Ethereal like Moonlight

The atmosphere in the office was thick with tension.

Ranvijay sat behind his large mahogany desk, but the air around him was stormy—his fingers clenched into fists on top of a file he hadn't read in the last ten minutes. His dark eyes were unfocused, not on the numbers or deals laid out before him but on the trembling figure of Myra, the way she clutched herself last night, the way she hadn't spoken a single word but her silence had screamed louder than anything ever could.

His jaw clenched harder. That look on her face—it gutted him.

He had always been patient, always calculating. But this… this wasn't something he could ignore or tolerate. His queen had suffered in silence for too long, and Niyati's presence was like poison in the palace.

He stood up abruptly, pushing back the heavy leather chair as his voice rang out, cold and commanding.

"Call Vikrant," he ordered his assistant.

Within minutes, one of his most trusted bodyguards stood in front of him.

"I want her gone," Ranvijay said, his voice low and icy.

"Sir?" Vikrant asked, though the fury simmering in Ranvijay's tone made it obvious who he meant.

"Niyati. I don't care where she goes, but not a second longer under that roof. I want her out. Right now."

Vikrant nodded, already reaching for his comms.

But Ranvijay wasn't finished.

"Make sure she knows it's because of what she did to Myra," he said, stepping closer, his eyes glowing with rage. "Let her carry that shame when she walks out."

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and sat down again, but not before slamming the drawer shut. The drawer where Myra's anklet had been kept, safely stored after the chaos of last night.

He had replayed it all in his head—her panic, her shaking hands, her desperate attempt to act unaffected in the kitchen, the way she clutched broken glass… and the way she finally melted into his arms.

It broke something inside him, knowing how deeply those childhood scars still haunted her.

He wasn't just angry. He was wrecked.

No one—no one—would hurt her again. Not even someone from her past. Especially not her past.

He looked out the window, eyes dark as the clouds forming above the skyline.

He whispered to himself, "She's mine to protect. Mine to keep safe. Even from her own demons."

Niyati's laughter echoed through the hallway as she sat on the velvet settee, flipping through a magazine like she owned the place. A smug smirk played on her lips, still believing she had left a mark of discomfort in Myra's mind that morning. Her confidence inflated as she recalled Ranvijay's silence—surely it was a sign of shifting interest.

But the sound of heavy boots approaching made her look up.

Four bodyguards entered. Leading them was Vikrant, his expression unreadable, though his presence was enough to make anyone nervous.

She blinked, uncertain. "Is something wrong?" she asked, sitting straighter.

Vikrant didn't answer immediately. He just motioned to one of the men, who placed her suitcase—already packed—beside her feet.

Her smile faltered. "What… what's this?"

"You're leaving, Miss Niyati," Vikrant said flatly.

Her eyes widened. "Excuse me? Who said that?"

"Rajkumar ." Vikrant's voice was calm but absolute. "He wants you out. Immediately."

"What?" Niyati stood up, her tone shrill now. "This is ridiculous! I'm here to visit my sister!"

"Your presence is no longer welcome," Vikrant said. "And let me be clear—this is because of what happened to Myra last night. He knows everything."

That name.

That fragile girl.

Niyati's nostrils flared. "So she ran to him with her crocodile tears?"

Niyati's mouth opened but nothing came out.

"And one more thing," he added, stepping closer. "Next time you think of messing with Rajkumari, remember this—he doesn't forgive."

Her smirk was long gone now. Her face paled as the weight of it all hit her.

She had miscalculated—gravely.

The man she had tried to toy with didn't even bother to look her way, and yet, with a single command, he had ended her little game.

Wordlessly, and with a final look of disbelief, Niyati turned and walked out of the palace she had tried to stain.

And as the heavy doors shut behind her, not a single soul looked back.

Evening hues melted into the palace walls, casting long shadows as laughter echoed near the grand entrance. Rajeshwari, Dadi Sa, Anika, and Shiv were dressed for dinner out—Anika in a chic jumpsuit, Shiv teasing her playfully, Rajeshwari calm and graceful as ever, and Dadi Sa already complaining about the menu of the restaurant before even leaving.

