The dust of that silver car’s departure had barely settled in the gullies of the neighborhood when your thirteenth birthday arrived. It was a strange, transitional year—you were no longer a child, yet not quite a woman, stuck in that awkward limb of braces and growing pains. You had spent the morning sulking because the house felt too quiet. There was no one to jump over the garden wall and steal the cherry off your cake; no one to call you a "pigtail monster" before running away with your new presents.

You didn't know it then, but a thousand miles away, in a cold, sterile dorm room in New York, a sixteen-year-old Dev was staring at a blank sheet of paper, nursing a level of homesickness he was too proud to admit to anyone but you.

Your mother had found the envelope tucked into the morning mail. She had seen the American stamps, the sharp, hurried scrawl of Dev’s handwriting, and she had smiled, tucking it into her saree pleats to give to you later. But the chaos of the birthday party—the aunts, the catering, the endless chai—had swallowed the memory. The letter had slipped out, fallen into a pile of discarded gift wrap, and was swept away by the servants before the sun had even set on your thirteenth year.

You never read it. You never knew that for one brief moment, the enemy had lowered his shield.

“Choti,

I know, I know. You’re probably making that face right now—the one where your nose crinkles up like a dried raisin because you’re annoyed that I’m writing to you. Go ahead, get it out of your system. Throw the letter, stomp on it, call me a badmash, I’ll wait.

Are you done? Good.

Happy Birthday, you brat. Thirteen. You’re officially a teenager, which I assume means you’ll be twice as loud and three times as difficult to deal with. May God have mercy on your parents, because I’m not there to keep you in check anymore. Who is going to tell you that your hair looks like a bird’s nest? Who is going to make sure you don't eat so much kulfi that you get a brain freeze? You’re probably running wild, aren't you?

I hate it here. There, I said it. Don’t you dare tell my Dad. If you tell him, I will find a way to haunt your dreams from across the Atlantic.

America isn’t like the movies, Pigtails. It’s cold. Not the nice, brisk cold we get in December where we sit by the heater.. It’s a bone-chilling, grey kind of cold that makes the sky look like it’s given up. Everything here is too big and yet feels incredibly empty. The buildings are tall, the roads are wide, but there’s no spice.. I never thought I’d say this, but I miss the sound of the vegetable seller shouting outside the gate at six in the morning. Here, it’s just the sound of heating vents humming and angry drivers yelling at each other.

And the food? It’s a disaster. They call this bread, but it tastes like sponge. I tried to find something that tasted like home, but even the Indian restaurants here make everything wrong! I would give all my pocket money for one plate of your mother’s parathas right now. Just one. I’m surviving on cereal and sheer spite.

The people are even worse. The boys at this prep school are all clones of each other. They talk about rowing and winter breaks in Aspen. They look at me like I’m an exhibit in a museum because I have an accent. I had a fight on the second day—some idiot made a comment about my accent. I didn't tackle him into the mud like I used to do to you. I just stared at him until he got uncomfortable. It’s not as satisfying as a good scrap in the garden, to be honest. There’s no fire in these people.

And the girls... ugh. They’re boring, Pigtails. They’re all so polite and quiet, or they spend three hours talking about their hair. None of them have any personality. I walked past a girl yesterday who tripped, and she actually apologized to the floor. Can you imagine? If that had been you, you would have kicked the floor and yelled at it for being in your way. I actually found myself wishing for a second that someone would just scream at me or throw a book at my head. At least then I’d know I was awake.

It’s weird. I spent ten years trying to get away from your constant chattering, and now that I’m here, the silence is actually annoying. It’s like my ears are waiting for a pathaka’ to go off, but nothing happens.

I saw a girl in the park today with two pigtails. For a split second, I almost called out your name. My heart actually did a weird ‘dhak-dhak’ thing, like I’d been caught doing something wrong. Then she turned around and she had blue eyes and a confused look, and I realized how stupid I was being. You’re probably half a world away, blowing out candles and making some ridiculous wish about becoming a famous artist or something equally impossible.

Do me a favor. Don't grow up too fast. Stay small, stay annoying, stay exactly the way you are. Because if I come back in seven years and you’ve become one of these proper ladies who sips tea with her pinky up, I’m going to be very disappointed. I need someone to fight with when I get home. I need someone who remembers what it’s like to have grass stains on their knees.

I miss... I miss the garden. I miss the mango trees. I miss the way the sun hits the veranda in the afternoon. And maybe, in a very small, very secret way that I will deny until my dying breath... I miss our fights.

Don't let anyone pull your hair while I’m gone. That’s my job. I’ve trademarked it.

Eat a piece of cake for me. A big one. The kind that makes your stomach ache.

Happy Birthday, Choti.

Dev”

The letter sat in the trash bin of your kitchen buried under potato peels and empty milk cartons.

By the time you were fourteen, the memory of Dev had begun to scab over. You assumed he was living a glamorous life in America, surrounded by beautiful girls and fast cars, forgetting the girl next door who used to give him black eyes. You grew bitter, thinking he had never bothered to write, never bothered to say goodbye properly, never once thought of you.

You didn't know that he spent that first winter waiting for a reply that would never come.

Every time the mail arrived at his school, he would check for a letter with Indian stamps, his heart sinking a little lower each day. He grew harder. The vulnerability he had shown in that letter—the admission that he missed the you—was tucked away into a dark corner of his soul.

He decided that if you couldn't be bothered to wish him back, then he would become the cold, arrogant man everyone expected him to be.

"She’s probably forgotten me." he had muttered to himself during a lonely Christmas break, staring out at the falling snow. "She’s probably busy being the center of attention, not caring that I’m freezing to death in this godforsaken country."

The silence between you wasn't a choice; it was an accident. A slip of the hand, a mother’s forgetfulness, a piece of paper in the bin.

You both spent the next seven years believing the other didn't care. You both built walls out of that perceived silence—walls of pride, of resentment, of "I don't need you."

And now...you were here.

The golden confetti was still tangled in your hair, and the metallic scent of the party poppers hung heavy in the air, cloying and suffocating. You felt like a statue—cold, rigid, and on display. Beside you, Dev was no better. His jaw was set so tight you could see the pulse thudding in his temple. He looked like a man who had just been sentenced to life imprisonment and was currently recalculating his entire existence.

But the crowd didn't see the horror. They saw a fairytale.

Before you could even process the word Engagement, the swarm descended. It was a sea of shimmering silks, heavy perfumes, and the sharp, rhythmic clinking of gold bangles.

