-----

The office lights flickered off, casting Ishan into a pit of fluorescent gloom. He stretched, the weariness a tangible weight on his shoulders. Today had been a marathon, not a sprint, and every bone in his body ached in protest. 

He slipped behind the wheel, a familiar impatience gnawing at him. Traffic lights blurred into streaks of red and yellow as he pushed the car, the city a symphony of honking and screeching tires. Reaching Mahi's apartment building, he cast a wary glance around. Paparazzi were a constant nuisance, their flashing cameras an unwelcome intrusion into their lives. With practiced ease, he avoided the main entrance, slipping through a rusty back gate that led to a dimly lit stairwell.

The elevator, a rickety contraption that groaned with every movement, crawled upwards. Impatience boiled over. He slammed the button repeatedly, muttering curses under his breath. Finally, he abandoned the metal box, taking the stairs two at a time. His lungs burned with the exertion, but reaching Mahi's floor was a small victory.

He rapped on the door, a sharp, insistent rhythm. Silence. He knocked again, harder this time, his anxiety prickling like nettles. Still, no answer. Panic clawed at his throat. "Mahi, open the door!" he yelled, his voice laced with growing urgency. No response. He pounded on the wood, each blow echoing in the sterile hallway.

"Mahi! Open up, dammit!" His voice cracked with desperation. A strangled sob escaped him. Just as he contemplated throwing his shoulder against the door, the lock clicked, and it creaked open a sliver.

Mahi stood on the other side, a stark contrast to the vibrant woman he knew. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, her nightshirt clinging limply to a trembling frame. Tears welled up in Ishan's eyes, mirroring the ones spilling down her cheeks. The anger that had fueled his frantic drive evaporated, replaced by a wave of tenderness and concern.

"Mahi," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "What happened?" The dam broke on her face, and a torrent of silent tears flowed freely. He knew, in that moment, words were secondary. He gently pushed the door open wider, his arms open in a silent invitation, waiting for her to find solace in the haven he yearned to be.

Mahi stood rooted to the spot, fists clenched at her sides. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the vision of the living room entrance. A moment later, Ishan entered, his voice laced with concern, "Mahi, what happened?"

Mahi pivoted sharply, her back ramrod straight, and marched towards the kitchen without a word. Ishan, bewildered by her sudden shift, followed close behind.

Reaching the counter, Mahi poured a glass of water, her movements jerky and strained. She turned, offering the glass to Ishan with a trembling hand.

Ishan Singh, heir to the Singh Builder empire, was known for many things - his ruthless business acumen, his undeniable charm, and his hair-trigger temper. He saw the tremor in Mahi's hand, the glistening tears threatening to spill over. But the frustration of the day, the constant dance of their fake relationship, bubbled over.

He swiped his hand dismissively, knocking the glass from Mahi's grasp. Water arced through the air, spraying them both before shattering on the floor.

Mahi flinched, not at the water or the broken glass, but at the raw anger that flickered in Ishan's eyes. Yet, there was a flicker of something else too, a flicker of concern that she couldn't quite place.

She didn't cry out, didn't scream. She simply met his gaze, the tears now tracing a glistening path down her cheeks. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

Finally, Ishan seemed to break free of his anger. He stepped forward, his movements hesitant. He cupped her face in his calloused hands, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"Mahi," he said, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it, "Talk to me. What happened?"

Mahi stared at him, her chest tight with a confusing mix of emotions - hurt, anger, and a strange, fragile trust. She inhaled a shaky breath, then reached out and grasped his right hand, surprisingly warm against her chilled skin.

Without a word, she turned and walked towards her bedroom, leaving Ishan to follow, the shattered glass and spilled water forgotten on the kitchen floor.

They entered the room, and the sight that greeted them sent a fresh wave of despair crashing over Mahi. Newspapers lay strewn across the bed, their bold headlines screaming accusations.

"Ishan Singh Steals the Lakme Fashion Week," blared one, the words dripping with cruel mockery. It wasn't just the spotlight they'd stolen, it was the very narrative of her achievement, rewritten to glorify Ishan.

Another headline screamed, "Ishan: The Perfect Boyfriend," the irony twisting the knife in her gut.

Mahi slumped onto the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands. The weight of the articles, of the constant charade, of the unspoken feelings swirling beneath the surface, threatened to drown her.

