The hospital corridors smelled of antiseptic and smoke — a sharp reminder of the night that refused to end.
Aarohi sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing the bandage on Arnav’s arm. His skin was pale, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

Outside, news channels screamed headlines about “The Rathore Mansion Fire — Mystery or Revenge?”
Paparazzi swarmed the hospital gates. The world was watching, but Aarohi didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was the man lying before her — the one who’d walked through hell to save them.