"Oho! Nazar na lage! " Mrs. Kapoor was the first to reach you, grabbing your face in her hands and squeezing your cheeks with the strength of a professional wrestler. "I knew it, what a masterstroke! Look at them standing together. Jodi toh upar waale ne banayi hai!~"

"Actually, Mrs. Kapoor, I think it was made by my Dad-" Dev muttered, but his voice was drowned out by a chorus of giggles from a group of aunties.

"Listen to him! Already so modest," another lady chirped, fanning herself with a lace handkerchief. She poked Dev in the arm. "Dev, beta, you have become so handsome. America has suited you. And our little girl? Look at her! If she wasn't so pretty, we would have thought you’d never come back. Lekin aisi ladki dekh kar toh koi bhi bhaaga chala aaye!"

You felt a wave of nausea. "Auntie, please. We were just... we were surprised."

"Surprised? Arrey! don’t lie to us..~" The Auntie winked, leaning in close enough for you to smell the cardamom on her breath. "We all saw the way you two used to fight as kids. We used to say, 'These two can't live without each other.' Jahan takraar hoti hai, wahan pyaar hota hai! You’ve been in love since you were twelve, haven't you?~"

"I was trying to strangle him when I was twelve!" you blurted out, your voice cracking.

"See? So much passion!" a portly uncle laughed, clapping Dev on the back so hard he stumbled forward. "That’s the secret, son. A fiery wife keeps the house warm. And with your temper and her fire... your children are going to be so cute and strong and witty!"

The word 'children' hit the air like a lead weight. You and Dev both stiffened, your eyes widening in synchronized terror.

"Children?-" Dev asked, his voice an octave higher than usual, looking like he was about to pass out.

"Of course!" Mrs. Kapoor chimed in, leaning between the two of you and linking her arms through yours, dragging you closer to Dev until your shoulders touched. "With these genes? Dev’s height and those eyes, and her skin and that smile? Uff! The babies will be like little dolls. So, tell us... how many do you want? Two? Three? Pehla toh ladka hi hona chahiye, Khanna khandaan ka chiraag!"

You felt the blood rush to your face, a hot, prickly heat that had nothing to do with the summer evening. "Auntie-ji, we haven't even had a glass of water yet, let alone a conversation about...-"

"Don't be shy jaan!~" an older man—someone’s grandfather—rasped, leaning on his cane. "In our day, the wedding happened first and the talking happened later. You are lucky! You have had seven years to miss him. Tell me, Dev, did you have her photo in your wallet in New York? Is that why you didn't bring back a girl from New York?"

Dev looked like he wanted to swallow his own tongue. "I... I didn't have a photo, Uncle, but i had a memory and a damn scar of a girl who once bit my arm because I took her pencil.."

"Aha! A love bite!~" the crowd roared with laughter.

"It wasn't a love bite, I was trying to give him rabies!" you hissed under your breath, but nobody was listening.

The circle kept tightening. Every time you tried to take a step back, another auntie would block your path, asking about the wedding venue, the jewelry, the guest list. They were talking over you, around you, and through you, as if you and Dev were merely decorative centerpieces in their own social drama.

"The wedding must be grand!" someone insisted. "Italy is very 'in' right now."

"No, no, keep it traditional..!" another countered. "A big tent in the garden, just like when they were kids. It’s so romantic! The boy next door and the girl next door. Pyaar dosti hai, isn't it?~"

You looked at Dev. He was staring at a point on the wall, his face pale. He looked exhausted. The sharp, arrogant New York businessman had been dismantled by a group of aunties in less than fifteen minutes.

"There you are! Chalo, chalo, the priest is ready for the shagun ceremony. It’s midnight! Time to make it official!"

You and Dev looked at each other, silent pact was formed in that look—a pact of mutual misery.

"Ready to go kill our futures..?"

"Ready," you whispered.

About two hours later, the silence that followed the departure of the last guest was heavier than the noise of the entire party.

The ballroom, once a shimmering sea of gold and lilac, now looked like a battlefield of discarded marigolds and half-empty champagne flutes. You felt as though your soul had been wrung out like a wet cloth. Your feet were throbbing in your heels, your head was spinning from the scent of incense and heavy floral arrangements, and your heart—well, your heart was currently a lead weight in your chest.

Beside you, Dev looked equally decimated. The "Golden Boy of New York" had lost his luster. His tie was loosened, his top button undone, and his hair—usually a masterpiece of expensive styling—was slightly mussed where he’d run his fingers through it in frustration. For the first time in your lives, you were both too exhausted to even trade insults. The fire was out; only the embers of shared misery remained.

"Can I go to sleep now..?" you whispered, your voice sounding thin and ragged in the echoing hall. "Is the performance over?"

Dev didn't even look at you. He just stared at a stray piece of silver confetti on the floor. "I think the audience has left, Choti. But the theater is still standing. And apparently, we’re the lead actors for the next forty years.."

"Don't..." you groaned, closing your eyes. "Just... don't.."

The five of you—the "Big Three" parents and the two "Victims"—began the slow trek toward the grand entrance of the Khanna mansion. The night air was cool, but it offered no relief to the suffocating reality that had just been clamped around your necks.

Your father and Mr. Khanna walked ahead, their arms draped over each other’s shoulders like soldiers who had just won a decisive war. Your mother followed, her face glowing with a triumphant, blissful serenity that made you want to scream. You and Dev trailed behind, walking in a synchronized, miserable slouch.

The gravel of the driveway crunched under your feet—the same sound that had signaled his departure seven years ago. Back then, it sounded like freedom. Tonight, it sounded like the clicking of a handcuff.

"What a night!" Mr. Khanna boomed, his voice echoing in the quiet night. "Raj, did you see the look on Mrs. Kapoor’s face? She’s probably already ordering her saree for the Sangeet."

"It was perfect, Om," your father replied, his voice thick with emotion. "Our dream is finally coming true. Look at them, walking together. It’s like they were never apart."

You and Dev exchanged a quick, sideways glance. If looks could kill, the "dream" would have ended right there in the gravel.

"They need time, Raj," your mother chimed in, her eyes sparkling. "They’ve spent so much time apart. They need to reconnect. To find that... that 'spark' again."

"Reconnect?" you muttered under your breath. "I’d rather reconnect with a live electrical wire."

"I heard that," Dev whispered, though there was no bite in it. "And for once, I agree."

