Page 60 of ARIDHI: His Never-Ending Desire

AUTHOR'S POV

The dim glow of a single overhead bulb flickered in the basement, casting long, eerie shadows against the damp concrete walls.

A faint hum of static filled the silence, an old radio struggling to grasp a distant frequency.

The air was thick, stale with the scent of damp earth and something else, something almost electric.

A tall figure stood motionless in the center of the room, his silhouette sharp against the cluttered walls.

The walls were not bare. They were adorned with photographs, thousands of them.

And all of them belonged to one person.

Aridhi Agarwal.

The epitome of beauty with brains.

Her presence was undeniable, even in mere images.

Her eyes held an intelligence that could cut through deception, and her voice—

Ah, her voice.

He could still hear it, crisp yet smooth, like the first drop of rain on sun-scorched earth.

It had captured him long before he ever laid eyes on her.

He was young, too young, when he first heard her speak, or more likely, sing.

The moment her words reached his ears, they did something irreversible to him.

They carved a place for her in his mind, a place where she would remain, untouched, unchallenged.

A place that grew into something more.

Something dangerous.

Fingers curled into fists at his sides, the man took a slow step forward, his eyes tracing over the images on the wall.

Aridhi in her school uniform, deep in thoughts while playing chess.

Aridhi in a university hallway, engrossed in a conversation with her friends.

Aridhi at a café, sipping coffee.

Aridhi walking alone at dusk, unaware of the gaze that followed her every step.

She was not his target.

She was his obsession.

He had spent years watching from the shadows, learning her patterns, her habits.

Every move she made was a script he had memorized.

But that was not enough.

Watching was no longer enough.

He needed more.

Reaching out, his fingers grazed the edge of one particular photograph. A recent one.

Aridhi smirking while sitting behind the steering wheel of her sports car, ready to drift any moment.

The corner of his lips twitched.

He had made a promise to himself all those years ago. He would stay close. He would never let her out of his sight.

And soon, very soon, he wouldn’t have to pretend anymore.

The time had come to step into the light. And make her see him. To make her his.

By choice.

Or by force.

Probably both.

?

If nerves had a sound, mine would’ve been a full marching band by now.

If someone told me I’d be nervously adjusting my shirt collar to propose for a marriage that was already arranged, I would’ve laughed and asked them to get a better sense of irony.

But here I was, heart thumping like I was about to take a final exam I hadn’t studied for, standing in front of her parents.

In the middle of my own living room, I'm going to ask permission to marry the girl I was technically already promised to.

It felt stupidly romantic. And also incredibly terrifying. But I have to do it for my Ardhangini.

I wasn’t sure what made me more anxious.

The fact that I was about to ask her parents for permission to marry her or the fact that she didn’t even know I am planning this behind her back.

However, that is necessary.

I didn’t want this to feel like something being decided over tea and snacks behind closed doors.

I wanted it to be personal. Honest. Something I chose, not something I was handed.

“You good?” Dhruv leaned in and whispered, one brow raised.

“Do I look good?” I whispered back.

He looked at me like he was trying not to laugh, “You look like you’re going to puke.”

Great.

“Relax, Romeo,” He stifled a grin, “You’re not confessing about a crime, but simply for permission.”

“Shut up.” I muttered, straightening my back and glancing toward the cluster of family that had gathered around.

Her family had come over under the pretense of a casual dinner.

Aridhi wasn’t even here, too busy with her office work, which was exactly why this moment mattered.

Across from me, her parents were seated with quiet curiosity.

Her dad, upright and dignified as always, had the calm but watchful eyes of someone who knew exactly what was going on.

Her mom had that warm look, half-smile, half-speculation, that mothers get when they already suspect what’s about to happen.

On the other hand, my parents were seated to the left.

Mom was already beaming like I’d won an Olympic medal for love.

Dad looked proud, sipping his tea like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact dramatic display.

Manish bhaiya leaned against the sofa, arms crossed, smirking like he was ready to heckle me.

Right, he was in the same situation as me before.

Next to him, Ridhima bhabhi sat, both of them were unreasonably entertained by my current state.

Besides them, Dhruv was doing nothing to help. Typical.

Rishika looked way too emotionally invested, clasping her hands like she was about to cry.

Of course she was already shipping this whole thing like it was a K-drama.

Vinayak bhaiya looked suspiciously overprotective, while Abhir sat lazily beside his mother and had popcorn. Actual popcorn.