"Mahi, don't cry," he said, his voice gruff but laced with a gentleness that surprised even him. "Those tabloids are a dime a dozen, filled with nothing but sensationalist garbage. Don't let them diminish your hard work."

Mahi lifted her tear-streaked face, a flicker of defiance replacing the despair in her eyes. "But what about me?" she choked out, her voice thick with emotion. "My walk, my hard work - they're being overshadowed by headlines about you."

Ishan sighed, the frustration evident on his face. "People will always say what they want to say, Mahi. That's the nature of the beast. But trust me, this doesn't define you or your achievement."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Look," he said, unlocking the screen and turning it towards her. It displayed his Instagram feed, flooded with comments and posts about the fashion week.

Mahi hesitantly leaned closer, squinting through her blurry vision. Her breath hitched. The feed was abuzz with her name. Fan accounts had posted snippets of her walk, praising her grace and the power she exuded on the runway. Reels with the #MahiSlaysFashionWeek hashtag flooded the page, young girls mimicking her poses and fierce expressions. Tweets from prominent fashion critics raved about her, calling her the breakout star of the event. Even a few verified celebrity accounts had posted stories congratulating her on a stunning performance.

A hesitant smile tugged at the corner of Mahi's lips. "But... the headlines..." she stammered, pointing towards the accusatory newspapers.

Ishan chuckled, a dry humor in his voice. "Those are written to sell papers, Mahi. They thrive on drama. But this," he tapped the screen, showing her the outpouring of love from fans, "this is real. This is what truly matters."

Mahi scrolled through the comments, a warmth spreading through her chest despite the lingering sting of the headlines. She saw herself reflected in the eyes of these fans, her hard work acknowledged and appreciated.

A genuine smile, this time brighter and more genuine, bloomed on her face. "Wow," she breathed, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek, this time a tear of gratitude.

Ishan reached out, brushing the tear away with his thumb. "See? You stole the show, Mahi. Not just with your walk, but with your resilience too."

Mahi met his gaze, a spark of something new flickering between them. It wasn't just gratitude or relief, but a newfound respect, a sense of camaraderie forged in the face of adversity. The fake relationship, for a moment, seemed to fade away, replaced by a genuine connection that promised something more.

Ishan scooped up the scattered newspapers from the bed, his movements efficient and purposeful. "Come on," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Mahi rose hesitantly, wiping the last vestiges of tears from her cheeks. She followed him out of the room, a question hanging heavy in the air.

They reached the balcony overlooking the bustling city. Ishan held the newspapers aloft, their accusatory headlines stark against the setting sun. He turned to Mahi, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"What do you say we give them a little bonfire?" he asked, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Mahi frowned, unsure of his intent. "Burn them?"

Ishan nodded, tossing a single crumpled newspaper into a nearby metal bin. "Exactly. Let's burn these things that are designed to hurt you. They don't deserve to occupy space in your life or your mind."

He pulled out a lighter, its silver casing gleaming in the fading light. Mahi watched, a hesitant smile gracing her lips.

"Ready?" Ishan asked, extending the lighter towards her.

Mahi met his gaze, a spark of defiance replacing her earlier despair. She took the lighter with a newfound resolve. Stepping forward, she ignited the corner of the newspaper.

As the paper flared to life, a wave of catharsis washed over her. The flames devoured the headlines, transforming negativity into flickering light. Each crackle and pop felt like a tiny victory, a defiance against the negativity that had threatened to consume her.

Once the first newspaper was reduced to ash, Ishan handed her another. Together, they watched them all burn, a silent ceremony of purging negativity. As the last embers died down, a comfortable silence settled between them.

"Thank you, Ishan," Mahi finally said, her voice thick with emotion. "For this, for everything."

Ishan reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture surprisingly intimate for their supposed facade.

"We're not done yet," he replied, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Consider this a victory lap. How about we get out of here for the weekend?"

Mahi raised an eyebrow, surprised by the suggestion. "A weekend getaway? Just like that?"

"Think of it as a gift," Ishan said, his voice softening. "A little escape from all this drama. Plus, wouldn't it be fun to show the world the 'perfect couple' taking a spontaneous trip?"

The wheels started turning in Mahi's mind. A public display of affection, a carefully curated image – it was all part of the PR game. But for a fleeting moment, the idea of a real getaway, free from the constraints of their fake relationship, held a strange appeal.

"Alright," she agreed, a playful glint in her eyes. "But it better be somewhere spectacular. And make it a surprise."

