Location: Mumbai
Tucked along the southern edge of Mumbai's vibrant Colaba, the Agnivanshi Palace stood like a living relic - proud, poised, and untouched by time.
Tonight, its sea-facing silhouette shimmered beneath the stars, wrapped in golden light and coastal breeze. The Arabian Sea glistened in the distance, reflecting the ambient glow of crystal chandeliers and subtle uplighting that bathed the mansion's grand facade in quiet opulence.
Inside, the palace had come alive - draped in elegance, and dressed to honor the evening's Indo-Western theme.
The salt-laced air danced with hints of rosewater, sandalwood, and designer perfume, trailing off the embellished silhouettes of foreign dignitaries and Bollywood royalty, as traditional craftsmanship met modern couture in breathtaking fusion. Champagne towers sparkled, live saxophone paired with sitar undertones floated through the night, while the murmur of multilingual conversations wrapped around the heritage pillars and mirrored corridors.
Sprawling marble courtyards buzzed with energy, floating candles flickered in lotus-filled pools, and peacocks stitched in gold thread adorned sheer drapes. Servers in minimalist Indo-Western uniforms moved with fluid precision, offering hors d'oeuvres plated like gallery art.
At the center of this grandeur, Abhay and Divya Agnivanshi reigned as impeccable hosts. They welcomed each guest with practiced warmth, effortlessly bridging royalty and modernity.
Meanwhile, Raghav and Devaki Agnivanshi remained slightly in the background, their roles clear - not ceremonial, but strategic. They watched, corrected, and ensured that every detail echoed the weight of their legacy and the precision of their brand.
And then, there was Raha.
She was a moment.
Descending the grand staircase in her custom Iva Fashion House ensemble - an ivory hand-embroidered blazer paired with a silk trail skirt and mirror-detailed bustier - she didn't walk in; she arrived. The outfit, bold yet rooted in tradition, turned heads and commanded whispers. It wasn't just worn - it was owned.
Styled to perfection, she became the embodiment of the night's theme. Editors murmured. Stylists took mental notes. Ministers' wives stared longer than they intended to.
Raha Agnivanshi was the moment.
And Iva's label? Instantly talk of the town.
In a quieter, more shadowed corner near the private cigar lounge, Rudra Agnivanshi made his own kind of entrance. No spotlight, no parade - just sharp tailoring, power in his stride, and a presence that anchored the room. As he spoke with business tycoons and foreign investors, there was no doubt - dominance didn't always announce itself. Sometimes, it merely showed up and owned the space.
The Agnivanshis didn't just live here.
They ruled.
And then came a shift in the air - the kind of shift that turns heads before the reason even arrives.
The entrance gates of the Agnivanshi Palace swung wider than usual, and a convoy of luxurious black cars rolled in, polished to reflect every glittering light around. Engine purrs hushed the murmurs. The soft instrumental music momentarily faded beneath the subtle roar of power making an entrance.
The Ambanis had arrived.
Flanked by a calculated wall of discreet yet heavily built bodyguards, the family emerged like modern-day royalty stepping onto a red carpet of legacy. Camera flashes ignited. Eyes followed. Conversations paused.
Viren Ambani, towering in a sharply tailored tux with a signature brooch pinned over his heart, exuded the calm of a man who had nothing to prove but still proved it all. Beside him, Vayu and Virya, equally compelling in Indo-Western tailored wear - classic cuts with unexpected modern flourishes - followed suit, their presence young but undeniably commanding.
The soft hum of anticipation rippled again - different this time. Quieter. Sharper.
The palace entrance, already crowded with guests and flashing cameras, seemed to hold its breath.
And then she stepped out.
Ivikaa Viren Ambani.
Or as the world knew her - Iva.
She didn't need an entourage. She didn't need a spotlight. She was the moment.
Draped in an unapologetically bold Indo-Western ensemble of her own creation - a structured midnight black blazer dress embroidered with antique zardozi, paired with a silk trail cape that billowed like storm clouds - Ivikaa walked like she owned every square inch of the marble she stepped on.
Her heels clicked a perfect rhythm. Her hair, sculpted into a sleek wave, caught the chandelier light just enough to glint. No jewelry, except for a single vintage emerald earring - a statement that dared the room to try and look away.
