The boutique was a riot of colours—velvets in deep maroons, sequined silks, pastel chiffons, and heavy brocades stacked like royalty awaiting coronation. The Khan and Malhotra families had taken over the entire first floor for bridal shopping. It was supposed to be a day of laughter and choices. Instead, every step Noor took felt like it echoed in the silence left by earlier truths.
She adjusted the sleeve of her soft cotton salwaar kameez as she walked in beside Murtasim, trailing behind their families. His eyes, she noticed, had followed her every step since the hospital. He hadn’t said much, but he didn’t need to. That look in his eyes—half pride, half possession—burned enough.
Inside the bridal section, a young assistant held up a soft blush pink lehenga, intricate with zardozi work. Noor’s mother gushed, “This one’s perfect! What do you say, beta?”
Noor shrugged slightly. “I’m not a lehenga girl.”
Murtasim raised an eyebrow. “Noor Malhotra, Lieutenant Doctor, decorated officer—scared of a lehenga?”
“I’m not scared,” she replied with a smirk, “I just don’t fight wars in ten kilos of embroidery.”
His laugh was soft and low, and Haya—standing behind a shelf—heard it. Her fingers paused mid-stroke on the crimson dupatta she was trying. Her eyes trailed to Murtasim, who stood now watching Noor with that rare look—the look of a man already smitten, slowly falling deeper.
She clenched the edge of the dupatta tighter.
Noor turned and noticed Haya from the corner of her eye. She saw it—the glassiness in her eyes, the invisible wall of disappointment surrounding her. And in that moment, despite everything, Noor walked toward her.
Haya pretended not to see her. But Noor stood beside her, softly adjusting the fall of her dupatta over her shoulder.
“I know how it feels,” Noor said, quietly.
Haya stiffened.
Noor didn’t flinch. “To watch someone you wanted smile at someone else. To wonder why your story didn’t begin like theirs. But… the right ones, Haya—they don’t slip away. They arrive when the time is right.”
For a second, Haya didn’t speak. Then her shoulders dropped slightly. “You don’t have to be kind.”
“I’m not being kind,” Noor replied honestly. “I’m being human.”
Haya’s throat bobbed. “It hurts.”
“I know.” Noor paused. “But you’re stronger than you think. And you’ll get someone who doesn’t look through you, but at you.”
Suddenly, Haya hugged her. Noor stiffened in surprise, then patted her back awkwardly.
“I hated you,” Haya whispered. “But now I just… wish I was like you.”
Noor smiled faintly. “No one needs to be like me. Just be the version of yourself that doesn’t dim for anyone.”
Before Noor could turn back, she felt it—his presence. She looked up to find Murtasim standing there, eyes unreadable. She moved past him quickly, but he caught her wrist gently.
“Noor…”
“Hm?”
He leaned slightly closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I like that colour on you.”
She froze. Her heart did something unprofessional.
“No uniform today,” he murmured, eyes roaming over her with bold appreciation. “But still look like you could kill a man and save him in the same minute.”
“I’ve done both,” she whispered back with a grin.
His chuckle was a rumble. “I know.”
At the other end of the boutique, his chachi clapped her hands. “Come, Murtasim! Try sherwanis now!”
As he walked away, Noor caught herself staring. So this is what it feels like—to be looked at like a mystery someone is desperate to understand.
He returned some minutes later, draped in a beige sherwani with dull gold threadwork and a soft red stole. The moment he stepped out, gasps were shared.
But all he saw—was her.
“What do you think?” he asked, eyes twinkling.
She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “You look like someone who’d declare war for the last rasgulla.”
“Only if you’re the rasgulla,” he said smoothly.
She laughed then—a rare, quiet, beautiful sound that made his mother smile from across the room.
Meanwhile, the shop assistant returned with a deep blood-red lehenga with white threadwork, silver sequins dancing across the border like stars. “This might suit your personality, Ma’am. Bold but graceful.”
Noor took it with a raised brow. “You’re oddly perceptive.”
Moments later, she stepped out—and the boutique fell into stunned silence.
The lehenga fit like it had been stitched for her soul. Her hair fell around her face in loose waves, and her eyes held no doubt—just quiet command. Red and white. Power and purity.
Even Murtasim’s taaya ji, who had scoffed at her earlier, said nothing.
Murtasim stood frozen.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said softly. “You weren’t made for war. You were made for a crown.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that, Surpanch saab?”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Absolutely. I’ve been watching you since the moment you walked into that hospital… The way you carry your world, the way people respect you… Noor, I’m proud of you.”
She blinked.
He continued, “I’m proud you proved it—not to them, but to me. That you’re perfect to be my wife.”
And then, as if realizing how close they stood, he stepped back a bit, brushing his hand over his heart. “The only woman who will ever have me… is you.”
For a long second, Noor didn’t move.
Then she looked away, biting her smile back.
Goddamn it, this man was dangerous.