Ishan grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Pack your bags, Mahi. Be ready the day after tomorrow. And trust me, it'll be a trip you won't forget."

He leaned in and brushed a soft kiss against her temple, a gesture that felt more real than any staged kiss they'd shared for the cameras. As he pulled away, a steely glint returned to his eyes.

Turning his back on her for a moment, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number. "John," he said, his voice cold and hard. "Book my jet for the weekend. And find out who wrote that 'perfect boyfriend' headline in today's papers. Consider them unemployed."

-----

The echo of the slammed door reverberated through the empty hallway, a stark punctuation mark to their argument. Vaidehi retreated to the sanctuary of her room, the weight of the financial fiasco pressing down on her like a physical force. She needed an outlet, something to distract her from the swirling mess of emotions churning inside.

With a sigh, she began tidying her meticulously organized room. As she straightened a stack of books, a worn leather-bound diary tucked amongst them caught her eye. A familiar pang of nostalgia tugged at her heart as she picked it up, its well-worn pages whispering stories of a bygone era.

Opening the diary, a faded pink rose petal slipped from between the pages, fluttering to the floor like a forgotten memory. A wave of warmth washed over her as she recognized it.

The air crackled with tension in the cluttered college library. Papers were strewn across the table, remnants of their heated debate on architectural styles. Vaidehi, ever the pragmatist, clashed with Abhishek's more artistic vision.

"Function over form, Abhishek! We can't just design buildings that look pretty; they need to be practical too!" Vaidehi's voice rose with frustration.

Abhishek slammed his fist on the table, scattering their notes. "There's more to architecture than just cold, hard logic, Vaidehi! It's about creating an experience, an emotion!"

Their eyes locked, a spark of something more than just academic rivalry flashing between them. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, before Vaidehi broke it with a scoff.

"Fine," she conceded, her voice softer now. "But at least make sure your pretty buildings don't leak during the first rain."

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Abhishek's lips. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against hers as he picked up a discarded sketch.

"Maybe," he said, his voice a low rumble, "we can find a way to bridge the gap between form and function."

Vaidehi felt a blush creep up her neck. She looked away, focusing on the intricate details of the sketch.

Suddenly, a mischievous glint appeared in Abhishek's eyes. He stood up abruptly and disappeared out of the library entrance. Vaidehi watched him go, a flicker of curiosity battling with her annoyance.

He returned moments later, a single perfect rose clutched in his hand. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden glow on its velvety petals.

"Here," he said, extending the rose towards her, his voice laced with a nervousness that surprised her. "For the future Mrs. Vaidehi Kapoor, who hopefully appreciates a little form with her function."

Vaidehi's breath hitched. The rose, a simple gesture, held a universe of unspoken emotions. A smile, genuine and unguarded, spread across her face.

"Well, Mr. Kapoor," she teased, taking the rose and inhaling its sweet fragrance, "you didn't even have to buy me anything to win me over."

Abhishek chuckled, a relieved laugh that warmed the air between them. "Actually, I did." He gestured towards a young boy hesitantly approaching the library entrance, a basket of roses overflowing in his arms.

The weight of his unspoken confession settled on Vaidehi, a sweet ache blossoming in her chest. In that moment, amidst the clutter of their argument and the dusty confines of the library, a love story bloomed, fragile yet hopeful, promising a future brighter than any architectural masterpiece they could ever design.

Vaidehi held the rose petal between her fingers, its once vibrant color now faded with time. It was a tangible reminder of a love that seemed to have withered along with their dreams. A single tear traced a path down her cheek, a silent testament to the bittersweet memories the rose evoked.

-----

The city lights blurred past Saakshi in a kaleidoscope of neon and shadow as she slumped onto the uncomfortable bus stop bench. The rain, unexpected for this time of year, had started with a vengeance, drumming a relentless tattoo on the metal shelter. Frustration gnawed at her. Her car was in the shop, and Ishan, her brother, had ditched her at the office for an impromptu meeting with... Mahi. She liked Mahi.

She wasn't some damsel in distress who needed a knight in shining armor, especially not a male one. Saakshi, a firm believer in women's independence, scoffed at the notion. Public transport, despite its limitations, was exactly what she needed to prove a point. And She didn't wanted to trouble her brother or father. 

A glance at her watch confirmed her worst fear – it was almost eleven. The last bus for her area had likely come and gone, leaving her stranded in this desolate part of town. The rain seemed to pick up its tempo, mirroring the frantic beat of her heart.

