — the quiet ache beneath her defiance — made him pause. But he quickly masked it with indifference.

“You have one week,” he said curtly. “If you’re still standing by the end of it, we’ll talk again.”

And with that, he turned to leave.

As he walked away, Aarohi’s Dadi’s words echoed in her mind. “Some threads are tied not by choice, beta, but by destiny.”

She didn’t know why, but Arnav Rathore already felt like one of those threads — the kind that tangled, tightened, and refused to break.

That Night

Aarohi worked late in the mansion’s hall, music playing softly from her phone. Her hands moved with practiced grace over the mural’s cracked edges. The world outside was quiet, but inside her mind, a storm brewed.

Every stroke of color reminded her what was at stake — her sister’s school fees, their rent, their dreams.

She didn’t notice when Arnav walked in again, tie loosened, holding a cup of coffee. He paused near the doorway, watching her — the way the lamplight caught the strands of hair framing her face, the way her fingers danced with precision and passion.

She looked fragile… yet unbreakable.

“You work late,” he said finally.

She jumped, nearly dropping her brush.

“You walk quietly,” she muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. “Not used to company at this hour.”

“Neither am I,” she said, then added softly, “but dreams don’t wait for daylight.”

That made him look at her properly for the first time — really look.
There was something disarming about her simplicity. No pretension. No fear. Just truth.

“You really think you can finish this in a week?” he asked.

“I don’t think, Mr. Rathore. I know.”

“Confidence or stubbornness?”

“Both,” she said, and smiled. “You’ll need both when the world underestimates you.”

Arnav couldn’t help it — the corner of his lips twitched into an almost-smile.

“You remind me of someone I used to know,” he said quietly.

“Someone who argued with you too?”

“Someone who stopped,” he replied. His voice was low, and something inside it carried a story she didn’t dare ask about.

Silence stretched between them — comfortable yet tense.
Aarohi turned back to her mural. “You should get some rest, Mr. Rathore. Even perfectionists need sleep.”

He smirked faintly. “Sleep and I don’t get along.”

“Maybe because you keep fighting with peace,” she murmured under her breath.

He caught that — and this time, he didn’t reply.

The Next Morning

When Aarohi arrived again, she noticed a fresh set of paints arranged neatly on the table. Her old ones had dried out. She frowned — she hadn’t bought them.

“Mr. Rathore asked the staff to get these,” the butler informed. “Said you might need proper materials.”

Aarohi blinked, surprised.
So the arrogant businessman did have a heart somewhere behind that expensive watch and colder-than-ice attitude.

She smiled faintly and got to work.

Meanwhile, in his study, Arnav tried focusing on his laptop but failed. His mind kept wandering back to the girl in the paint-splattered kurti who’d dared to challenge him — and somehow made him care.

“Sir?” his assistant entered hesitantly. “Miss Kapoor is here to see you.”

Arnav stiffened. Rhea.

“Send her in,” he said quietly.

Aarohi, downstairs, was climbing the stairs to deliver her progress report when she froze halfway. From the open study door, she heard a woman’s laugh — elegant, practiced.

“Still buried in work, Arnav?” the woman teased. “Or are you trying to forget me by overworking yourself?”

Aarohi couldn’t help but glance inside — and saw Rhea, stunning in her designer saree, standing close to Arnav. Too close.

Something twisted in her chest — unfamiliar, unwelcome. She quickly turned away.

Inside, Rhea smiled sweetly.

“I heard you’ve hired some… artist girl? Already replacing emotions with projects?”

“My work has nothing to do with you, Rhea,” Arnav said evenly.

“Oh, come on,” she smirked. “You and I both know, you don’t believe in love anymore. You never will.”

Aarohi stopped mid-step. Don’t believe in love?

For some reason, those words hurt her more than they should have.

She walked back to the mural, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up her brush.

“Let’s prove him wrong,” she whispered to the wall, her eyes glistening.

Hours later, as the night deepened, Arnav found himself standing at the hall doorway again. She was still there — painting, unaware that her tears had mixed with the color she used.

“You should rest,” he said softly.

She looked up, startled, quickly wiping her cheek.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re trembling.”

“That’s passion, not weakness,” she replied.

He stepped closer, his voice gentler than she’d ever heard.

“Passion doesn’t mean you have to destroy yourself in the process.”

Her eyes lifted to his — and for a heartbeat, time stopped.

The world outside faded, leaving only two souls bound by something neither could explain.

“Why do you care, Mr. Rathore?” she whispered.

He looked away. “I don’t.”

But his eyes told another story.

As she watched him leave, Aarohi exhaled shakily.
The man who claimed not to believe in love had just looked at her as if he’d forgotten what it meant not to.

The thread between them tightened — invisible, undeniable, unbreakable.

And somewhere in the quiet corners of Rathore Mansion, destiny smiled.