"Myra beta," Rajeshwari called, adjusting her pearl earrings. "Won't you come with us?"

Myra, standing quietly by the staircase in a soft cotton kurta, smiled politely and shook her head. "I'm a little tired. I think I'll stay back tonight."

Anika narrowed her eyes slightly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Myra reassured. "Just want some time to myself."

Shiv gave her a friendly smile. "Call if you change your mind."

They left with chatter and warmth, but as the doors closed, silence draped over the palace.

Myra walked slowly to the garden. The moonlight gently touched the petals, and the breeze whispered through the leaves. But her thoughts were elsewhere—on Ranvijay.

He hadn't come home yet. And she could sense it… he was stressed. Something had been building within him. Since morning, he hadn't called. And after the scene with Niyati, she wondered if he was overwhelmed.

---

Meanwhile, in his office…

The clock ticked past 9:30 PM.

Ranvijay sat behind his desk, his head pressed against his knuckles. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his tie lay discarded on the table. Files surrounded him, phone blinking with unanswered messages.

But his mind wasn't on the contracts.

It was on her. Myra.

The way she trembled last night. The way she didn't speak, just held on to him. And the way his blood boiled when he found her curled up, terrified—all because of someone he let in, someone who had hurt her before.

He had kept calm at the breakfast table. Let Niyati make a fool of herself. Let others speak.

But the moment he got into his car, he gave the order.

"Throw her out. I don't want her in this house again. Ever. If she resists, call me. I'll handle it myself."

He didn't regret it. Not one bit.

Ranvijay leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes lost in thought.

"You look like a dream," he had said last night. But even dreams could break if he didn't protect her right.

And tonight, all he wanted… was to go home to her.

The palace was unusually quiet.

As Ranvijay stepped in through the grand doors of the royal estate, the silence wrapped around him like a thick fog. His brows drew together. It was rare to find the mansion this still, this lifeless. The chandelier that usually cast golden prisms across the vast marble floor was off. The walls, often alive with gentle laughter or footsteps, now echoed nothing but his own.

He rubbed his temples, exhaustion pressing into his skull. The day had been long and merciless. Meetings stacked on top of one another. Files. Calls. Decisions. And all the while, his mind drifted to one person—the girl who haunted his thoughts more than he wanted to admit.

He turned to one of the staff members who approached cautiously.

"Where is everyone?" he asked, voice low but edged with fatigue.

"Rajmata, Dadi Sa, Anika Madam, and Shiv Sir went out for dinner, Sir. Myra Ma'am said she wished to stay back," the staff member replied.

Ranvijay nodded once. No more questions. He dismissed the man with a wave of his hand and headed to the living room. The soft creak of the old leather sofa accompanied his movement as he sank into it, undoing the top button of his shirt with a sigh. The breeze that came through the half-open glass doors kissed his face with a cooling touch, a contrast to the fire brewing in his mind.

He leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

And then...

A sound.

Soft. Ethereal.

Delicate as the caress of a dream.

Music.

His eyes snapped open.

It wasn't from any speaker. No instrumental arrangement. It was raw. Human.

A voice.

"Mohe rang do laal…"

Faint. Echoing. Like someone had opened a secret door to a forgotten memory. He rose, slowly, curiosity tugging at his every step. His feet padded across the marble floor, carrying him toward the source.

Down the corridor, past the carved wooden doors, to the central courtyard—his mother's favorite space. It was surrounded by ancient pillars, and the scent of jasmine lingered like perfume in the air.

And that's when he saw her.

Myra.

She didn't notice him at first. She stood barefoot in the center of the courtyard, wrapped in a crimson dupatta that shimmered with tiny mirrors. Her silhouette bathed in moonlight was something from another world—not the shy girl he'd married. Not the one who stammered and avoided his gaze.

This Myra was poetry in motion.

She moved as if the wind obeyed her. Each gesture of her hands painted something invisible in the air. Her fingers curled and unfurled with grace, her arms tracing wide circles around her as her ankles sang with each step.

Jhan jhan.

The sound of her anklets. The very sound he had claimed.

Ranvijay watched, mesmerized.

Her eyes were closed, head tilted back, her expression soft and open—a look he had never seen on her face before. Vulnerable. Unburdened.