As you reached your family’s car, your father turned around, a sudden, "brilliant" light in his eyes. He clapped his hands together, looking from you to Dev with the mischievous grin of a man who had watched way too many Bollywood movies.

"I’ve had an idea!" he announced. "A fantastic idea! We cannot let this momentum fade. These two need to spend quality time together, away from the prying eyes of the aunties and the pressure of the office."

You felt a prickle of dread. "Papa, no. I have work. I have designs to finish—"

"And I have a merger to oversee, Uncle," Dev added quickly, stepping forward. "New York doesn't sleep, and neither does my inbox..!"

"Nonsense!" Mr. Khanna laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "The firms can wait. The legacy is more important. Raj, what were you thinking?"

Your father beamed. "Switzerland! Next week! Just the five of us—well, the two of you can go on little hikes and boat rides while we 'oldies' enjoy the mountain air. It will be beautiful! Snow, chocolate, the Alps... it’s exactly what the doctor ordered."

You felt the air leave your lungs. "Switzerland? Papa, this isn't a 90s movie! I’m not going to run through a meadow in a chiffon saree while he plays a mandolin! Yeh sab kya filmy drama haiii?-"

"Think about it, beti!" your mother urged, gripping your arm. "The scenery! The romance! It’s the perfect place to fall in love. It’s a tradition for couples like you. Every great love story has a Swiss chapter!"

Dev looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. "Dad, this is ridiculous..! I am a businessman, not Raj Malhotra. I don't 'frolic' in meadows."

"You’ll frolic if I tell you to frolic, Dev!" Mr. Khanna joked, though his eyes remained firm. "It’s decided. A week in the Alps. We’ll leave next Friday. It’s the best way to get over the initial... 'awkwardness' of the engagement."

"It’s not awkwardness, it’s a hostage situation!" you cried out, but your mother was already ushering you toward the car door.

"Don't be so dramatic, meri jaan," she cooed. "It’s going to be magical. You’ll see..!"

Your father climbed into the driver's seat, and your mother slid into the back beside you. The engine purred to life. You looked out the window at Dev, who was still standing on the gravel, framed by the moonlight and the shadow of his father.

He looked at you—truly looked at you—and for a second, the exhaustion and the irritation faded into a weird, silent understanding. You were both in the same sinking boat. You were both being dragged into a fantasy world that neither of you believed in.

"Well," Dev said, leaning against your car window as it started to roll up. He offered a small, tired smirk—the first one all night that didn't feel like a weapon. "I guess I should go pack my sweaters. See you in the mountains, Choti."

"Don't forget your mandolin, Bandar," you countered, though your voice lacked its usual fire. "I’ll bring the chiffon sarees."

"Bye, Dev!" your mother called out, waving cheerfully. "See you soon, beta!"

Dev stepped back, giving a polite nod to your parents before his eyes flickered back to yours. "Bye, Choti."

"Bye, Bandar," you whispered as the car began to pull away.

You watched his figure get smaller in the distance until the gates of the Khanna estate swung shut, cutting off the view. You slumped back into the seat, staring at the back of your father’s head. The silence of the car was a relief, but the words "Switzerland" kept echoing in your mind like a threat.

"Oh, I’m so excited!" your mother sighed, clutching her hands to her chest. "Switzerland! Can you imagine? The snow-capped peaks, the cozy fires... it’s going to be so romantic, beti. It’s going to be just like the movies! Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, Chandni... it’s going to be a dream come true!"

You leaned your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the streetlights of the city blur past. You thought of Dev’s face, the gold confetti, the terrifying aunties, and the looming reality of a wedding you didn't want to a man you were supposed to hate.

"Haan, Maa," you muttered, a dark, cynical smile playing on your lips. "It’s going to be just like the movies..you know which moviei have in mind?~"

"Which, beti?" she asked, confused.

You closed your eyes, the image of Dev’s arrogant, handsome, infuriating face burned into your eyelids.

"It's going to be like Darr.." you whispered. "A total psychological thriller! I swear if he starts stuttering i will hit him in the head with a Cowbell! C-C-Choti my ass.."

5 days later, Dehli, India:

The sunlight of a late Delhi afternoon filtered through the heavy silk curtains of Dev’s bedroom, casting long, golden bars across the floor that looked suspiciously like the grates of a holding cell. Behind him, two oversized suitcases stood like silent sentinels, packed with the kind of high-end cashmere and structured wool coats that screamed "Swiss Alps" and "Executive Leisure."

Dev stood by the window, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers, staring out at the garden wall that separated his life from yours. For the last five days, he had attempted a feat of mental gymnastics that would have impressed an Olympian: he had tried to work himself into a state of total amnesia.

He had spent eighteen hours a day holed up in the Khanna Group’s satellite office, drowning in spreadsheets, quarterly projections, and legal briefs. He had snapped at three junior analysts, drank enough espresso to power a small village, and stared at his laptop screen until the numbers blurred into a chaotic mess of lilac-colored lines.

It hadn't worked.

Every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see profit margins. He saw the flash of your gold jewelry. He heard the sharp, melodic whoosh of your dress as you stormed away from him. And most annoyingly, he heard your voice—that specific, high-pitched "Dev!" that always sounded like a fuse being lit.

"Aafat hai woh ladki... sach mein aafat.." he muttered to the empty room, his voice raspy from a week of caffeine and silence.

He turned away from the window and paced the length of his Persian rug. The itinerary for the trip was sitting on his dresser, printed on thick, cream-colored cardstock. Gstaad. Of course, it was fucking Gstaad. His father hadn't just picked a mountain; he’d picked a postcard. He’d already seen the photos of the chalet—a sprawling, rustic-chic masterpiece of wood and glass with panoramic views of the Bernese Oberland.

He knew exactly what the week was going to look like. It was a tactical ambush. A damn trap!

His father and your father would spend their mornings "discussing business" while actually plotting the seating chart for the wedding. His mother and yours would be scouting locations for the Mehndi. And that would leave him and you..

"Trapped in a gondola.." Dev whispered, a shudder of genuine dread running down his spine. "They’re going to put us in a gondola with a bottle of wine and 'accidentally' forget to meet us at the top. Phataka kahin ki... !"

He stopped in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He looked like the perfect hero—sharp jaw, tired but brooding eyes, the kind of "foreign-return" polish that made aunties weep. But inside, he felt like a fraud.

He looked at the ghost of a smile in his reflection and thought of the legendary filmmaker who had turned Switzerland into a temple of Indian romance.

