The night was alive with the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the soft lull of music drifting through the grand hall. Danish Malhotra stood near the balcony, away from the glittering chaos of the afterparty. He was waiting.
For her.
Varna red lehanga mein comeback karna padhega, @lostlakshi aur mere bacho ko palne ke liye paise chaiye
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He saves lives for a living. Sheโs running out of time. At twenty-eight, he has learned how to hold a dying childโs hand without letting his own shake, how to walk out of hospital rooms and still function like nothing inside him just broke. People call him brilliant, detached, untouchable. They donโt see the exhaustion that sleep never fixes, or the quiet guilt he carries like a second heartbeat. At twenty-three, she is all stubborn hope and unfinished dreams. A girl who collects moments like they are something she can keep, a girl who smiles like she has forever, even when her heart says otherwise. When their worlds collide, it isnโt gentle. It is sharp, inconvenient, and far too personal. He is supposed to treat her, keep a professional distance, remain just her doctor. She refuses to be just another case file, another patient he forgets how to feel for. Somewhere between hospital corridors and late-night conversations, something begins to shift. Lines blur. Silences grow heavier. And the kind of love they never planned for starts to take shape in the spaces they were trying so hard to protect. But love, in a world measured by heartbeats and deadlines, comes with a cost. Because sometimes, saving someone means losing yourself.โจ And sometimes, the hardest truth to face is that not every story is meant to last forever.
Epilogue 1 โ Closure This one belongs to Danish. The family. The betrayal. The silence that lasted years. This epilogue is about Danish finally standing in the room that once rejected him โ and leaving it on his terms. Conversations that were avoided. Apologies that came too late. And the kind of closure that doesn't magically erase pain... but finally allows everyone to breathe again. No romance. No distractions.Just truth, accountability, and the ending Danish deserved with his family. Epilogue 2 โ Two Proposals & One Almost Murder Because one proposal was never going to be enough for them. First proposal: The boardroom. Rivals. Contracts. Power plays. Kiara's mother watching. Danish choosing that exact moment to propose โ not despite her being there, but because she was. The boldest proposal. The most satisfying win. Second proposal: The one that was planned. A cruise. Fireworks. Cake. Romance. Everything perfect. Except Kiara casually mentioning she once said she'd never want Akaay anywhere near her proposal. Cue Danish realising he has made a terrible, terrible mistake. Solution? He kicks Akaay off the cruise. Yes. Into the ocean. Yes. There is a helicopter involved. Yes. Akaay survives and never shuts up about it. This epilogue is romance, chaos, jealousy, comedy โ and proof that Danish Malhotra proposes like he lives: dramatically. Epilogue 3 โ Forever Marriage. Quiet love. And the future no one thought Danish would ever get. They elope โ because after everything, they're done with big performances.And then... a baby. His little sweetheart. This epilogue is about Danish becoming the father he once needed. About Kiara finally having a family that chooses her first. About love that survives the past and still builds a future. Soft. Emotional. Intimate. This one will hurt in the best way.
๐๐จ๐ฆ๐ ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฏ๐ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐จ๐ซ๐ข๐๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐ง'๐ญ ๐๐ซ๐๐๐ค ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ. ๐๐ก๐๐ฒ ๐ฌ๐ก๐๐ซ๐ฉ๐๐ง ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ. ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐ฅ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ฎ๐ญ๐ข๐๐ฎ๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐จ๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ซ๐๐ฌ๐ญ ๐จ๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฅ๐ข๐๐. ๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ ๐ฉ๐จ๐๐ญ ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฌ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ก๐๐ซ ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ง๐๐ฏ๐๐ซ ๐ฐ๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ข๐ง ๐๐๐๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ ๐ก๐ ๐ฐ๐๐ฌ ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ฌ๐ก๐ ๐๐ฏ๐๐ซ ๐ฐ๐๐ง๐ญ๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฐ๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ ๐๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ญ. ๐๐ ๐๐ข๐๐ง'๐ญ ๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ฅ๐๐๐ฏ๐ - ๐ก๐ ๐ญ๐จ๐จ๐ค ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐จ๐ง๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ฌ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐จ๐ ๐ก๐๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ญ ๐๐๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ฏ๐๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐ก๐๐ฉ๐ฉ๐ฒ ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฌ.
"๐๐๐๐ง ๐ค๐๐ก ๐๐ข๐ฃ๐ข๐ฒ๐... ๐ฃ๐๐ง๐ ๐ค๐ ๐๐๐ค๐ก๐ซ๐ข ๐๐ข๐ง ๐ก๐จ๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ฃ." "๐๐จ๐ก ๐ฆ๐๐ซ๐ข ๐ฌ๐๐ณ๐๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐, ๐ฃ๐จ ๐ข๐ง๐๐๐ฒ๐๐ญ ๐๐๐ง ๐ ๐๐ฒ๐." She was a widow, he was a mad king. She lived in white, her days as hollow as the bangles she shattered at her husband's pyre. He lived in red, a force of chaos wrapped in flesh, his path painted in the blood of the fallen, his throne a pyre of the conquered. His enemies feared his madness. His allies feared his boredom. He did not rage to conquer-he raged to feel, to break the silence that clung to his soul like the ashes of his fallen foes. She wasn't just a bride, she was the prize, the possession he won in a war. He extended his hand, rough and scarred, the hand that had broken empires and crushed crowns. His voice was a low rumble, a whisper wrapped in steel. "Yeh haath ek shauk nahi... ek zimmedari hai. Thukra dengi toh bhi, zindagi bhar yeh haath kisi aur ke liye nahi badhega." She looked at the outstretched hand, the hand that had shattered kingdoms, and her lips curled in a bitter, ghostly smile. "Vidhva hai hum... Bhagwan bhi maaf nahi karenge." He stepped closer, the air between them thick with unspoken promises and dangerous desires, his jaw tightening, eyes darkening with a madness only she seemed capable of awakening. "Jab mard pe daag lagta hai, uski kamai se dhul jaata hai. Magar aurat par jo daag lagta hai, woh uske marne ke baad bhi zinda rehta hai." His fingers twitched, aching to trace the curve of her neck, to feel the pulse beneath her fragile skin, to break the distance between madness and defiance. "Aap mere liye sirf kamzori nahi, junoon hai," he murmured, his voice rough, the words a dark promise. "Aur junoon ke raaste mein aane wale log sirf ek hi anjaam paate hain-maut." And in that stolen breath, where white met red, where restraint clash.
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