Author POV

The city lights blurred softly against the windows as Samar drove through the quiet night. The award function had ended not long ago, but the glow of victory still lingered between them warm, bright, almost unreal.

Saanvi sat with her hands folded in her lap, her diamond saree shimmering faintly whenever the headlights from passing cars touched it. She looked peaceful, her smile soft and gentle, the kind that told stories about pride she couldn’t hide even if she wanted to.

Samar stole a glance at her.

She looked happy.

Truly, deeply happy.

And something in his chest eased at the sight.

He returned his eyes to the road, but one of his hands slowly slid from the steering wheel to the space between them. Without a word, Saanvi placed her hand over his quietly, naturally, like it was something she had always done. Their fingers intertwined, warm and steady.

The silence in the car wasn’t empty.

It was full full of emotions neither of them said out loud.

Saanvi took out her phone and dialed her mother-in-law, excitement bubbling in her voice.

“Mom, Samar won the award!” she said, the happiness in her tone unrestrained.

Samar didn’t look at her, but the corner of his lips lifted.

Her joy was brighter than the award itself.

He could faintly hear the loud, cheerful reaction from the Shekhawat mansion. Then another voice this time deeper, firmer joined in. It was his father.

“What?! My son won it? There will be a celebration tonight!”

Saanvi let out a small laugh, her eyes sparkling.

The family quickly decided

A celebration would be held at the Shekhawat mansion.

Only family, only love, only pride.

After the call ended, Saanvi kept the phone on her lap and exhaled deeply. She wasn’t looking at Samar, yet she felt the shift in the air when he gently tightened his grip on her hand.

She turned her head.

His eyes were still on the road, but his jaw looked relaxed, his breathing even. A softness had settled around him.

“You look very happy,” he said quietly.

“I am,” she whispered. “Tonight meant a lot.”

Samar didn’t speak again immediately. The road stretched ahead, smooth and dark, the headlights carving a quiet path in front of them. The car hummed softly steady, comforting.

Saanvi leaned her head slightly toward him, still holding his hand.

And Samar felt it

that quiet dependence,

that quiet trust.

He could sense her emotions even in silence.

A few minutes passed before she spoke again.

“Your parents were so proud…”

“Parents should be,” Samar murmured.

His voice wasn’t arrogant it was thoughtful, almost reflective. As if her happiness made him see the achievement in a new light.

Saanvi looked down at their interlocked hands.

Her thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles.

Samar felt the touch and something inside him shifted, slow and warm. He drove with one hand, using the other to hold the woman who had sat beside him through countless nights of designing, sketching, learning, dreaming.

Her presence felt like a quiet blessing.

Traffic slowed, and the car gently rolled forward through the softer part of the city. Saanvi's eyes drifted outside the window again.

She wasn’t speaking now, but Samar knew she was still smiling.

He could feel it.

When the car stopped at a signal, he finally looked at her.

“You’re glowing,” he said.

Her breath caught for a moment.

She looked down, embarrassed, but the smile wouldn’t leave her face.

“You’re exaggerating…”

“No,” he replied calmly. “I’m stating a fact.”

The light turned green, and the car began to move again. The night sky stretched endless above them, and the world felt strangely peaceful. Celebrations were waiting at home, but inside the car… it was just them.

Just two people in the warmth of their quiet world.

As they got closer to the mansion, Saanvi leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes for a moment, still holding his hand.

And Samar didn’t let go.

Not even for a second.

At the Shekhawat mansion, everyone was preparing for a small family celebration to honour Samar’s big win. It was already late at night, almost 10:30, so only close family members were invited.

As soon as Samar and Saanvi informed his mother that they were on the way, Dilip Singh Shekhawat got so happy that he immediately called Mr. Mehta, Saanvi’s father.

“Mehta ji, aap bhi aa jaiye,” Dilip ji said with a proud smile. “Aaj Samar ne duniya ka best jewellery design jeeta hai. Hum sab celebrate kar rahe hain.”

Mr. Mehta was equally happy. “Main abhi nikalta hoon, Dilip ji.”

Both families were now waiting at the front entrance of Shekhawat mansion, thinking Samar and Saanvi would ring the bell any moment.

But they didn’t know…

Samar had no interest in making a grand entry today.

He quietly drove the car through the back entrance, the one only the family used. The guards already knew his style they didn’t ask anything and just opened the gate.

As soon as the car stopped, Samar stepped out first and then helped Saanvi. She was still wearing her diamond saree, looking like she stepped out from a dream, and Samar’s hand naturally reached for hers.

Without speaking, he led her through the silent back corridor.

Saanvi looked around and softly said, “Sab wait kar rahe honge…”

But Samar didn’t stop walking. He simply held her hand a little tighter and took her directly upstairs.

