Chaaya POV
four months slipped past me like petals in river water—quiet, fast, and impossible to grasp.
Every dawn began with the shop's shutters lifting, and every night ended with me collapsing beside sketches and half-finished floral structures. The Khan estate became a second world I moved in and out of, a place where money dripped from ceilings and shadows carried authority.
By the end of those two months, the main hall was finally ready for execution—frames built, bases set, rare flowers ordered, lighting teams scheduled.
And today…
Today was the day everything would start coming alive.
The Hall – Early Morning
The estate was a strange kind of chaos that morning—quiet, but alive.
When I walked into the main hall with boxes of ribbons and fresh shears, the early sunlight spilled across the marble, drawing long, golden shadows that made the place feel half-asleep.
Well… not entirely asleep anymore.
Workers had already filled the hall—unloading crates of flowers, raising wooden structures, stripping open bundles of imported orchids. There was clatter, rustle, movement everywhere, but underneath it all pulsed a sense of urgency.
I tied my dupatta at my waist, rolled up my sleeves, and stepped into the rhythm like slipping into a second skin.
"Careful with that structure—support the right side first."
"Shift the arch two inches forward. It needs to align with the main doorway."
"No, no, the vines go after the silk drapes—not before."
I didn't have to raise my voice.
Authority isn't always loud; sometimes it's simply steady.
They listened, and the chaos softened into coordination.
Slowly, deliberately, the hall began transforming—stroke by stroke, flower by flower—into the spectacle Sara madam demanded and I was expected to create.
Aftaab pov
The morning breeze pushed through the tall windows when I woke, stirring the curtains like ghosts. "Another day. Another reminder of the two months I had before the inevitable — a marriage I can't avoid, bound by the Khan rule: a wife, or no claim to what is mine.
And the bride of a Khan had to be 'pure.' Untouched. Untarnished. Any whisper of an affair, a secret lover, even a rumour — and the girl would be replaced without hesitation.
That rule worked in my favour.
If I exposed her now, before the engagement, the bride would be replaced with other of there choice — and I would still be trapped.
So I watched. Quietly. Patiently.
Waiting for the right moment.
Not to stop the marriage — but to choose when it would fall apart, in a way that served me, not them."
On my way through the estate, I found my path blocked.
A girl stood there, surrounded by flowers and silk, her back straight as she instructed the workers without raising her voice. She sensed me before turning — startled and lowered her eyes.
"Who are you? I haven't seen you here before." My tone was flat, not unkind, but not inviting.
She didn't flinch at my voice like most people did.
"I'm Chaaya," she said simply, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm the florist hired to decorate your engagement venue along with your wedding planner."
Her voice was soft, but it carried a steadiness I didn't expect from someone standing in the middle of my home like she belonged. My gaze flicked to the workers around her — no one dared interrupt us.
I stepped closer, just enough to watch the faint flicker of caution in her eyes.
"Floral arrangements?" I echoed, my tone almost mocking. "And who approved you?"
She didn't falter. "Your fiancée, sir. She wanted the hall to feel... splendid."
For a moment, I just looked at her, then at the sea of flowers and silk around us. My jaw tightened.
Of course. The girl I was supposed to marry — more invested in flaunting her power and wealth that comes through this marriage.
I almost laughed, but it slipped out as a dry sneer instead.
"wonderful," I muttered under my breath. "Looks like she's sparing no expense. Carry on with your work."
Chaaya didn't react, simply nodded and turned back to the workers, her voice low as she gave another instruction. Calm. Collected.
But my eyes lingered on her for a second longer than necessary, not on the flowers — on the way she's dealing with her work in this territory.
I walked on without another word. But as I left the hall, my thoughts lingered — not on the flowers, or the fiancée behind them.
On the girl who didn't flinch.