“This is gonna be dramatic.” Abhir directed his words to Nandini, who nodded like she had placed bets on whether I’d stutter.

Ugh, hold yourself properly, Ruvit.

I stepped forward. Cleared my throat. Everyone looked at me.

“So, um…” I began, voice cracking ever so slightly. Dhruv chuckled under his breath. I kicked him.

“I know this sounds a little redundant, given the fact that both our families have already started planning half the wedding menu, but—”

“Relax. Take it slow.” Bhabhi said helpfully which earned her thanks from me.

I started, again, turning to her parents, “Mr. and Mrs. Agarwal, I know this marriage is already set. And I know that, technically, I don’t have to do this. But I want to.”

Her dad raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. Her mom sat up straighter.

“I want to marry your daughter,” I declared, hesitation leaving my body.

“Not just because our families think it’s a good match. Not because she fits into my life so perfectly, which she does, but because I am obsessed. Obsessed to dedicate all of my lives to her. Because your daughter, she isn’t just a name on a family agreement. She’s—”

I paused, heart in my throat, “She’s everything. Everything to me.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of Aarti aunty softly inhaling like she was about to cry.

I took a deep breath, “I know she hasn’t agreed, because she hasn’t been asked yet. That’s why I’m here. To ask you first. To ask for your permission to let me propose to her officially.”

A little “aww” broke out from somewhere—probably Mom.

“So even though I know we’ve got your blessing by tradition, I still want to ask for it properly.” I took a long breath, relaxing my nerves.

“May I have your permission to marry your daughter? Not as part of an arrangement, but because I love her. And because if she says yes, I want to be the kind of man who earned that chance, not someone who just inherited it.”

There was silence when Dhruv loudly stated, “I give my permission.”

Everyone laughed but it got cut off shortly.

Her dad finally leaned forward, “You’re aware I might say no?”

Abhir muttered, grumbling as he ate his popcorn, “Here we go.”

I nodded, “She is your daughter and you can decide for her on whatever you want to. But, I, Ruvit Rathore, want to have this golden privilege to be the part of your daughter, to be the part of her family.”

There was a long pause. Then her mom’s eyes crinkled with a soft smile, and her dad gave me a slow, approving nod.

Just to be very well cleared, I added, “Whenever I look at her, I think, yeah, that’s it. That’s home.”

There was silence. Soft, charged silence before everyone erupted in happiness.

Relief hit me like a wave, making my legs feel lighter. I felt my mom’s hand gently squeeze my shoulder behind me.

I was too lost in the moment I didn't even notice when she walked behind me.

Her dad smiled at me, standing beside me, “Well, if you're this serious even after the deal’s done, then yes. You have my permission. Officially.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Just then, there was movement near the doorway.

A voice floated in from the hallway.

Her voice, “You guys better not be talking about me behind my back.”

I froze. Everyone turned at once, some smiling guiltily, some pretending they hadn’t heard her.

She walked in, raising an eyebrow, clearly sensing the tension, “What’s going on?”

I looked at her, completely unaware, completely her, and smiled.

“Nothing,” I said, trying to sound casual, “Just getting to know your parents a little better.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, “Alright.” But she let it go. For now.

And I knew when the time came to actually ask her, face to face, I’d be ready.

?

There’s a certain kind of ache that comes with silence.

The kind that seeps in when the room is too still, when the lights are too dim, and when you know—by this time tomorrow—you’ll be somewhere else.

Somewhere miles away from the person you’re not supposed to be thinking about at this very moment.

And yet, all I could think of was him.

Ruvit Rathore.

My fiancé.

The man I wasn’t supposed to see again until the date our families decide to.

Because, apparently, traditions decided that love is needed to be paused until rituals permitted otherwise.

But traditions hadn’t accounted for a boy like him.

And definitely not for a girl like me who was far too tempted.

I was all packed for Mumbai. My home. The place where I was born. The place my family lives.

And a million logistical meetings for the new business project I’d be building there—it was all waiting for me.

But he wouldn’t be there. And I think that’s what made the night feel heavier than usual.

Until his message popped up.

One last crime before you become officially mine?

That was it.

I stared at the screen longer than I should’ve, my pulse racing like I’d never snuck out of the house before.

Which I hadn’t, really. Not like this.

Not to meet the man I was about to marry. Secretly. Illegally. Deliciously.

Picking up the matching bracelet he gave me—which I think I should keep wearing from now on, I wore a simple baggy outfit.