"Yash-ji..!" Dev whined almost theatrical, addressing the empty air with a dry, cynical tilt of his head. "I respect the craft, truly. But you wouldn't have casted me. Not in a million years. I’m no Shah Rukh. I don’t do the 'arms-wide-open' thing, and I certainly don't have the patience for a slow-motion reunion in a field of mustard.."

He paused, his mind involuntarily drifting to the image of you in that lilac dress.

"And her?" He let out a short, bark of a laugh. "She’s no Sridevi..Or Juhi- or Kajol..! Sridevi was ethereal, Juhi has class, Kajol has...- Eyebrows! This Dramebaaz is a hurricane in a sari..She doesn't dance; she stomps. She doesn't whisper sweet nothings; she hurls insults like they’re Olympic javelins. Chudail doesn't even begin to cover it..!"

He sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his face with his hands. He thought about the eyes—your eyes—when you had been yelling at him in the study. They were large, dark, and filled with a terrifying, beautiful intensity.

"Even if her eyes are just as big as Sridevi's when she yells.." he admitted softly, before shaking his head violently. "No. Stop it. Focus, Khanna."

His plan for Switzerland was simple: Strategic Obnoxiousness. If he couldn't stop the marriage through logic, he would stop it through character assassination. He would be the most difficult, arrogant, cold-hearted version of himself. He would be a dick until you finally snapped and told your father that you’d rather marry a mountain goat than Dev Khanna.

"I’ll just be impossible!" he plotted, standing up and checking his watch. "I’ll complain about the altitude. I’ll stay on my phone during dinner. I’ll make sarcastic comments about her 'Abstract Expressionism' until she throws a fondue pot at me. Ziddi hai, toh main bhi ziddi hoon..!"

But deep down, in a place he refused to acknowledge, a memory stirred. It was the memory of a sixteen-year-old boy in a cold dorm room, writing a letter he never got a reply to. He remembered the feeling of wanting to hear your voice in a land that was too quiet.

He looked at his packed bags again. The "Quiet" was over. He was going to a place where the air was thin and the emotions were supposed to be high.

"Switzerland.." he muttered, grabbing his blazer. "The land of watches and chocolate. Let’s see how long it takes for her to try and push me off a cliff."

He walked to the door, pausing for one last look at the room. He felt like a soldier going into a battle where the only way to win was to lose.

"Just remember, Dev.." he told himself as he switched off the light. "She’s a Patakha. One wrong move, and the whole mountain goes up in smoke."

He walked out, the click of the door sounding like the first beat of a drum. The "remake" was starting, whether he liked it or not. And as he headed down the stairs to meet his father, he could already hear the phantom melody of a mandolin playing in the distance, mocking him.

"I really, really hate Yash Chopra movies." he lied to himself, one last time, before the car door closed.

At the same time, not far away, the glowing screen of your television was the only light in your darkened bedroom, casting flickering hues of mustard-yellow and romantic crimson across your face. You were sprawled across your duvet, chin propped on your palms, watching the most iconic movie in Indian cinematic history, since Sholay.

On the screen, the Swiss Alps looked like a dream—pristine, white, and overflowing with the kind of magic that made every girl in India believe in "The One."

Amrish Puri had finally let go of Kajol’s hand. The train was moving. Shah Rukh Khan was reaching out, his face etched with a yearning that could melt glaciers.

"Jaa, Simran, jaa... jee le apni zindagi..!" you whispered along with the dialogue, a small, treacherous sigh escaping your lips as you wiped a tear away.

You closed your eyes for a second, the legendary background score swelling in your ears. The mandolin plucked at your heartstrings. In the quiet of your room, surrounded by open suitcases and half-packed toiletries, your imagination—fueled by a week of sleep deprivation and pure dread—decided to play a cruel trick on you...

Suddenly, you weren't in your bedroom in Delhi. You were standing in the middle of a waist-deep snowbank in Saanen, Switzerland. You were draped in a vibrant, emerald-green silk saree that defied the laws of thermodynamics, the fabric fluttering gracefully in a wind that should have given you hypothermia. Your hair was a perfect, glossy mane, and your eyes were rimmed with just the right amount of cinematic kohl.

You were Simran.

And there, leaning against a rustic wooden fence with a leather jacket slung over his shoulder and a mandolin in his hand, was Raj.

But as the "Raj" in your head turned around, he didn't have Shah Rukh’s dimples. He had Dev’s sharp, arrogant jawline. He had that "I-own-this-mountain" smirk and those dark, mocking eyes that always looked like they were calculating exactly how to annoy you.

The music shifted. Instead of the soulful Tujhe Dekha Toh, the tempo turned frantic, like a dhol player had a sudden heart attack.

"Raj!" you screamed, but it wasn't a cry of longing. You weren't running toward him with open arms. You were trudging through the snow like an angry penguin, tripping over your heavy silk hem. "You damn bloody fool! Andar! Asshole! Why didn't you tell me the train leaves at ten? I’ve been standing here for forty minutes! Meri naak jam gayi hai!"

Dev—Raj— or "Nightmare—Raj", didn't run to meet you. He stayed put, adjusting his stupid fedora and looking at his watch with a disgusted sigh.

"Oh, shut up, Simran you chudail!" he yelled back, his voice echoing off the peaks. "It’s not my fault you take three hours to drape a piece of cloth! And look at you! You look like a goddamn neon-green highlighter lost in the woods. Where is your coat? Dimaag bech kar aayi ho kya?!"

"I’m supposed to be ethereal!" you shrieked, finally reaching him and shoving him hard in the chest. The mandolin clattered to the ground. "And you! You look like a goddamn idiot with that fedora! It’s tilted to the left, you moron! It makes your head look lopsided!"

"My head is perfect!" Dev-Raj roared, grabbing your shoulders, but not to embrace you. He shook you slightly. "How much chocolate did you eat on the damn flight? You’re acting like a sugar-crazed toddler! You nearly cost us the Eurail pass because you wanted to buy 'authentic' cowbells!"

"They were for my collection!" you yelled, reaching up and yanking the fedora off his head, throwing it into a nearby snowbank.

"My hat!" he gasped, horrified.

"Go get it, Raj Malhotra!" you pointed toward the freezing slush. "And while you’re at it, find a personality that isn't eighty percent ego and twenty percent hair gel!"

