Akaay was typing like he was trying to outrun the thought. Fingers flying over the keyboard, jaw clenched, laptop balanced on his knees like this was just another late-night work problem and notโฆ this.
โYou sure?โ he asked without looking up.
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.
"Let me get this straight," Danish's voice is sharp, his disbelief barely masked. "You want me to pretend to be in love with you?" Kiara tilts her head, the ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. "No, Malhotra. I want you to pretend you never stopped." For as long as Kiara Oberoi could remember, life had been a race she was never allowed to lose. And standing in her way at every turn? Danish Malhotra. Her biggest rival. Her greatest weakness. The boy who knew exactly how to ruin her. They spent their years locked in battle-academic rankings, debate championships, internships, and scholarships-neither willing to give the other an inch. They fought in front of the whole world. They fought when no one was watching. And somewhere in between all those fights, between the sharp words and long stares- they fell. It started with a project that forced them together. Forced them to see past the rivalry, past the competition, past the carefully built walls. Forced them to face the fact that they understood each other in ways no one else ever had. They fought for years-until one night, she gave him everything. And the next day? She destroyed him. "I could never love someone who doesn't even know his own origins." And then, she left. No warnings. No explanations. Just silence. Now, she's back. Same fire. Same hunger. Same boy she left behind-only now, he's colder, crueler, untouchable. And this time, they aren't just academic rivals. They're business enemies. And she needs him to fake date her. She isn't leaving without him this time. She says it's to win a war. He knows it's to win him back. But some fires never die- And this time, they might burn for real.
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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