"Ahh, gosh... how did this place get decorated so lavishly so fast?" Nandini whispered, her eyes wide in amazement.
The garden, where she had walked Tommy an hour ago, looked unrecognizable. Twinkling fairy lights wrapped around the trees, their glow dancing on the white linen-covered tables. A grand stage gleamed under golden spotlights. Food stalls stood lined like small shacks from a five-star carnival. Everything smelled of fresh blooms, vanilla candles, and distant spices. It was magic.
Nandini blinked twice. An hour ago this was just the old apartment garden where she took her dog for early morning walks, its corners littered with dry leaves and an abandoned swing set creaking in the wind.
But now… now it looked like the banquet lawns of a five-star hotel.
"How\... How did this happen?" she murmured again, stunned.
"We all split the work this afternoon," Isha answered from behind her, flashing a bright smile.
"All? But… I didn't do anything," Nandini frowned.
Isha shrugged, smirking. "Well, I thought about asking you... but your landlady—Mrs. Meera Sharma—firmly said no. Said you'd been restless all night. That you barely sleep, toss and turn..."
At this, Nandini's gaze instinctively drifted to the far end of the garden. There stood Mrs. Meera herself, chatting animatedly with the other elderly ladies of the society, one hand holding her ever-present tea cup.
A bittersweet smile crept onto Nandini's lips. *She worries about me more than my own mother ever did...* the thought sliced softly through her chest.
A dull ache rose from the depths of her heart.
She could feel it—like quiet water rising inside her, reaching her eyes.
Whenever she had fallen sick as a child—whether it was a fever or a cough—her mother never sat beside her bed. Never stroked her hair. Never whispered comforting words.
"Stop pretending. You're not that weak. Work needs to be done," her mother would scold. Even with 102 degrees fever, Nandini had swept floors, washed clothes, ironed uniforms for her little brother.
Her little brother... Ten years younger. A pampered prince in their house. The boy who never lifted a finger, who never heard the sharp edge of their mother's voice.
Her younger sister was the quiet rebel—no fashion, no makeup, but stubborn as stone, with her own way of ruling the house.
But Nandini? The eldest daughter. The one who *had* to be strong. Who had to manage. Who had to bear.
When she was fifteen, she'd secretly taken up a part-time job at the local cafeteria. Even though the Gupta family prided itself on its *lawyer legacy*, her mother believed differently.
"A girl learns responsibility only when she knows the value of hard work and money," her mother had said. "Strength. Intelligence. Survival. That's what matters."
Never a word of kindness. Never softness.
Nandini blinked fast, trying to drive the mist from her eyes.
"What's wrong?" Isha's voice snapped her back. She felt a gentle squeeze on her arm.
Isha stood close, staring at her, brows knitted. "Hey... why do you look like you're about to cry?"
Nandini swallowed hard. *Don't cry. Not here. Not now.*
"Oh please!" Isha laughed, but softly. "If you wanna cry, cry later. You'll spoil all my hard work! Do you know how much effort I put into your makeup today? Two full hours of YouTube tutorials! I didn't even touch my own eyeliner properly!"
That startled a soft laugh out of Nandini.
"I swear! Your screen tone—your smooth skin—your body shape... God, you have no idea how perfect you are for experimenting makeup on!" Isha grinned, wagging a finger. "Next time I'm going to practice on my husband. Let him babble all day about my bad cooking... at least his face will be useful for contouring!"
This time, Nandini couldn't hold it in. She burst out laughing.
The shadow in her heart melted, at least for now.
Both of them giggled like old schoolgirls—carefree, wild, unburdened. The garden lights twinkled above them, as if sharing their secret joy.
"By the way," Isha leaned in, whispering like a conspirator, "you're changing that dull Kumud suit of yours. Now. I brought you something killer."
Before Nandini could protest, Isha grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the changing booth set up near the hedges. She pulled out a dress from her bag—a stunning pastel blue gown that shimmered softly even under the garden lights.
"No way! This is too much!" Nandini gasped.
"It's perfect for you. Trust me. You'll shut every mouth here when you walk out wearing this." Isha winked.
"Isha, this is too expensive—"
"Stop." Isha raised a hand. "No arguments. Consider this a gift. From one fashion goddess to another soon-to-be goddess."
Nandini laughed again, warmth blooming in her chest. For the first time in ages, she felt... light. As if someone cared. As if she mattered.
"I can't believe you made all this happen in a few hours," she whispered, looking around.
"Oh honey," Isha chuckled, "you underestimate the power of bored housewives with Pinterest boards and no kids at home."
Nandini grinned.
But behind her smile, the quiet ache stirred. Memories of cold winters spent alone, teenage afternoons in sweat and tears, washing dishes at the cafeteria, saving coins to buy a second-hand school bag while her friends flaunted new ones.
But maybe… tonight would be different.
Maybe, for once, she could feel like a princess in a fairy-tale garden.
*Maybe life had better plans for her after all.*
"Ready?" Isha asked, holding out the dress like an offering.
Nandini took a deep breath. "Ready."
And as the fairy lights shimmered above, and the faint hum of distant music filled the air, she felt something rare awaken inside her.
Hope.
And just like that... the past began to fade.
Tonight was hers.
A sudden hush fell over the garden as the soft clink of a microphone echoed in the air. A gentle breeze stirred the fairy lights wrapped around the trees, casting tiny golden sparkles on the assembled crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a firm, commanding voice announced. "Tonight, Bal Kishan Society welcomes a new member into the Runthla family—Ruhan Singh Chauhan. And to mark this special occasion, we have arranged this grand celebration."
The man speaking stood tall on the temporary stage erected in the garden—a man whose presence made even the chatter of restless teenagers and gossiping aunties fall silent.