In your head, the romantic reunion dissolved into a chaotic wrestling match. You tackled him into the snow. There was no slow-motion spinning, n There was only the sound of two people grunting as they rolled down a hill, emerald silk and black leather tangling together as the melody of "Tujhe dekha to ye jana sanam" played in the background.

"Get off me, you pathaka! You gained god knows how many pounds by eating all that chocolate on the flight!" Dev’s voice muffled as you pushed a handful of Swiss snow into his mouth.

"Eat it! It’s organic!!" you screamed, sitting on his chest and trying to pin his arms down.

Your eyes snapped open.

The TV was still on, but the movie was alreadt over.

"Oh, God..!" you groaned, burying your face in your pillow. "That’s exactly how it’s going to go. There will be no violins. There will only be assault and battery in the shadow of the Matterhorn.."

The irony was physically painful. Millions of women would kill to be in your position—heading to a luxury chalet in Gstaad with a man who, unfortunately, looked like a literal Greek god in a suit. But those women didn't know the "Raj" in this story. They didn't know that under the cashmere sweaters lived a man who would probably try to hide your passport in a fondue pot just to see you cry.

You reached for the remote and clicked the TV off with a sharp, decisive snap. The silence of the room rushed back in, feeling heavy and ominous.

You stood up, your legs feeling like lead. You looked around your room one last time. Your suitcases were closed—one large one for the "proper lady" outfits your mother had picked out, and a smaller carry-on where you’d hidden your most comfortable, oversized hoodies and a pair of sneakers you could actually run in.

You grabbed the handles and dragged them toward the door. Each thump-thump of the wheels on the floorboards sounded like a funeral march.

"Beti! Are you coming? The taxi is here!" your father’s cheerful voice called from downstairs.

"Coming!" you yelled back, though your voice sounded like it belonged to someone being led to the gallows.

You made your way down the stairs, struggling with the weight of your bags. Your mother was already at the front door, looking radiant in a traveling suit, checking her watch every two seconds.

"Finally!" she beamed, coming over to take your smaller bag. "Oh, meri jaan, don't look so grumpy! You’re going to Switzerland! Do you know how many girls would give their right arm for this? To be engaged to a boy like Dev and heading to the Alps? Uff, kismat wali ho tum!"

"Yeah, Mom. Real lucky.." you grumbled, following her out to the driveway.

Your father was busy loading the trunk, humming a tune—Tujhe Dekha Toh, of course. You wanted to scream. You wanted to sit on the driveway and refuse to move, like a stubborn mule.

"Is the Khanna family already at the airport?" your father asked as you climbed into the back seat of the car.

"Yes, Om called. They’re just checking in," your mother replied, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Dev is already there. He’s been so busy this week, poor boy, he probably needs this vacation more than anyone."

"He needs a lobotomy.." you whispered, slumped against the window.

"Mummy, please.." you started, your voice dropping into that rhythmic, desperate whine as the car picked up speed toward the airport. "It’s not too late. We could just tell the driver to turn around. We could go to Jaipur instead! It’s closer! No snow! No Dev!"

"Beti, stop it.." your mother laughed, patting your knee. "It’s going to be magical. Just think of the mountains!"

"I am thinking of the mountains!" you wailed, sliding down the seat until your chin hit your chest. "I’m thinking of which one I’m going to have to push him off of! Nahiiiii! I don't want to go! I want to stay here! Mummy, reham karo! This is going to be a disaster! Bilkul ghatiya trip hone wali hai!"

But the car didn't stop. It sped on toward the airport, leaving your protestations behind in a cloud of exhaust. You stared out the window, your heart sinking with every kilometer. You were heading for the snow, but you knew one thing for sure: there would be no emerald sarees, no mandolins, and definitely no "happily ever after" waiting for you at the top of the mountain.

"I hate Switzerland.." you whispered to the blurred trees. "And I hate Raj Malhotra even more."

The International Airport was a chaotic symphony of rolling suitcases, frantic announcements, and the heavy, humid scent of pre-monsoon air fighting against the industrial chill of the air conditioning. You walked through the sliding glass doors of Terminal 3 feeling like a prisoner entering the gulag—if the gulag had a Duty-Free section and premium lounges.

Your father was practically skipping, his eyes scanning the crowds for the familiar silhouette of the Khanna family. Your mother was adjusting her pashmina for the tenth time, looking like she was ready for a photoshoot with Vogue India.

"There they are!" your father bellowed, waving his arm so enthusiastically he nearly clocked a passing flight attendant.

You looked. And there he was.

Dev was leaning against a luggage trolley, looking offensively composed. He was wearing a navy blue pea coat over a white turtleneck, looking exactly like the kind of man who belongs on a private jet or a yacht in Monaco. He was staring at his phone, his thumb flying across the screen as if he were trying to solve the global financial crisis before takeoff.

As your families converged, the air became thick with the sounds of "Om!" and "Raj!" and the aggressive hugging of middle-aged men.

"Dev, beta! Look at you, already in Swiss mode!" your mother cooed, reaching out to pat his arm.

Dev looked up, and his eyes met yours. For a split second, that shared dread from the veranda returned—a silent, flickering signal of 'Can you believe this is happening?'—before he masked it with that signature cool, arrogant New York mask.

"Aunty.. Uncle." he greeted politely. Then he looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your oversized hoodie and messy bun. "And... Choti. Nice to see you’ve decided to travel in your pajamas. Very 'homely'."

"It’s an 'athleisure' set, you ghada.." you snapped, your exhaustion momentarily replaced by the familiar urge to kick his shins. "Some of us prioritize comfort over looking like an extra in a corporate thriller."

"Children, bas!" Mr. Khanna laughed, clapped Dev on the back. "Save the energy for the mountains! We have a long journey ahead. And because we want this trip to be special from the very first minute... we have a little surprise."

A cold shiver went down your spine. You looked at Dev. He had stopped scrolling. His eyebrows were knit together in a look of profound suspicion.

"What surprise, Dad?" Dev asked, his voice cautious.

Your father stepped forward, beaming, and pulled out a stack of boarding passes from his breast pocket like he was revealing a winning lottery ticket.

"We know how much you two have missed each other’s company, hmm!" your father started, his voice dripping with misplaced sentiment. "So... we went to the airline counter early.."

"Oh no-" you whispered.

"Oh yes!" your mother chirped. "We’ve rearranged the seating! Your fathers and I are going to sit in the row behind you and you two? You have the two-seater 'couple's suite' in the front of the cabin. Side-by-side. For eight. Full. Hours."

The silence that followed was so heavy it felt like it might crack the marble flooring of the terminal.