She didn't wave. She didn't smile. She didn't need to.
The chatter dipped. Phones rose. Editors nudged each other.
That's her.
That's Iva.
The Paris fashion house heiress. The one whose designs just landed in India - worn by a princess.
Maya trailed behind, now noticeably in the shadows, doing what she did best - watching the storm she helped stir.
Inside, as Raha sparkled in Iva's label, now surrounded by compliments and photographers, someone whispered:
"She's not just a designer. She's a brand. And she's here."
Devaki Agnivanshi, regal in a gold-stitched indo-western cape saree, noticed the subtle shift in energy the moment Ivikaa entered. She didn't hesitate. With graceful authority, she made her way through the guests and offered Ivikaa a poised yet warm welcome.
"Iva," she said, a rare smile playing on her lips, "I was hoping you'd come."
Before Ivikaa could respond, she asked. "Where is Viren?"
Ivikaa blinked. "You... knew my father?"
From behind, Viren Ambani approached, just in time to hear. "Not knew, still do," he said with a quiet grin, exchanging a knowing nod with Devaki. "Your father and I were classmates in school." Devaki politely whispered.
Virya and Vayu, momentarily stunned, let out identical "What?"s before shrugging it off and wandering toward the far end of the palace where a few Bollywood celebrities friends had gathered. The party was starting to peak - laughter, clinks of crystal, the hum of dance music - and they were ready to blend in.
Meanwhile, Maya kept to the edges, her usual fire dimmed to a flicker. She preferred to be a shadow tonight - she had done her part. The queen was on the board.
Then, from across the marble-floored corridor, came a familiar, high-pitched squeal.
Raha.
She nearly tripped over her heels running to Ivikaa, her jewel-toned cape fluttering like a banner.
"Ivaaaaa! Oh my God you actually came! And you look... like a movie poster, a magazine spread, and a dream rolled into one!"
Ivikaa, who rarely let people invade her space, surprised everyone by wrapping an arm around Raha and pulling her in for a hug.
"You look stunning, Raha," she said, genuinely. "And I see the outfit fits your fire perfectly."
Raha giggled, eyes shimmering. "Everyone keeps asking who designed it and I'm like, duh - Iva Fashion House! The one and only!"
Just then, Raghav Agnivanshi, dignified in a deep blue sherwani with sleek western tailoring, approached with a calm smile. He greeted Viren with firm warmth and nodded respectfully at Ivikaa.
"A pleasure to have you here," he said.
Ivikaa gave him a slight bow of her head, polite but observant.
Then Devaki leaned in and addressed Raha, "Why don't you introduce the rest of the family to Iva?"
Raha nodded, excitement spilling. "Come Please."
Raha led Ivikaa through a sea of guests, past waiters carrying trays of caviar bites and crystal flutes. The palace shimmered under chandeliers, but all Raha could focus on was showing off her idol.
"There they are!" she whispered excitedly, tugging Iva's hand like a child with a secret.
Abhay and Divya Agnivanshi stood near a carved archway, accepting greetings with poised smiles.
"Meet my bade papa and badi maa..." Raha began as she brought Ivikaa closer.
"Abhay Agnivanshi and Divya Agnivanshi," Ivikaa spoke in her measured tone.
Abhay's eyes flickered with recognition, confirming the suspicion he hadn't dared voice aloud - that the Ambani princess was truly standing before him. The man who often left others speechless was now on the receiving end.
"Ivikaa Viren Ambani," she said, offering a confident nod.
Divya blinked, stunned. "It's so good to see you here, beautiful," she said breathlessly, clearly awestruck.
Abhay, recovering his charm, smirked. "So... someone did her homework."
"Always prepared," Ivikaa replied, just as smug, her confidence like silk with a blade beneath.
She offered a brief but warm smile. "Congratulations to both of you."
And just like that, she left her mark - calm, assertive, unforgettable. She could see it in their eyes. The stories whispered about the Agnivanshis - now they'd whisper about her too.
Just then, Raha tugged her arm excitedly.
"You met bade papa and badi maa, now meet my bhaiya. Here comes Rudra Agnivanshi."