He opened the door of their room, pulled her inside gently, and closed it behind them with a soft click so no one would hear.

Saanvi looked at him questioningly, “Hum saamne se kyun nahi gaye?”

Samar looked at her calmly, like he already knew what he wanted.

“Isliye,” he said, brushing her hair back from her shoulder. “Pehle main tumhe dekhna chahta tha.”

(That’s why. I wanted to see you first.)

Samar Shekhawat — POV

I take her upstairs with me… quietly, without letting anyone notice. The moment we stepped inside the mansion, everyone was waiting near the main hall cheering, clapping, ready to celebrate  but I slipped through the back door with her hand locked in mine. I didn’t want anyone else to take even a second of her time tonight. I wanted her. Just her.

Her soft steps follow mine as I guide her through the silent corridor. The lights are dim, the house calm, and for the first time tonight, everything feels mine again  my space, my control, my moment.

I push open our bedroom door, pull her inside, and shut it behind us. The sound is soft, but loud enough to seal the world out.

I turn to look at her.

My wife.

My Saanvi.

Still in that diamond saree shining more than the jewellery I design. The same saree that stole the stage, the same saree that made heads turn, the same saree that made me warn men with my eyes alone.

She stands in front of me, her breath a little uneven from the rush, her lashes lowered, her lips soft, innocent… unaware of what she does to me.

I step closer.

I could hear the faint music from downstairs, the celebration already beginning, but none of that mattered. Tonight, my victory wasn’t the award I won.

Tonight, my victory was her.

I move a strand of hair away from her cheek. Her skin reacts immediately  warm, almost trembling. She looks up slowly, and something inside me snaps in the most dangerous way.

I wanted my reward tonight.

Not the trophy.

Not the applause.

Not the respect.

But the reward only she could give me.

I cup her jaw gently. “Do you know,” I say quietly, my voice low, “that you drive me insane without even trying?”

She blinks, confused, shy, and I smile because she’s too innocent to understand the effect she has on me. That innocence  that softness  pulls me deeper every day.

I lean closer and she grips her saree pallu tightly, trying not to meet my eyes.

“I don’t want to stop tonight,” I whisper against her temple. “Not even for a moment.”

Her breath stops completely.

I lower my voice further, “Tonight… I want to taste your lips.”

She takes a small step back, but I follow, pressing her gently against the wall. My hand slides to her waist  the same waist I lifted this morning, the same waist I love holding.

Her breathing turns shallow.

I press my forehead to hers.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” I murmur. “And I don’t want to control myself tonight.”

My thumb grazes her lower lip. She gasps, her eyes closing for a second, and the reaction is enough to make heat rush through my veins.

“I wanted my reward,” I tell her softly. “From you.”

Her eyes flutter open, wide, questioning.

So I tell her what she deserves to hear.

“You stood with me. Designed with me. Stayed awake with me. You made me win. So tonight…” my voice drops, “I want to cherish you the way you deserve.”

I lift her chin so she can’t look away.

“I want you.”

Her lips part slightly  innocent, natural, unaware  and that one tiny movement ruins every last piece of control I had left.

I slide my hand behind her waist and pull her closer. Her hands land on my chest and she tries to push me a little, but it’s not rejection  it’s shyness.

She whispers my name, barely audible.

And I smile.

“Don’t run from me tonight,” I murmur. “Not when I’m the one who brought you here.”

I lower my face to her neck. She shivers.

The scent of her skin hits me  soft, floral, sweet  and I realise something brutally honest:

No fragrance, no perfume, nothing in the world compares to the scent of my wife.

I place a slow kiss on the side of her neck.

She trembles, her fingers gripping my shirt.

That’s all the permission I needed.

I lift her in my arms.

Her soft gasp hits my chest. She wraps her arms around my neck instinctively, and the feel of her holding onto me… God, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything this intense.

I place her gently on the bed.

She tries to sit up, but I cage her between my arms, leaning over her.

“Don’t hide,” I whisper. “Not tonight.”

Her eyes meet mine. Big, nervous, innocent.

I smile slowly. “I won’t hurt you. But I won’t let you go either.”

I trace her jawline, down her throat, to her collarbone. Her saree is still perfectly draped, but the backless blouse gives me a quiet, dangerous privilege. I slide my fingers lightly down her spine.

She arches slightly, breath catching.

I lean down, brushing my nose against her cheek, her jaw, her ear. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

Her heartbeat is loud enough for me to feel it against my hand.

I kiss the corner of her lips  soft, testing.

She freezes.

Then her fingers curl into my shirt again.

That tiny reaction…

I tilt her face toward mine and finally, finally press my lips to hers.

Slow at first.

Gentle.