"Side-by-side?" Dev repeated, his voice cracking slightly. "In the two-seater? The one with the shared armrest?"

"Exactly!" Mr. Khanna said, oblivious to the fact that his son looked like he was about to faint. "It’s the most comfortable spot in Business Class. You can talk, you can watch movies, you can plan your future! It’s the perfect start to the 'Khanna-Sharma' honeymoon-before-the-wedding!"

"Papa, please," you gasped, clutching his sleeve. "He snores! I know he snores! I remember from when we were eight and fell asleep in the garden! I can't be trapped next to a snoring skyscraper for eight hours! Main mar jaoongi!"

"I do not snore!" Dev roared, his composure finally snapping. "And I have a lot of work to do! I need space! I need a 'work zone'! Dad, tell them we need to sit separately for... for 'productivity' reasons!"

"Productivity?" your mother laughed, wagging a finger at him. "The only thing you need to be productive about is making my daughter smile, Dev. Now, no more arguments! The luggage is checked, the seats are locked. It’s fate!"

As your parents marched ahead, chatting happily about the Swiss exchange rate, you and Dev were left to walk toward the security gate like two convicts walking toward the electric chair.

"Eight hours.. " you muttered, staring at the back of your father’s head. "Eight hours of your cologne and your sighing and your 'New York' attitude. I’m going to jump out of the emergency exit. I swear to God, Dev, I’ll do it."

"If you jump, I’m jumping after you," Dev hissed, his pace quickening. "Not to save you, but because the silence of the clouds would be better than listening to you complain about the cabin temperature for five thousand miles."

"I don't complain about the temperature!"

"You complain about the existence of air, Choti! You’re a professional victim! Pure raste tum mere kaan khao gi!"

"Oh, please! You’re the one who’s going to be hogging the armrest and calling the flight attendant every five minutes for 'sparkling water' like a pampered prince!"

You reached the security line, and as you stood there, waiting for your bags to be scanned, the reality of the seating arrangement began to sink in. You were going to be inches away from him. In the dark. In a pressurized cabin. With nowhere to run.

"This is their plan..." Dev said, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper as he leaned toward you. "They’re trying to force the magic. They think if they trap us in a confined space long enough, we’ll eventually stop fighting and start... I don't know, gazing into each other's eyes."

"Over a tray of airline pasta?" you scoffed. "They’re more delusional than I thought.."

"It’s not just delusional, it’s dangerous." Dev said, grabbing his grey plastic bin from the conveyor belt. "If you touch my side of the seat, I’m calling the air marshal. I’m serious. Border line cross mat karna."

"I wouldn't touch your side with a ten-foot pole!" you retorted, shoving your handbag onto the belt. "I’m going to build a wall out of pillows. A Great Wall of Cushion. You won't even see my face until we hit Zurich!"

The boarding call felt like a bell tolling for your execution. You followed your parents down the jet bridge, your heart hammering against your ribs.

As you stepped onto the plane, the cool, recycled air hit you. The flight attendants greeted you with practiced, porcelain smiles. You moved toward the front, toward the 'Couple’s Suite'—two plush, leather seats nestled together in a private pod, separated from the rest of the world by a sleek sliding door.

"Oh, look at it!" your mother whispered from behind you, pushing you into the pod. "So cozy! So romantic! Have a wonderful flight, children!"

She and the fathers moved to their seats a few rows back, leaving you and Dev standing in the narrow aisle, staring at the two seats as if they were inhabited by ghosts.

"You take the window." Dev said, his voice tight. "I want the aisle so I can escape to the bathroom every ten minutes to regain my sanity."

"Fine-" you snapped, crawling over the seat and huddling against the window.

You immediately began your defensive maneuvers. You grabbed the two provided pillows and jammed them into the space between your seat and his. You took the heavy wool blanket and wrapped it around yourself like a cocoon, leaving only your eyes visible.

Dev sat down, his large frame making the 'cozy' suite feel suddenly very, very small. He didn't look at you. He pulled out a pair of noise-canceling headphones and adjusted them with a grim finality.

"Don't talk to me." he said, his voice muffled by the headrest.

"Don't even breathe in my direction-" you countered, pulling the blanket tighter.

The plane began to push back from the gate. The safety video started playing on the screen in front of you—a cheery animation about life vests and oxygen masks. You looked at the oxygen mask icon and thought, I’m going to need that soon. Just to keep from screaming.

As the engines roared to life and the plane began its taxi, you felt the vibration through the floorboards. You looked out the window at the flickering lights of Delhi, feeling a sudden, sharp pang of 'Ghar ki yaad' before you’d even left the ground.

You glanced sideways at Dev. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles were white.

"Dev?" you whispered.

"What?" he snapped, not turning his head.

"If you eat all the warm nuts before I get any... I will make the next eight hours a living hell for you."

Dev let out a long, slow breath, a sound that was half-laugh and half-sob of despair. He finally turned his head, looking at you through the gap in your pillow wall.

"I hate you so much, Choti."

"I hate you more, Bandar."

The plane accelerated, the force of the takeoff pinning you both back into your seats. Side-by-side. Shoulder-to-shoulder. Bound by law, by family, and by a very expensive airline ticket..

The hum of the Boeing 777 was a low, meditative drone that usually lulled passengers into a peaceful stupor. But inside the "Couple’s Suite," the air was so thick with unspoken hostility it was a wonder the oxygen masks hadn't already deployed.

Dev was a portrait of corporate intensity. He had his Laptop balanced on his tray table, the blue light of a complex financial model reflecting in his dark eyes. He wore his noise-canceling headphones like a suit of armor, his fingers flying across the trackpad with the rhythm of a man who believed that if he analyzed enough data, he could somehow calculate an exit strategy from his own engagement.

You, on the other hand, were glued to the window. You had built a literal rampart out of the three airline pillows and two fleece blankets, creating a "No-Dev Zone" that occupied exactly fifty percent of the shared space. You stared out at the vast, indigo abyss of the night sky over the Arabian Sea, watching the distant flicker of stars that seemed far more approachable than the man sitting three inches to your left.

For three hours, the only sound between you was the occasional click of his keys and the rustle of your snack packet. It was a cold war at thirty-five thousand feet.

"Kitna dikhawa karta hai..." you muttered under your breath, watching him frown at a bar chart. He looked so polished, so in control.

Then, the world shifted.

