Chapter 2: "Meet the Black Sheep"
The scent of sandalwood and something spicy—cardamom, maybe—drifted through the open window of Aarohi's assigned room. The "blue room," as Riya had called it, was more of a deep turquoise, its walls adorned with intricate frescoes of peacocks and lotus flowers. A four-poster bed draped in sheer fabric dominated the space, looking like something out of a period drama. Aarohi dropped her bags onto the embroidered chaise lounge and sighed.
Her laptop was beyond repair. She had already checked. Twice.
A rhythmic thumping sound from the next room interrupted her sulking. Thump. Thump. Thum-thum-thump. Then, the unmistakable twang of a sitar string being tuned.
Oh, right. Kabir. The "hot single sitar player" Riya had so casually mentioned.
The music grew louder, more confident—a complicated raga that wove through the air like smoke. Against her better judgment, Aarohi stepped onto the narrow balcony that connected her room to the one next door.
Bad idea.
Because there he was. Kabir Rathore. Shirtless, cross-legged on a woven mat, his hands dancing over the strings of his sitar with casual mastery. Sweat glistened on his shoulders, and the low sunlight gilded the sharp lines of his jaw. He was annoyingly good-looking, with tousled dark hair and an easy, amused tilt to his mouth, like he was in on some private joke the rest of the world hadn't heard yet.
And then he opened his eyes and saw her staring.
"Ah," he said, not missing a note. "You must be the famous laptop martyr."
Aarohi stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"Riya told me about your run-in with Gajendra. Tragic. I'd offer condolences, but, well—he did warn you."
"Warn me?"
Kabir plucked a final, dramatic note. "You walked in looking like you were seconds away from checking your email. Gajendra has a sixth sense for corporate types. He considers them a threat to the haveli's peace."
She narrowed her eyes. "That bird attacked me."
"He's territorial." Kabir shrugged. "We all have our flaws."
Before she could fire back, the door to his room burst open, and a tiny, white-haired hurricane swept in.
Dadi Ji.
Kabir instantly sat up straighter, though his smirk didn't fade. "Dadi, this is Aarohi. Aarohi, my grandmother."
Dadi Ji's sharp gaze raked over her, taking in everything from her sensible ponytail to her travel-wrinkled kurti. "Joshi family? Riya's cousin?"
Aarohi nodded.
"Good, good." Then, without missing a beat, she whacked Kabir's bare shoulder with the rolled-up newspaper she was holding. "And you! Still without a shirt? Still without a wife?"
Kabir winced but didn't even attempt to cover himself. "Dadi, I'm working—"
"Working on becoming more useless," Dadi Ji huffed. She turned to Aarohi conspiratorially.
"This one, I swear. Thirty years old, no stable job, no marriage, just running around playing music and making my blood pressure rise."
Aarohi bit back a laugh.
Kabir sighed. "Dadi, please—"
"No. No more excuses." Dadi Ji shook the newspaper at him like a weapon. "You have until the end of this wedding season. Find a girl. Get serious. Or I'm selling this haveli to a hotel chain and moving to Goa."
A stunned silence followed. Even Kabir looked thrown, his fingers freezing against the sitar strings.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me." Dadi Ji folded her arms. Then, with one last pointed look at Aarohi—one that sent a prickle of unease down her spine—she marched out the way she came.
The moment the door shut, Kabir turned to her with a slow, considering look.
"...You're here for the whole wedding week, right?"
Aarohi instantly regretted stepping onto that balcony.
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As Kabir's grin widened, Aarohi glimpsed the dangerous spark of an idea in his eyes—and suddenly, she missed the peacock. At least birds were predictable.
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