The voice continued, trembling slightly but filled with something sacred.

Mohe rang do laal, nand ke laal..."

She wasn't performing. She wasn't entertaining. She was releasing.

Releasing pain.

Fear.

Memories.

The courtyard watched with him, its vines still, as though the earth itself paused to listen.

Ranvijay took a step forward. Then another. The moonlight flickered across his sharp features, catching the storm in his eyes.

She turned in a slow pirouette, and the red fabric of her kurta fanned out like a flame.

She spun.

Myra's movements were fluid, unchained—wildly graceful. The red dupatta wrapped around her fluttered like a flame in the moonlight as she turned and turned, lost in her own world. The soft hum of "Mohe Rang Do Laal" still echoed from the nearby speaker, but it wasn't the music that drove her—it was something deeper. Something aching and alive inside her.

She didn't know he was there. She didn't care.

For once, she wasn't Myra—the girl with stitched lips, the trembling heart, or the hidden bruises of fear and silence.

She was just… a woman. A dream. A storm made of silk and stardust.

But the moment shattered.

Her foot slipped.

The spin faltered.

She let out a tiny gasp as gravity pulled her down—and before she could meet the cold marble, strong arms caught her mid-fall.

Time stilled.

She looked up—blinking in breathless disbelief.

Ranvijay.

He was there.

His arms were wrapped around her tightly, firmly, like the world had tilted and he was the only anchor keeping her grounded. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, matching his own sharp breaths. Their faces were inches apart. Her soft, startled eyes met the fire in his.

And in that second, nothing else existed.

Not the palace, not the silence, not the shadows.

Only them.

Her hands rested on his chest, and his arms around her waist grew tighter, protective, possessive, reverent. The flickering light from the courtyard lanterns painted their silhouettes in soft gold.

He couldn't speak—not yet.

Because how could words ever capture the storm inside him?

How could language express the way his heart was pounding so hard it hurt?

She looked like a vision from a dream he never dared to ask for. Her lips parted slightly, breath trembling. Her eyes sparkled with unshed emotions and startled vulnerability.

Ranvijay's voice finally broke through, low and husky.

His lips brushed near her ear as he whispered, "Do you even know what you do to me?"

She swallowed hard, stunned. "Y-You said you'll be late…" she stammered.

His gaze flickered over her face—eyes ablaze, voice barely a whisper as he replied, "I'll thank everything in this cursed, blessed universe that brought me here in time. If I would've missed this…" His jaw clenched, his arms tightening around her. "If I would've missed you like this, I swear I would've carried that regret to my grave."

Myra blinked, stunned, lips trembling.

Her breath caught.

Her heart was doing cartwheels inside her chest, and she hated how it betrayed her—but it also felt like it had never truly beat before this moment.

She averted her eyes for a second, trying to recover herself, but Ranvijay wasn't done.

He didn't let her go.

His fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness that nearly broke her. "You were dancing like no one was watching… and I watched like my soul depended on it."

She tried to speak, but words failed her.

And he could see it—all of it—on her face. The vulnerability, the shock, the tangle of emotions she wasn't ready to name.

"I… I didn't know you'd be home so early," she finally said, her voice barely audible.

"I couldn't stay away," he confessed, with no hesitation. "My body was in that office… but my mind was here. With you."

She exhaled shakily, still locked in his hold. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from the dance or his words, she couldn't tell.

He bent slightly, his lips close to her ear again. "Do you know how insane you make me, Myra? Every day. Every minute. Every hour. It's torture—beautiful torture."

A shiver passed through her.

He finally, slowly, lowered her feet to the ground, but didn't step away.

Her hand instinctively clutched the edge of her dupatta, trying to calm herself.

"Ranvijay…" she whispered.

"I'm not asking for anything," he said, voice rough. "I'm just telling you… I've never seen something more divine. You. Just now. That dance. Your voice." His throat bobbed with emotion. "I would die for it, Myra. Don't ever doubt that."

And with that, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead. Just once.

It burned and soothed all at once.

Myra stood frozen. She didn't know what spell had been cast in that courtyard tonight, but she knew something had changed.

And neither of them would ever be the same again.