It started as a subtle shudder, a tiny vibration that rattled the ice in Dev’s glass of sparkling water. You stiffened, your fingers gripping the armrest.

"Did you feel that?-" you whispered, forgetting the pillow wall for a second.

Dev didn't even look up. He adjusted his glasses, his eyes never leaving the screen. "It’s called 'clear air turbulence,' Choti. It’s a basic fluid dynamics phenomenon. Don’t be a dramebaaz.."

"I'm not being a dramebaaz! The plane just... it did a thing..!"

"The plane is flying through a gaseous medium at eight hundred kilometers per hour. It’s going to 'do things.' Go back to staring at the clouds."

You huffed, retreating into your blanket cocoon. But a minute later, the shudder turned into a jolt. The seatbelt sign illuminated with a sharp, ominous ding.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the seatbelt sign. We are experiencing some chop. Please return to your seats..."

The plane suddenly dropped—not much, maybe ten feet—but your stomach stayed at the previous altitude. You let out a small, strangled yelp.

"Dev! woh dekho! The wing is shaking! Why is the wing shaking?!"

Dev finally closed his laptop, though he did it with the exasperated sigh of a martyr. He pulled one ear cup off. "The wing is supposed to shake, If it didn't shake, it would snap off. It’s engineered for flexibility. Honestly, did you fail basic physics along with common sense?"

"Oh, shut up with your 'engineering'!" you hissed, your heart beginning to drum against your ribs. "We are in a metal tube over the ocean! Logic doesn't apply here! Only God applies here!"

"Well, tell God to keep it down, I’m trying to finish this memo!" he retorted, leaning back and closing his eyes, looking infuriatingly bored.

Then, the floor dropped out from under you.

It wasn't a jolt. It was a plummet. A massive air pocket swallowed the aircraft, and for two terrifying seconds, you were weightless. A half-full cup of coffee on a tray across the aisle took flight, spraying a dark arc across the ceiling. The cabin erupted in a chorus of gasps and high-pitched screams.

You didn't think. You didn't remember the Seven-Year War, You simply lunged to the left, diving through the Great Wall of Pillows and slamming into Dev’s side.

Your arms wrapped around his bicep with the grip of a drowning sailor, and you buried your face into the crook of his neck, squeezing your eyes shut.

"HAYE BHAGAVAAN! MAR GAYE!" You shrieked into his turtleneck.

Dev wasn't acting bored anymore. The jolt had sent his laptop sliding onto the floor, and his own hands had instinctively flown out to grab the armrests. He was stiff as a board, his breath hitching. As the plane bucked again, a violent, sideways shudder that made the overhead bins groan, he actually let out a very un-New-York-like "Whoa!"

"Dev! Dev, do something!" you wailed, your voice muffled by his shoulder. "Tell them to stop! Call your Dad! Call the pilot! Mujhe marna nahi hai! "

"What do you want me to do?! Push the plane back up?!" he shouted back, though he didn't push you away. In fact, as the plane took another sickening dip, his arm instinctively came around you, pulling you tighter against his chest.

"I haven't even been to Switzerland yet!" you sobbed into his expensive wool coat. "I haven't eaten the chocolate! I haven't seen a cow with a bell! This is so unfair! Sab tumhari wajah se ho raha hai!"

"Meri?!" Dev gasped, his voice tight with his own rising panic as the plane rattled like a tin can full of marbles. "How is the atmospheric pressure my fault, you crazy woman?!"

"Because you brought the manhoosiyat!" you cried, tightening your death-grip on his waist. "You and your stupid business and your stupid wedding! The universe is trying to save me from you by crashing the plane!"

The aircraft took another violent lurch to the right. A flight attendant who had been trying to reach her jumpseat was thrown against a locker. The lights flickered, plunged the cabin into darkness for a heartbeat, and then returned in a ghostly, dim emergency red.

You were shaking now, genuine tears pricking your eyes. "Dev... Dev, I'm scared! Mujhe bahut darr lag raha hai..!"

The arrogance finally drained out of him. He felt your heart racing against his ribs, felt the way you were trembling. His grip on you softened, his hand moving to the back of your head, pressing you closer so you wouldn't see the flickering lights.

"Hey... hey, look at me..!" he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, sounding rough and surprisingly steady. "Look at me Choti."

You shook your head violently against his chest.

"Listen to me.." he insisted, nudging your chin up with his hand. You opened your eyes, your lashes wet, and looked into his. His face was inches from yours, and for once, there was no mockery there. Just a pale, intense focus.

"We aren't going to die alright?" he said, even as the plane gave another sharp, jarring shudder. "The 777 is the safest long-haul aircraft in the world. This is just a thunderstorm over the Maldives. We’ve been through worse things than a little wind."

"Like what?-" you sniffled.

"Like your tenth birthday party where you set the curtains on fire..!" he reminded you, a tiny, ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips.

You let out a watery, hiccuping laugh. "That was your fault. You dared me to see if the silk was real."

"Exactly. And we survived that." He took a deep breath as the plane finally seemed to level out, the violent shaking subsiding into a rhythmic, heavy vibration. "But hey... listen."

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear.

"If the worst happens-" he whispered, his tone shifting back into that dry, defensive humor you knew so well, "if we really are going down... I promise you one thing."

"What?"

"I’ll buy you a chocolate factory in heaven. A big one. With a fountain of Swiss milk chocolate and a private meadow where no aunties can reach us. And I’ll even let you pull my hair once a day, free of charge..!"

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your nose red and your hair a complete disaster. "A whole factory? With the hazelnuts?"

"With the hazelnuts." he swore, his dark eyes fixed on yours. "And I’ll make sure there’s a 'No-Dev' section where you can hide."

You stared at him for a long beat. The plane was still swaying, the "Fasten Seatbelt" sign still glowing, but the paralyzing terror had been replaced by a strange, humming warmth in your chest. You realized you were still draped across his lap like a Victorian heroine, your hands fisted in his turtleneck.

You slowly untangled yourself, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks that had nothing to do with the cabin pressure. You shuffled back toward your window, though you didn't rebuild the pillow wall.

"You're still an asshole, Dev-" you whispered, wiping a tear away with the back of your hand.

"And you're still a dramebaaz," he replied, though he reached down and picked up your fallen blanket, tossing it back over your knees.

He didn't go back to his laptop. He sat there, his shoulder still touching yours, watching the "Flight Path" map on the screen. The plane gave one last, gentle bob before the air smoothed out completely.

"Hey.." he said after a minute of silence.

