It was evening.
A black sports car raced along a narrow hill road, cutting through the darkness at high speed.
Dense fog surrounded the area. Visibility barely extended a few steps ahead, yet the car's speed never faltered. It felt as though either a highly skilled driver—or a complete fool—sat behind the wheel, someone with no concern for their own life.
Inside the car, an old Hindi song played at medium volume.
From the passenger seat, a child asked in a lisping voice,
"Uncle… can I turn the volume up a little more?"
The man driving smiled.
"Of course. Why even ask?"
The child immediately leaned forward and increased the volume.
The music system played Rimjhim Gire Sawan.
Humming along in his lisping voice, the child swayed happily. He was adorable—one look at him was enough to make anyone fall in love.
The man laughed softly.
"Your taste in music is so old-fashioned. Do you even understand these songs?"
The child replied innocently,
"Not completely… but I'm trying to understand. And anyway, I don't listen to songs to understand them."
The man asked with interest,
"Then why do you listen to them? Just for the tune? But even the tune is old."
The child nodded his small head earnestly.
"Yes, the tune is old… but I like how it feels. And the best part is—Mom likes these songs. That's why I like them too."
Hearing this, the man affectionately ruffled the child's hair and smiled faintly.
The car was about to exit the hill road when, suddenly, it jolted violently.
The car plunged into the ravine.
A truck had rammed into them.
After the deafening crash, silence spread everywhere—a terrifying, unnatural silence.
Moments later, a man stepped out of the truck hidden by the fog and walked toward the ravine.
He wore a red hoodie, his face concealed beneath the hood.
Taking a drag from his cigarette, he peered down into the ravine where the car had fallen.
Within seconds, a massive explosion erupted deep below, the smoke blending into the fog.
The man tossed the half-burnt cigarette into the ravine, whistled softly, and walked away.
Netherlands,
Amsterdam,
It was October.
Dark clouds hovered in the sky, moisture thick in the air. Rain seemed imminent.
Suddenly, a bicycle passed through a deserted street and headed toward the forest.
Golden-orange leaves covered the canals lining the area. The atmosphere was quiet—beautifully serene.
Riding alongside the canal was a girl on a bicycle.
A baseball cap concealed her face.
She stopped outside a cemetery and got off her bicycle.
In the basket lay a bouquet of white tulips.
She picked it up and walked toward the cemetery.
The area was completely deserted.
Inside the cemetery stood a single memorial—large, strange, and solitary.
The girl approached it.
A wilted bouquet of white tulips already rested there.
She removed it and placed her fresh bouquet in its place.
The baseball cap still hid her face; only her naturally pink lips were visible.
She stood silently, staring at the memorial.
Moments later, rain began to fall—but it didn't affect her. She stood motionless, like a statue.
The rain intensified.
Suddenly, someone approached from behind and held an umbrella over her head.
She glanced at the man beside her.
Tall, dressed in a long black coat, he looked strikingly handsome.
In a cold voice, she said,
"Leave."
The man spoke softly,
"Raya…"
She cut him off.
"Go."
He took a deep breath and placed the tulip bouquet he carried on the memorial.
Raya said nothing.
"It's raining heavily," he said quietly. "At least take the umbrella."
Raya turned toward him, stared for a moment, then walked away.
The man clenched his fists but said nothing.
Raya didn't even take her bicycle. She walked away on foot.
Standing in the cemetery, the man dialed a number.
After a few rings, a lazy voice answered,
"Adrian, why are you calling so early? Don't you sleep?"
Watching Raya's retreating figure, Adrian said,
"Come pick Raya up."
There was silence on the other end—then the call disconnected.
On the deserted road, Raya walked alone when a convoy of black cars stopped beside her.
Rain poured harder.
A tall man, about six and a half feet, stepped out with an umbrella and hurried toward her.
He wore a black business suit and looked impressive.
"Boss," he said anxiously, "why didn't you tell me you were going to the cemetery? I would have come with you."
Raya gave no reply and walked toward the car.
Within moments, the convoy sped away.
Inside the car, Raya stared blankly out the window when her phone rang.
It rang once, disconnected, then rang again.
Lost in thought, she seemed unaware of it.
The driver said,
"Boss, it's your father calling."
She snapped back to attention. It was his third call.
She answered.
"Your wedding is the day after tomorrow," her father said sternly. "I've booked your ticket. The flight is in an hour. Reach here by tonight."
"Alright," Raya replied softly.
He asked nothing else—neither about her well-being nor her consent.
A tense silence followed before both disconnected the call at the same time.
It was impossible to tell who hung up first.
Placing her phone aside, Raya said,
"I'm going to India today."
The driver asked,
"Are you really getting married?"
"Not a marriage," she replied calmly. "A marriage for appearances."
He said nothing more.
Half an hour later, the convoy entered a fog-covered forest—beautiful, yet unsettling.
Soon, they reached a luxurious villa nestled deep within the woods.
In the front yard stood a white horse and a black horse, enhancing its classic elegance.
Raya stepped inside.
Late at night, Raya exited Delhi Airport.
Wearing a loose black hoodie and denim jeans, she looked striking—her face still hidden beneath a baseball cap.
She scanned the area.
A young man stood holding a placard with her name.
She walked toward him.
She carried only a small piece of luggage.
"Are you Raya Malhotra?" he asked hesitantly.
She nodded.
"Your face—" he began.
She silently removed her hood, then her cap.
Her beauty drew stunned glances from passersby.
Even the young man froze.
She looked divine—her charm beyond earthly standards.
"Let's go," she said.
He nodded quickly.
Across the road stood an old, worn-out car.
Seeing it, the boy felt embarrassed.
"I'm sorry," he explained awkwardly. "All the other cars were busy with wedding preparations."
"It's fine," Raya replied.
As he struggled to close the trunk, his thoughts churned bitterly.
Why does everyone treat Raya di so badly?
They drove on.
"I'm Shubham," he said gently. "Your younger brother. If you need anything—just tell me."
"Okay, thank you," Raya replied softly.
Soon, Malhotra Palace appeared.
After twenty years, Raya had returned to Delhi.
The palace buzzed with wedding preparations.
Entering through the back door, a woman's mocking voice echoed,
"Raya Malhotra is only the eldest daughter by name. Ridhima is the real one. Why is Raya even marrying into the Raghuvanshi family?"
Shubham clenched his fists..