Air Commander Suraj Singh Rawat.
A retired officer of the Indian Air Force. Fifteen years of decorated military service. A man known equally for his strict discipline and unexpected sweetness—a rare balance of steel and honey.
Children adored him. Teenagers feared him. Aunties respected him. And uncles dared not cross him.
Tonight, however, even his usual serious face held a faint, rare smile.
"Please gather near the red carpet," he instructed, gesturing towards the entryway. "A small musical performance will accompany the welcome."
At his signal, the musicians hidden behind the hedges began to play a soft instrumental melody. A blend of classical strings with modern electric guitar—fresh, crisp, and smooth as velvet.
The lights dimmed.
A quiet ripple of excitement moved through the crowd.
On either side of the red carpet, hidden fog machines hissed to life. Thin sheets of white mist curled low on the ground, covering the carpet in an ethereal glow. Lights flickered gently under the fog, creating the illusion of walking on clouds.
A collective breath was held.
From within the mist, a dark silhouette slowly emerged.
Women gasped softly. Men straightened instinctively. Teenagers stood on tiptoe. Even the children gaped, their mouths open in silent awe.
And then—he stepped out.
Ruhan Singh Chauhan.
Dressed in a tailored black and silver suit that hugged his lean, athletic frame, he moved like the lead model of a Milan fashion show—confidence in every line of his body, ease in every step. His hair was styled to effortless perfection—thick, slightly tousled, hinting at both discipline and rebellion.
On his wrist gleamed a sleek silver watch—minimalist, expensive, and designed for a man who noticed details.
But it wasn't just the clothes.
It was him.
His presence filled the garden like quiet thunder. Charisma without trying. The kind that made conversations die mid-sentence, and heads turn without command.
"Where has *he* been all this time?" Isha whispered, leaning close to Nandini, her eyes wide with barely-contained excitement.
"What do you mean?" Nandini replied flatly, her face unreadable.
"I mean," Isha grinned, "if he had arrived earlier, I would've made him my boyfriend. Hell, he's complete husband material. Look at him! Height, charm, killer walk... and that jawline... Ugh, my bad luck. I'm stuck with my boring husband who talks about insurance policies and hairfall oil all day."
Nandini gave a quiet snort but kept her gaze on the man walking down the carpet. Something about him… felt different. As if he didn't belong in this ordinary society, this simple garden, this world of familiar faces.
As if he'd stepped out from another life.
The murmurs around her confirmed she wasn't alone.
"Is he an actor?"
"No... someone said he's into music?"
"Really? He looks like a businessman..."
"Shhh... he's about to speak!"
On the small stage, Air Commander Suraj Singh Rawat stepped forward and handed Ruhan the microphone.
Ruhan accepted it with a polite nod. For a second, he scanned the crowd—those dark, thoughtful eyes pausing here and there—as if memorizing each face. When his gaze brushed over Nandini, she felt her stomach clench for a brief, strange moment.
And then he spoke.
"Good evening, everyone."
His voice.
Deep. Smooth. A low baritone that vibrated slightly in the chest. Strong without force. Confident without arrogance.
"I'm Ruhan Singh Chauhan. I've recently moved into the Runthla residence, and... I must admit, I didn't expect such a warm welcome. This is more than I could have asked for."
A soft wave of polite laughter swept the crowd.
"I work in remote creative music production," he continued, smiling lightly. "I design music for films, games, and digital media—from a small studio at home. So if you hear strange tunes late at night... that's probably me working on a deadline, not ghosts haunting the society."
The teenagers giggled.
The aunties exchanged amused glances.
Even Air Commander Rawat allowed a rare chuckle.
"But truly," Ruhan said, his tone dipping into sincerity, "I'm grateful to be welcomed into such a wonderful community. Thank you for having me."
The audience broke into warm applause.
Nandini found herself clapping too, almost unconsciously. Her eyes lingered on him as he stepped away from the mic.
"Musician, huh?" Isha mused beside her. "And he looks like that? God definitely plays favorites…"
"Control yourself," Nandini murmured, half-smiling.
"He's better than half the models I follow on Instagram. And he actually talks like a gentleman. Not like those self-obsessed pretty boys..."
"Stop it."
"Why? Tell me you're not even slightly impressed?" Isha challenged.
Nandini bit her lip.
She was.
But she wasn't about to admit it.
As the music picked up again, and the welcome performance resumed with a soft dance number, the guests relaxed. Conversations turned to excited gossip about the new neighbor.
"I heard he worked with big directors in Mumbai."
"Someone said he studied music abroad... London or New York?"
"No wife? No girlfriend? Still single? Hmm…"
The last line caught Nandini's ear.
Single?
She glanced back at the stage.
Ruhan stood talking quietly with Air Commander Rawat, a polite smile on his lips, his posture relaxed but sharp—as if years of self-control had molded him into this calm, untouchable figure.
But there was something else.
A shadow.
Behind the charm, the confidence, the practiced smiles... she could sense it.
Loneliness? Pain? Or maybe... secrets?
For a strange moment, their eyes met again—just for a heartbeat. His gaze flicked to her in the crowd.
And held.
A spark. A flicker of silent curiosity.
As if he recognized her too.
Then he looked away, as if nothing happened.
Nandini felt her breath catch.
"Uh-oh. Someone's hooked already," Isha teased, nudging her.
"Shut up," Nandini muttered, cheeks warming.
But deep down, a strange stirring had begun.
A quiet voice whispered in her heart:
This man is going to change something. In your life. Forever.
She didn't know how.
Not yet.
But the fog, the music, the red carpet walk—they were just the beginning.
The night was young.
And so were the possibilities.