As they turned, Rudra - mid-conversation - paused, his eyes locking with Ivikaa's. The world, the party, the sounds - they blurred. He excused himself without finishing his sentence and strode toward them.
"Rudra bhaiya!" Raha squealed and hugged him, but Rudra's gaze didn't waver.
Ivikaa returned his look, her expression unreadable. She scanned him - tall, composed, radiating inherited power - but she didn't like not knowing him beforehand. Never dive into unknown waters, her rule whispered.
"Hi, I'm Rudra," he extended his hand.
"Ivikaa Viren Ambani," she responded, firmly shaking it.
Raha began gushing about her outfit - how Ivikaa helped her, how this was her label. Rudra listened carefully, eyes never straying.
Divya continued observing Ivikaa too, admiring the effortless way she commanded space.
Suddenly, Raha's phone buzzed repeatedly.
"My friends want to meet you, Iva. Can you...?"
Ivikaa hesitated, discomfort flickering.
"It makes me uncomfortable to meet too many new people at once," she said flatly.
"Raha, you're making her uncomfortable," Rudra cut in gently, then turned to Ivikaa. "Please accept my apology on her behalf."
"Don't be, Rudra." He froze at the way she said his name - like it was hers already.
"I'll go stop them," Raha said quickly and disappeared.
"Meanwhile," Rudra said, shifting, "if you'd like... I could show you around."
Ivikaa nodded. As they began walking, a waiter passed with drinks.
"Drink?" Rudra asked.
She nodded again. He passed her one and took one himself.
As they moved through the palace's quieter corners, whispers followed them. Their chemistry, sharp and cool, didn't go unnoticed. A match made in some forbidden heaven.
In the crowd, Abhay and Divya watched silently - one amused, the other intrigued.
Rudra sipped and asked about her. Ivikaa answered carefully, never revealing too much.
While she spoke, Rudra discreetly texted:
'Find everything about Ivikaa Ambani. Viren Ambani's daughter. Every personal detail. By tomorrow morning.'
But Ivikaa saw it all. She knew the game. She'd played it longer.
She sipped her drink and admired the structure, unbothered.
Suddenly, music dimmed - the cake-cutting announcement echoed. Guests gathered near the grand staircase.
And then, entered Meera Samrat Agnivanshi, regal and radiant even with time's weight on her shoulders.
"That's my dadi," Rudra said beside her. Ivikaa took a step, but Rudra subtly diverted her path.
Abhay and Divya took blessings, and a butler escorted Meera away. The couple cut the cake, cheers erupting.
Ivikaa glanced around. Her father was deep in talks with ministers. Her brothers were lost in circles of old friends. So much for family, she thought, half amused.
As dance music swelled, Ivikaa quickly texted Maya:
'SOS. Come find me. NOW.'
Moments later, her phone buzzed. Maya had called.
"Excuse me," she said to Rudra and walked off, unnoticed into a calmer section of the palace.
Footsteps echoed behind her.
"Where were you?" she asked.
Maya stepped beside her. "Always in your shadow."
"Thanks for saving me."
"So," Maya smirked, " Rudra?"
"I told you," she said dryly, "Maya Nagari."
They both chuckled.
"Core Iva, huh?", Maya whispered.
"Always," Ivikaa replied. "I just wanted my label out there. Let's be clear - reaching me isn't easy. Not for these guests, not for Rudra."
Maya laughed, "Giving just a glimpse of your brand and always hiding the real you."
"You know I hate crowds. I hate people. Especially parties like this."
She paused. "But I noticed something."
Maya leaned in. "What?"
"What do you think Rudra's next move will be?"
"Oh, Rudra?" Maya snorted. "He has an eye for power and beauty. He's probably asked someone to dig into your life. Same way you did."
Ivikaa narrowed her eyes. "You dared compare me to him?"
"Relax. I meant - business mind meets business mind."
Ivikaa sighed. "Headache. I need a smoke."
"Terrace. There seems a back door. I'll handle your father, your brothers... and Rudra."
Ivikaa gave her a sharp grin, clutched her purse, and walked toward the grand staircase.
The terrace was quiet. The sea stretched wide and open, waves glittering in moonlight. The party noise melted behind her.
She pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag.
Peace. Calm.
As she took another drag, the silence of the terrace shifted - not with footsteps, but with music.