Testing the way she reacts.

She trembles, her breath uneven  and then, almost shyly, she kisses me back.

My control shatters.

I deepen the kiss, one hand cradling her face, the other sliding to her waist, pulling her closer, closer, until there is no space left between us.

Her lips are soft, warm, addictive, and I realise with a jolt  no victory, no award, no throne in the mafia world has ever made me feel like this.

She pulls back a little to catch her breath, and I rest my forehead against hers.

“Don’t stop,” I whisper.

She blushes, lowering her gaze, so I lift her chin again.

“You taste like home,” I tell her quietly. “And I’m not done yet.”

Her fingers clutch the bedsheet, nervous.

I kiss her again slower this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that tells her she belongs to me, that I’m hers, that tonight is ours alone.

Her hands slowly rise to my shoulders, holding me trusting me  and that alone is enough to make my chest tighten in a way I didn’t expect.

I pull back slightly, brushing my thumb across her cheek.

“You don’t even know,” I whisper, “how perfect you are for me.”

She blushes again, turning her face away, but I gently guide her back to me.

“No hiding,” I remind her softly. “Not from your husband.”

I kiss her again, deeper than before, letting her feel everything I’ve kept inside  the desire, the hunger, the softness, the possession.

When she finally rests her head on my chest, breathing fast and warm, I wrap my arms around her and kiss her hair.

The moment her breathing changed, slow and uneven in that soft, exhausted way, I finally understood.

She was tired.

Not just shy, not just overwhelmed, but genuinely tired after the long day, the heavy saree, the lights, the crowd, the emotions, the award ceremony, everything.

And I could never cross that line.

Not with her.

Not when she looked so delicate in my arms.

A part of me still burned with the desire I had been holding back all evening, but another part of me, the stronger part, the part that loved her more than I ever admitted, took over.

I pulled back slowly.

Her eyelids were already fluttering, fighting sleep.

I brushed my thumb over her cheek.

“You’re tired,” I whispered, more to myself than her. “You need rest.”

She blinked once, her lashes trembling, and the next second her eyes closed completely. Her body softened into the pillow, her lips parting slightly as she slipped into sleep almost instantly.

My chest tightened with something warm.

I gently pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, making sure she was comfortable. Then I sat beside her, running my fingers through her hair. Soft. Silky. The kind of hair that makes a man lose every bit of control he has.

I stroked her hair slowly.

Up and down.

Letting her drift into a deeper sleep.

Her breathing steadied.

Her face relaxed.

And I felt a strange kind of peace watching her like this.

So soft.

So innocent.

So completely mine.

A smile tugged at my lips.

I placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and whispered against her skin, “Sleep. I’ll be right here.”

Just then, my phone vibrated.

I sighed quietly and stepped aside so I wouldn’t disturb her.

It was my father.

Dilip Shekhawat.

I picked up the call. “Yes, Dad.”

“Where are you both? Everyone is here. Mehta ji also arrived. We were waiting.”

I glanced back at Saanvi sleeping like a baby, curled slightly on her side.

“She’s asleep,” I said softly. “Exhausted. I’m tired too. You all enjoy.”

There was a pause. Then his voice softened in a rare moment of fatherly warmth.

“Alright. Take care of her.”

“I always do,” I said quietly.

After disconnecting, I placed the phone aside and looked at her again. Her lips were slightly curved into a peaceful smile, her breathing calm. And just like that the fire inside me returned, stronger, sharper, harder, because I suddenly remembered how she looked just minutes ago beneath me.

Beautiful.

Untouched.

Mine.

I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply.

If I stayed in the room any longer, I would lose control.

So I walked to the bathroom.

I shut the door, leaned back for a second, and breathed deeply.

Then I turned on the cold shower.

Water hit my skin like sharp ice, but God, I needed it. My body was on fire, my mind replaying every second of her shy reactions, her soft lips, her trembling breaths when I held her close.

I closed my eyes and let the cold water run down my face, over my chest, over my back.

I pressed my palms against the wall.

She was too beautiful.

Too untouched.

Too innocent.

And the way she looked at me, the way she reacted when I kissed her… that memory alone was enough to make the cold shower feel useless.

I tilted my head back under the water, trying to cool the storm in my chest.

“She’s going to be the death of me,” I muttered under my breath.

Every curve.

Every breath.

Every shy blink.

Every time she says my name in that soft voice.

She had no idea how hard she made things for me, how easily she could break every bit of self control I had built over the years.

And as the water kept hitting my skin, freezing, numbing, I realised something with painful clarity.

If this was what she did

to me without even trying, then the day she gives herself to me completely… I don’t know if I’ll survive that moment.

But God, I was already waiting for it.

Waiting like a man starved.

To be continued,

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