Just as her resolve began to crumble, a sleek Mazda pulled up beside the bus stop. The world seemed to hold its breath as the driver's window rolled down, revealing a face that sent a jolt through Saakshi. Dev Sharma. Heir to the Sharma Construction empire, and sworn enemy of everything Singh Builders, her family's company, stood for.

Their rivalry wasn't just professional. A drunken mistake at Dev's Elder brother's wedding, a secret buried deep within her and him, made their encounters even more charged.

Saakshi met Dev's gaze; her chin held high. This wasn't a situation she'd ever envisioned herself in, needing help from the enemy, especially not Dev.

"Get in," Dev said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine despite her best efforts to appear unaffected.

Silence. Saakshi stared straight ahead, pretending not to hear him.

Dev's lips curled into a smirk, a hint of amusement playing in his eyes. "Look, Saakshi," he drawled, "I can count to five, or you can sit here and get soaked to the bone. Your call."

Saakshi's breath hitched. It was already past eleven, and the downpour showed no signs of stopping. Public transport was a lost cause. She despised the vulnerability of admitting defeat, but the prospect of a cold, lonely night on this bench was far less appealing.

With a sigh that was as much about the rain as it was her bruised ego, Saakshi muttered, "Fine," and reluctantly climbed into the car. The leather seats were warm and inviting, a contrast to the damp chill outside.

The rhythmic hum of the engine filled the car as Dev navigated the rain-slicked streets. Saakshi, still damp and shivering slightly, stubbornly kept her gaze fixed out the window, refusing to acknowledge Dev's presence. It was a tense truce, punctuated only by the windshield wipers battling the downpour.

Dev, however, wasn't one for comfortable silences. He glanced at her, a smirk playing on his lips. "Enjoying the complimentary Uber ride, Princess Singh?" he drawled, his voice laced with mock sympathy.

Saakshi bristled. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Sharma. This is purely a matter of practicality. Like a lone fish seeking shelter from a passing storm."

"Charming," Dev replied, turning up the heater a notch. "Though for a lone fish, you seem awfully particular about your aquarium."

Saakshi let out a huff. Talking to Dev was like trying to reason with a particularly arrogant shark circling its prey.

Silence descended once more, this time laced with a strange tension. Finally, Saakshi broke it, her voice clipped. "Look, Dev, the chivalry act is getting a little old. Why'd you stop in the first place?"

Dev raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Chivalry? Me? Saakshi, my dear, you flatter me. Let's just say the sight of a...well, not quite a damsel in distress, but certainly a rather disgruntled heiress at a bus stop, tugged at my nonexistent heartstrings."

"Heiress or not," Saakshi scoffed, "I can handle myself. Unlike some people who rely on fake girlfriends for good PR."

A flicker of something akin to amusement crossed Dev's face. "Ah, yes, the ever-elusive Mahi. Don't worry, Saakshi, your secret's safe with me. Though, I wouldn't mind hearing the juicy details sometime."

Saakshi rolled her eyes. "There are no juicy details. It's all a PR stunt, just like your sudden urge to play Good Samaritan."

They lapsed into another brief silence, this time thick with the unspoken memory of their night together at Dev's brother's wedding. Finally, Saakshi spoke, her voice low. "Just drop me near the next street corner, Dev. The last thing we need is the entire city buzzing about the enemy offering taxi services."

"And miss out on the chance to be the talk of the town?" Dev chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Besides, darling Saakshi, thanks to these fancy tinted windows, nobody will see a thing."

Saakshi glared at him, her cheeks burning with a mixture of annoyance and something else entirely. "Don't get any ideas, Sharma. This changes nothing. We're still sworn enemies."

"Of course," Dev replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Though, enemies can still appreciate a well-timed rescue, can't they?"

He paused, letting the silence hang heavy for a moment.

They arrived at Saakshi's apartment building, the familiar facade a welcome sight. Saakshi reached for the door handle, a plan forming in her mind.

"Well, that depends on your definition of 'rescue,' Dev," she said, turning towards him with a sly smile. "Because from where I'm sitting, it seems more like you were just trying to avoid a little rain-induced frizz on that perfectly styled hair of yours."

For the first time that night, Dev was caught off guard. A faint blush crept up his neck, a stark contrast to his usual arrogant composure. He stammered, a rare fluster evident in his voice, "M-my hair? What does that...?"