?

By the time I reached the location he sent—a quiet, obscure industrial shed near the Delhi outskirts—I was both terrified and absurdly intrigued.

The place looked abandoned. But the inside? It was transformed.

Rows of warm lanterns floated above, lighting the otherwise dark space in a golden haze.

In the center of the shed, there was a huge canvas sheet laid across the floor, buckets of colors placed beside it—like a war zone set for two.

And off to the side, a projector flickered silently against one of the metal walls.

I blinked, “What...is this?”

“Welcome to our illegal pre-wedding celebration.” Came his voice behind me. Warm. Sinful. Dangerous in all the best ways.

I turned, my breath catching for more than one reason.

He wore a plain black shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy, that stupidly gorgeous smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

And those eyes—hungry, familiar, and annoyingly cocky.

If that wasn't enough, he wore that matching bracelet too.

“Are we painting the floor?” I asked, raising a brow.

He smirked, “We’re painting us, Jaan. Floor’s just collateral damage.”

“You know this counts as breaking rules, right? Our families—”

“Rules are meant to be broken, Ardhangini.” He cut in, stepping closer, “They made the mistake of telling me not to see you. Naturally, I had to do the opposite.”

“And what exactly is your plan? Throw paint at each other like five-year-olds before you try to kiss me into forgetting I’m flying out tomorrow?”

He tilted his head, eyes twinkling with something darker, “I was going to skip straight to the kissing part, actually.”

I scoffed, “You would.”

But the second I turned to step toward the canvas, a splash of cold blue smacked against my back.

I gasped, “You did not just—”

“Oh, but I did.”

Revenge came quick. Red. Directly on his face. And within seconds, we were knee-deep in chaotic, messy color war.

Paint smeared on our clothes but never on our faces—thank fuck for that.

Laughter echoed off tin walls.

Clothes clung tighter with every spill.

From his teasing fingers tracing paint along my collarbone to my nails grazing his chest, the atmosphere shifted.

Thickened.

He pinned me to the wall, paint smudging between us, our breaths uneven and far too synchronized.

His fingers brushed against my jaw, paint-streaked and gentle, “You always look like you’re mine.”

“That I am.” I whispered.

“God help me then.”

His lips hovered above mine, “You smell like roses and rebellion.”

“And you smell like poor decisions and very good cologne.”

“Perfect.” He murmured before finally closing the distance.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t polite.

It was the kind of kiss that promised disaster and love and things that couldn’t be undone.

His hands curled around my waist, pulling me closer like he needed me molded to him.

My fingers tangled in his hair as if I’d been waiting to do this for years. The wall was cold. His body was not.

We stayed like that longer than we should’ve—hearts racing, paint drying between tangled limbs.

When we finally pulled apart, breathless and reckless, I rested my forehead against his.

“This isn’t fair,” I whispered, “I am leaving tomorrow as if we haven’t already started living this marriage.”

He exhaled, wrapping an arm around my shoulder as we sank to the canvas, legs tangled.

“Life won’t wait for traditions to catch up, Aridhi. We already belong to each other. The ceremonies are just decorations.”

I looked up at the flickering projector screen to avoid his intense gaze acting on my flushing cheeks.

It had begun playing a silent reel—videos of our childhoods stitched together, the moments, the banter and the look of love in his eyes.

Some stolen clips of us laughing at Ridhima’s wedding started playing, one of me stealing fries from his plate and him letting me.

“You made that?” I asked, blinking through emotion I hadn’t expected.

He nodded, “I wanted you to carry us to Mumbai.”

“Cheesy.” I muttered.

“Romantic.” He corrected.

“Desperate.”

He smirked again, “Hopelessly.”

I leaned into him, eyes slipping shut, “We’ll survive this distance, right?”

His voice was steady, but something raw crept beneath, a sinful edge lifting up.

“I’d fight a thousand rituals just to keep you close. But if all I get for now are secret nights and goodbye kisses, I’ll take them. As long as I know there’s a ‘forever’ waiting at the end of this chaos.”

And there it was.

The kind of love that didn’t need to be loud.

Just real.

Just ours.

?

That night, I didn’t leave just with packed bags and spreadsheets.

I left with paint still in my hair, his fingerprints etched on my skin, and a promise I could feel all the way to my soul.

A promise that we were already writing our story.

Even before the wedding vows.

Even before the world permitted it.