Hastony

In the heart of Delhi’s glittering elite, Aarav Mehra has everything—wealth, power, and the future of his family's empire in his hands. But behind the designer suits and glass towers lies a heart that once beat for something simple, something real: Rhea Sharma.

She was everything he wasn’t. Fiercely independent, emotionally raw, and delightfully chaotic. A girl from a middle-class world who hated rich boys and yet unknowingly became the only story he ever wanted to write.

Their love bloomed quietly—through poetry scribbled in second-hand books, late-night noodles, and rooftop promises under fairy lights. But time, pride, and fate had their own plans.

Ten years later, on the night of his engagement, Aarav stands alone at his window, holding a faded silver bracelet—the last piece of a love that never left, and the memory of a girl who taught him that even winter can make lilies bloom.

A bittersweet romance laced with humor, heartbreak, and hope—this is the story of a love that never died, but maybe… wasn’t meant to live.

When Lilies Bloom in Winter

"Do rich people ever eat real food?"

Rhea's question came out of nowhere as she stared at the steaming bowl in front of Aarav. The two were seated on an old campus bench, legs barely avoiding a puddle that had survived the previous night's storm.

Aarav looked down at his butter paneer wrap from the luxury café across the street. "This is real food."

"Yeah, if you're trying to bribe your taste buds into forgetting what actual flavor is," she teased, ripping open a packet of cheap masala noodles with the flair of a street magician.

He watched as she poured boiling water from a rusted thermos into a cup holding dry noodles and tiny veggies. "That's your lunch?"

"Don't judge what you can't afford," she replied with mock arrogance. "These noodles built character. Also, debt."

He grinned. God, she was strange. But also the most refreshing person he'd ever met.

"I've never seen anyone so proud of instant noodles."

"And I've never seen someone struggle so hard to open a paper wrap."

They both laughed. The sound was easy—almost too easy for two people who came from such different worlds.

Rhea wasn't impressed by money. Aarav figured that out quickly.

She didn't gawk at his car, didn't flinch when he mentioned charity galas or weekend getaways in Dubai. She once even yawned while he explained share market dynamics.

And yet, she remembered the names of his plants when he brought her to the greenhouse behind his villa.

"Didn't know you had a soft side," she said that day, crouching to check on a bonsai.

"Don't tell anyone," he whispered, "My dad thinks I water them to impress investors."

They began spending time together. Not officially dating—God forbid they called it that—but drifting in a pattern that only made sense to the two of them.

He'd wait outside her class, pretending to read a novel. She'd find excuses to argue about books she hadn't read. He started texting her good morning. She'd reply three hours later with "Too early. Go back to sleep."

But beneath the banter, something quieter was building.

"Why me?" she asked one evening, leaning against the railing of the hostel rooftop. "You could be with a model. Or five."

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked up at the stars, trying to think of a way to not sound dramatic.

"You make me feel..." He paused. "...like I don't have to pretend."

She went quiet. Her fingers brushed against his.

"I don't believe in fairy tales, Aarav."

And for a second, the world became a little softer.

But soft things don't last in hard places.

When Aarav's mother found out he'd been skipping formal events to meet "some middle-class girl," she didn't scream. She didn't threaten. She simply said:

"Love her in secret, if you must. But don't let her cost you your future."

That night, Aarav stared at the ceiling and wondered what it meant to choose.

Two days later, Rhea didn't show up for their usual lunch.

She didn't reply to his texts. Or his calls.

Then, a message: "Don't wait. Focus on your world. I'm not meant for it."

Chapter 2: Noodles, Umbrellas, and Unspoken Things