Maya POV

The loud car horn was the official warning. Arjun was here.

Maa-ji dropped her wooden spoon. It hit the floor, a tiny noise that was drowned out by the fast, scared beat of her own heart.

"He's here," she whispered, quickly rubbing her hands on her saree. Her face was a mix of many feelings: the new, deep sorrow for her dead son, Raj, fighting with the fierce, happy joy of seeing her oldest son home. "Come, Maya. We must say hello the right way."

I followed her. Papa-ji, who was hiding behind his paper, slowly pulled it down. His strict face looked softer, showing a little pain and a little relief.

We stopped at the front door. The driver opened the back car door.

Arjun Rathore stepped out.

He was much taller than Raj, and his shoulders were wider, like a strong wall. He moved with an easy power that Raj never had. He wasn't just good-looking; he was commanding. His dark hair was smooth and shiny, and his suit was expensive—a uniform that screamed success. But his eyes, dark and sharp, looked tired from the long trip and full of the shock of sadness.

Maa-ji could not hold herself together. With a sudden, choked cry, she ran forward.

"Arjun! My son!"

He swallowed her up in his strong arms. He held her tight, his head bent over hers, and the sound of her deep, crying sobs filled the air. This was a mother's raw, honest sadness. I felt a quick, fresh sting of guilt because my own tears for Raj were only for the life I had wanted, not for the man himself.

When Arjun finally let her go, his own eyes were wet. He turned to his father. Their handshake was firm, a silent promisebetween two men taking on a new, heavy weight.

Then, his eyes swept over the driveway, and they stopped hard on me.

I stood separate, like a silent statue made of blue silk. The low-cut blouse suddenly felt too open, too wrong for a widow only two weeks into mourning. I felt hot redness climb up my skin under his long, slow look.

He did not rush to say hello to me. He just looked.

I was the wife of his dead brother. The woman Raj married by force, the one who shared a bed with a stranger, and whose presence now reminded Arjun of the family’s greatest loss.

I folded my hands in the proper Indian greeting, keeping my eyes respectfully aimed at the floor."Pranam, Arjun ji," I murmured, using the formal name for my husband's older brother.

The moment stretched long and thick, heavy with unsaid history and the huge weight of my new status as the Rathore family’s duty. I waited for the simple, polite nod, or a fast, gentle word of comfort.

Instead, Arjun took a slow step toward me. His walk was sure and heavy.

"Maya," he said. The sound of my name in his deep voice was a jolt of electricity. It was a sharp, unwelcome change from Raj's flat, bored tone. He did not touch my folded hands, but when I finally lifted my eyes, his were not sad. They were dark, sharp, and had zero pity.

But then, something new and dangerous flashed in his dark eyes—a look that made my breath catch. It was a fast, heated look that traveled down the sheer blue of my saree, paused on the curve of my chest in the low-cut blouse, and then snapped back up to meet my eyes. It was a look that said: I see you. And I want what I cannot have.

The heat in the driveway was suddenly not just the sun.

My mouth felt dry. "Welcome home, Arjun ji," I managed, my voice a small, shaky whisper.

He gave no other polite words, just a short, quick nod. He turned to tell the servant where to put his bags.

The chaos had fully arrived, not just in the morning light, but in the powerful, dark desire I saw in the eyes of Arjun Rathore, the older brother, who now stood exactly where my husband used to be. The empty space Raj left was being aggressively filled by something far more dangerous.

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