A flute.
Soft, lilting, otherworldly. The kind of sound that didn't belong in loud palaces or opulent parties. It belonged to forests. To myths. To gods.
Ivikaa's brows furrowed as her ears followed the sound before her eyes did. She leaned over the carved marble edge of the terrace, letting the smoke trail from her lips as she looked down toward the west wing of the palace.
And there - bathed in the pale light of the moon - was him.
A giant, private balcony jutted out just below her, merging seamlessly into what looked like an opulent suite. The party's noise was completely absent here, like the space had its own rules. Its own silence.
He sat there - draped lazily across a low, deep sofa, one leg propped up, the other resting on the polished stone. He looked like a king without a crown, entirely at ease in a world that spun for him.
Black vest. Deep blue shorts. Silky hair ruffled by the breeze. Eyes closed.
And in his hands - a flute.
Not for show. Not for performance. But played with the kind of effortless intimacy that made her heart stutter.
His long fingers danced across it, precise and practiced, as if the music was pouring from somewhere deeper than breath - like it had always lived inside him. She leaned in, trying to catch a better glimpse, but he turned slightly with the melody, and his face tilted into shadows. Only a partial profile caught the moonlight - the edge of a sharp cheekbone, the curve of his lip as he played.
And then she noticed the details.
Sacred red threads tied snugly around his right wrist, and a simple black bracelet on the left. His presence was loud, even in his silence. Regal, yet unreachable.
Ivikaa didn't believe in God. Never had.
But this - this sounded like something divine.
Like God himself had picked up a flute, and the world had paused to listen.
She blinked, realizing she hadn't exhaled. The cigarette had burned down to the filter.
And still, she couldn't look away.
The spell shattered.
Her phone chimed, slicing clean through the tranquil melody and dragging her back from whatever world that flute had lured her into.
Irritated, she muttered under her breath, "Who the fuck dares to ruin this?" The cigarette stub dropped from her fingers, crushed under her heel.
She checked the screen - Papa.
Of course.
With a sigh sharp enough to cut glass, she swiped to answer.
"Yes?"
"We're leaving," came Viren Ambani's firm voice. No warmth. Just the usual command.
For the first time in her life, she didn't want to leave a party. Not that it had anything to do with overpriced champagne or recycled conversations. No. It was the flute. The invisible thread it had pulled taut around her senses.
"I'm coming," she clipped, and cut the call.
She looked back over the terrace edge.
Gone.
What the actual fuck? Her mind raced. Was she hallucinating? Dreaming with her eyes open?
He wasn't a butler either - the energy was all wrong. His body language didn't serve. It owned.
And that damned flute.
Before she could untangle the thoughts knotting in her head, another chime broke through.
Virya.
"Where are you?" his message read.
She exhaled, frustration curling at the edges of her mood.
Pocketing her phone, she swept away from the terrace, one last glance over her shoulder.
Nothing but moonlight and marble now.
Back in the party, she navigated through the crowd like a ghost-detached, distracted. She exchanged polite nods and non-committal goodbyes with the hosts.
As she reached the front entrance, her car waited, sleek and shadowed. Before stepping in, she couldn't resist - her eyes flicked toward the west side of the palace once more.
Still nothing.
No silhouette. No music. Not even a breeze.
Maya stood nearby, her brow raised slightly - a silent question in her eyes.
Ivikaa met her gaze, shrugged like it was nothing, and slipped into the car.
But it wasn't nothing.
She just hadn't figured out what it was yet.
"Are you okay, beta?" her father asked, noticing she seemed lost in thought.
"Yeah. Probably just the water. You know I can't even digest Indian water."
"Oh yeah, our so-called Parisian princess. We should be thankful you haven't started speaking fluent French yet," Vayu added with a heavy dose of sarcasm. "But if you're really not okay, let's not travel back yet. Taj is right here."
"Okay," she agreed instantly-surprising even herself.
Maya was just as confused. Ivikaa never changed her schedules. They had come to India for two weeks-partly because of Virya's injury, partly to source Indian fabrics. But this sudden change in her behavior... was it because of Rudra?
Mumbai ki Maya-of course, where even illusions come with a guest list and a designer label.
✧ ✦ ✧
Author's Note:
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