Saakshi threw her head back and laughed, a sound as light and unexpected as the summer rain. "Looks like the mighty Dev Sharma has a weakness after all," she teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Who knew you were so concerned about your appearance?"

Dev cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. "Concerned? Hardly," he scoffed, though a hint of a smile lingered on his lips. "It's just...a man has to take care of himself, wouldn't you agree?"

Saakshi raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in her gaze. "Oh, absolutely," she replied, stepping out of the car. "Especially when that man has a reputation to uphold as the city's most notorious playboy."

With a wink that sent a shiver down Dev's spine, Saakshi slammed the door shut and disappeared into the building, leaving Dev alone with a newfound appreciation for the teasing glint in her eyes and the unexpected warmth of their encounter.

-----

The air crackled with tension in the room as Sana tossed clothes into her suitcase with a vengeance. Shubman, on the other hand, moved with deliberate slowness, meticulously folding shirts and stacking them in perfect rows. Their upcoming honeymoon, a forced decree by Shubman's father, Amarjit Sharma, loomed large, casting a long shadow over their already strained relationship.

"This is all your fault, Shubman," Sana spat, her voice tight with frustration. "If you hadn't let your ego, get in the way, we wouldn't be on this ridiculous trip."

Shubman paused, his jaw clenching slightly. "Here we go again," he muttered, picking up a tie and examining it with a critical eye.

"Again?" Sana threw her hands up in the air, exasperated. "We had a chance to shine with the Malhotra project, a chance to prove Roy Interiors' worth! But no, you just had to play the hero and snatch it away from me."

"It wasn't about playing the hero, Sana," Shubman finally countered, his voice laced with a dangerous calm. "It was about strategy. Dev wasn't ready for a project of that scale. I simply stepped in to protect Sharma Constructions' reputation."

Sana scoffed. "Protect your reputation or your fragile ego? You couldn't handle the thought of me taking the lead, could you?"

Shubman straightened, his icy gaze meeting hers. "This isn't about you taking the lead, Sana. This is about a company merger, not a personal competition."

"Exactly!" Sana shot back, her voice rising. "A merger where Roy Interiors keeps getting sidelined because of your massive ego!"

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. As Sana uttered the word "ego" for the fourth time, Shubman surprised them both by taking a step closer, his face inches from hers.

"One more word about my ego, Sana," he said in a low growl, his breath warm against her cheek, "and I'll leave you at that honeymoon resort and come back home alone."

Sana's breath hitched. The air crackled with something far more potent than anger – a dangerous undercurrent of awareness. For a moment, she was speechless, caught off guard by his sudden closeness and the veiled threat in his voice.

But Sana Roy was no damsel in distress. She stood on her tiptoes, meeting his gaze defiantly. "You think you can intimidate me, Shubman?" she challenged, her voice surprisingly steady. "I am Sana Roy, the owner of Roy Interiors, and I dare you to do that."

The challenge in her eyes, the fire of her independence, seemed to momentarily disarm Shubman. The heated tension diffused slightly, replaced by a grudging respect. A slow smirk played on his lips.

"Touché, Sana," he conceded, stepping back. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't have a backbone. But remember, this merger is about more than just proving whose company is better."

Sana, her pulse still racing from the unexpected closeness, busied herself with folding a dress, her voice quieter now. "I know," she mumbled. "It's just...frustrating to see all this potential and not be able to tap into it because of-"

"Because of bruised egos?" Shubman finished her sentence, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Sana shot him a playful glare. "Maybe," she admitted with a grudging smile. But then, with a sly glint in her eye, she leaned in and added, "Although, honeymoons are typically for newlyweds to get to know each other, not for inflated egos to deflate, wouldn't you say?"

Shubman opened his mouth to retort, a witty comeback forming on his lips. But for the first time that evening, he found himself speechless. The playful jab, laced with a hint of truth, caught him off guard. He looked at Sana, this formidable woman he was about to embark on a forced journey with, and for a moment, saw not his business rival, but a woman with fire and wit.

A small, surprised smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He closed his mouth, the comeback forgotten. Instead, he simply shook his head, a silent concession.

Sana, sensing victory, straightened up with a triumphant smirk. She may not have gotten the Malhotra project, but she had certainly won this round. With a satisfied huff, she turned back to her suitcase, a newfound lightness in her step. Maybe, just maybe, this forced honeymoon wouldn't be so bad after all.

-----