The next morning, sunlight crept softly through the curtains, brushing against Tara's face. She stirred awake, her heart still holding the warmth of last night — Karan's smile, the laughter, the calm she hadn't felt in so long. For a few moments, she let herself believe that peace could last.

Then came the sharp sound of footsteps in the hallway.
Her stepmother's voice broke the morning quiet.
"Tara," she called from the doorway, tone clipped and cold. "The Rathoure family is coming today for Isha's proposal. So, be ready. And don't you dare try to play any tricks this time."

The words landed heavy. "This time." Like every breath she took was a potential mistake.

Tara stood still by the kitchen counter, her fingers tightening around the edge of her cup. The smell of boiling tea filled the air, but all she could taste was bitterness.

"Yes," she said softly, not looking up.

Her stepmother lingered for a moment, eyes narrowing, then left without another word. The echo of her heels faded down the hall.

Tara's chest felt hollow.
It wasn't jealousy — she'd stopped hoping for affection long ago. It was something deeper... a quiet ache that came from always being the one unseen, unheard.

She looked out the window where the morning light spilled over the garden, thinking how her family never cared if she smiled, cried, or vanished.

Still, she forced herself to move — cleaned the table, cooked breakfast, ironed clothes, every action mechanical. But her mind kept drifting to Karan — to his words, his laughter, his calm voice saying, "Don't cry, Tara."

Outside, the sound of cars echoed down the lane — the Rathoure family arriving, bringing with them a day Tara already wished she could escape.

Tara quietly finished her work in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes fading as the house grew busier with preparations. Laughter and voices echoed from the living room — all for Isha, of course. Always Isha.

She slipped away unnoticed, climbing the stairs to her room. The door closed behind her with a soft click — her only bit of peace.

She opened her wardrobe and pulled out a simple peach suit, its fabric soft and plain, just like her. No glitter, no noise — just quiet grace. She brushed her hair, tied it loosely, and looked at herself in the mirror. For a second, she smiled faintly. "This is enough," she whispered.

Then she sat on her bed, took her phone, and opened Wattpad — her small escape from reality. The orange icon blinked to life, and with it, a world where she could breathe again.

Her favorite novel was waiting, the one where love wasn't cruel and girls like her were seen, heard, and chosen.

She started reading, her fingers tracing each line slowly, losing herself in the story. The noise of guests arriving downstairs barely reached her — just muffled sounds beneath the soft hum of her fan.

For a moment, it felt like nothing could touch her. No stepmother's voice, no expectations, no loneliness — just words, warmth, and the quiet comfort of being somewhere else, even if only in a story.

The sound of polished shoes and warm greetings filled the hallway as the Rathoure family stepped into the house. Tara peeked down from the staircase, her fingers brushing the wooden railing, curiosity tugging at her.

Leading them was Mr. Rudra Rathoure, the eldest son — the main lead, though Tara didn't know it yet. He carried himself with quiet authority; his eyes held something rare — not just confidence, but depth. The kind that could look right through people and still somehow make them feel seen.

Beside him walked his father, Rajveer Rathoure, a man of calm dignity, his voice steady like stone. His mother, Devika Rathoure, wore an elegant saree of forest green, her face glowing with that unmistakable grace of old wealth and old values.

Following them was Arjun Rathoure, Rudra's real brother — younger, playful, a contrast to Rudra's silence. He winked at the maids and cracked jokes even before stepping inside, earning a subtle glare from his mother.

Behind them came Mr. and Mrs. Veer and Meera Rathoure, Rudra's uncle and aunt — the sort who smiled politely but missed nothing. They exchanged quick, knowing glances, their tone pleasant yet layered with quiet pride.

Their cousin, Kabir Rathoure, the last to enter, looked barely older than Tara — his camera already out, snapping a photo of the chandelier. "This house has potential," he murmured with a grin.

The Rathoures filled every inch of space with presence, like a royal portrait come alive.

Tara stood frozen halfway down the stairs, her simple peach suit catching the soft light. For a second, Rudra looked up — and their eyes met.

It wasn't dramatic, no music swelling, no gasp. Just a still moment, a silent recognition neither could name.

Her stepmother's voice cut through the tension, sweet and sharp:
"Tara, why are you standing there? Go bring tea for the guests."

She nodded quietly and disappeared toward the kitchen, heart beating faster than she'd admit.

None of them knew — not Rudra, not Tara — that this meeting would change both their worlds forever.

The soft hum of conversation deepened as one more car rolled to a stop outside. The front door opened again, and with it came a presence that silenced the room — Dadi ji, the matriarch of the Rathoure family.

Her steps were slow but steady, her silver hair tied neatly in a bun, eyes sharp enough to see through any pretense. Even before she spoke, the entire house seemed to straighten.

"Move, move," she said lightly, her voice still carrying that royal tone of command. "You all rush in like it's a market, not a rishta."

Everyone laughed, even the stiffest of them. Dadi ji's arrival shifted the air — firm yet full of warmth, tradition woven into every gesture.

Tara, still standing halfway down the stairs, watched quietly as Rudra helped Dadi ji to her seat. He did it without a word, the respect in his actions saying everything.

Mr. Rajveer Rathoure, calm and composed, began greeting everyone, while Mrs. Devika Rathoure adjusted Dadi ji's shawl with care. Arjun, the younger brother, leaned against a wall, still grinning. Veer and Meera Rathoure, the uncle and aunt, exchanged polite smiles. Kabir, their cousin, was busy taking a candid photo of Dadi ji and whispering, "You look royal, Dadi."

Dadi chuckled softly. "I was born royal, beta. Camera can't change that."

The whole room filled with quiet laughter — polished, polite, almost perfect.

But from where Tara stood, it all felt like watching a world she didn't belong to.
Her simple peach suit looked too plain among the shimmer of silks and gold. Still, she walked toward the kitchen to bring the tea, her heart racing.

As she passed the living room, Rudra glanced at her again — brief, but sharp enough to make her stop for half a breath.

And somewhere in that passing glance, something wordless sparked to life.
A beginning — quiet, unplanned, yet destined to shift everything.

Inside, everything was spotless — every cushion straightened, every light adjusted just right. Rekha Chauhan stood at the door, her silk saree shimmering, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. Beside her, Raghav Chauhan greeted the guests politely, though his eyes looked somewhere far away, lost in thought.

"Welcome, Rathoure family!" Rekha said in her rehearsed sweetness. "We've been waiting for you."

As everyone entered, Rekha clapped her hands lightly.
"Tara! Beta, bring tea for the guests!"

A moment later, Tara came down the stairs — dressed simply in a peach suit, her steps calm, her presence gentle. The soft fabric moved with her as she carried the tray, eyes lowered in quiet respect.

Rekha turned to the guests, her tone bright.
"This is Tara, our elder daughter," she announced with false pride.

The tray trembled just a little in Tara's hands.
Elder daughter?
Her gaze flicked up in shock, confusion flashing across her face for a second — but she said nothing. She only placed the cups down carefully, the silence around her speaking louder than any word could.

From her seat, Dadi ji narrowed her eyes slightly. Her instincts were too sharp for lies.
"Elder daughter, you say?" she murmured, her gaze shifting between Rekha and Tara. Then she smiled softly, drawing Tara closer. "You're a sweet girl," Dadi said warmly, pressing a kiss on Tara's forehead.

Tara gave a small, respectful smile — unsure why her chest suddenly felt lighter.

Rekha's smile, though, tightened just a bit. The act had slipped — even if only Dadi noticed.

and on other side someone watchingggg....