"Hmm?"

"In heaven... do you think they have Business Class? Or do we have to fly on wings?"

You looked at him and, for the first time in seven years, you gave him a real smile—not a smirk, not a sneer, but a genuine, tired little smile.

"If I have to fly next to you for eternity, Dev, I’m demanding an upgrade to First Class. God owes me that much."

Dev chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated in the small space between you. He leaned his head back against the headrest, his eyes closing.

"Deal, Choti. Deal."

The rest of the flight was quiet. You didn't talk much, but the pillow wall stayed down. Every time the plane hit a tiny bump, his hand would twitch toward yours on the armrest, and you didn't move away. You both sat there in the dim light, two enemies suspended in the air, waiting for the mountains to appear and the real war to begin. But for now, at thirty-five thousand feet, the chocolate factory in heaven felt like the only thing that mattered..For now.

The moment the wheels of the aircraft kissed the tarmac at Zurich Airport, a sound escaped your throat that was part-sob, part-prayer. The deceleration pushed you back into the leather seat, but all you could think about was the solid, unmoving earth beneath the runway.

As the "Fasten Seatbelt" sign finally chimed off, you didn't wait for the refined, orderly exit expected of a Business Class passenger. You unbuckled with trembling fingers, nearly tripping over the "Great Wall of Pillows" you had built and then abandoned in your moment of mortal terror.

"Careful, Phataka." Dev’s voice came from behind you, low and steady. "The ground isn't going anywhere. Unlike your dignity, which seems to have stayed somewhere over the Arabian Sea.."

You didn't even have the energy to snap back. You grabbed your carry-on and practically bolted toward the exit. The cool, crisp Swiss air hit you the moment you stepped into the jet bridge, and it felt like a holy anointing. You weren't in a chocolate factory in heaven; you were in a glass-and-steel terminal in Zurich, and it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

As you cleared the gate, you saw your parents and Uncle Raj waiting by the luggage carousel. Your mother was adjusting her silk scarf, looking perfectly refreshed, while your father and Uncle Raj were already laughing about something.

"Mummy!" You didn't care who was watching. You threw your arms around your mother, burying your face in her shoulder. "Mummy, I thought we were gone! I thought the plane was going to snap in half! Main toh darr ke maare mar hi gayi thi!"

Your mother chuckled, patting your back with a soothing hand, though her eyes were twinkling with amusement. "Oho, meri jaan, it was just a little 'dhakka'! Look at you, trembling like a leaf! Your father and Raj were sitting right behind you, we were perfectly fine."

"Fine? The ceiling was leaking coffee, Maa!" you wailed, pulling back to look at her. "It was like a horror movie! I saw my whole life flash before my eyes! The school exams, the first time I burnt the rotis... everything!"

Your father stepped forward, chuckling as he pulled you into a side-hug. "Our little drama queen. Even at thirty thousand feet, she finds a way to make a scene."

"It wasn't a scene, Papa! Ask Dev! He saw it!"

At the mention of his name, Dev sauntered up, looking disgustingly handsome and entirely unbothered. He hadn't even bothered to button his coat, and his hands were shoved casually into his pockets. Uncle Raj looked at his son with a proud, knowing smile—the single father had raised a man who seemed carved out of granite.

"Dev, beta.." Uncle Raj said, his voice warm. "Was it really that bad? Our girl here looks like she’s seen a ghost."

Dev’s lips quirked into that slow, dangerous smirk you had come to loathe. He shot a glance at you—wet lashes, frizzy hair, and a frantic expression—and then looked back at the parents.

"Oh, it was a 'crisis,' Dad!" Dev said, his tone dripping with mock solemnity. "I believe at one point, she was convinced the wing was an optional attachment. But don't worry—she found a very effective way to cope..!"

You froze. You knew that look. That was the look of a predator who had found a particularly juicy piece of leverage.

"What do you mean, beta?" your mother asked, leaning in, her maternal intuition sensing a "moment."

"Well.." Dev drawled, stepping closer into the family circle. "The moment the plane took a tiny dip—barely a hiccup, really—someone decided that the shared armrest wasn't enough. She launched herself across the seat like a heat-seeking missile. I’ve had business meetings less intense than the grip she had on my arm. I think I might have permanent bruising..!"

"Dev! Chup kar!" you hissed, your face turning a shade of red that rivaled a Swiss strawberry.

"No, no, let him speak!" your father laughed, delighted. "She clung to you, did she?"

"Clung!?" Dev laughed, a rich, teasing sound. "She was practically part of my upholstery. She was whispering prayers in three different languages and making me promise her things. She even asked if I’d buy her a chocolate factory if we died. Itna darr..!~"

He looked at you, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I have to say, for someone who spent the first three hours building a fortress of pillows to keep me away, she sure didn't mind the 'proximity' when the lights started flickering."

You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you. "I was in shock! It was a survival instinct! A lizard would have done the same thing!"

"A very loud, very annoying lizard." Dev added, winked at Uncle Raj.

But then, the atmosphere shifted. You expected your parents to join in the teasing, to laugh at your cowardice. Instead, you saw your mother look at Uncle Raj, and a slow, secret smile spread across both their faces. Your father’s chest puffed out with a strange sort of contentment.

"Well well~" your father said, his voice dropping into that deep, sentimental tone that always signaled trouble. "It’s good to know that in a moment of danger, you knew exactly where to turn, beti! Instinct doesn't lie!"

"Exactly!~" Uncle Raj agreed, his eyes softening as he looked at you and Dev standing together. "When the storm comes, you hold onto what is yours. It’s a sign, Raj. A beautiful sign."

Your mother’s eyes were practically misty. "I knew it. I told you, they have that 'connection.' Even if they fight, their hearts know the truth. Bura waqt hi toh insaan ko kareeb laata hai..~"

Dev’s smirk vanished instantly. His jaw dropped slightly as he realized he had accidentally handed the parents the ultimate romantic narrative. He had tried to tease you, to embarrass you into silence, but instead, he had given them "proof" that the engagement was destiny.

His face fell, the cocky new york mask slipping to reveal a look of absolute, horrified realization; He had played himself.

"Wait—no..!" Dev started, holding up a hand. "It wasn't a 'connection.' It was a panic attack! She would have hugged the flight attendant if he were closer. It didn't mean anything!"

"Of course, beta, of course!" Uncle Raj said, patting Dev’s shoulder with a patronizing heaviness. "Whatever you need to tell yourself. But we saw how you’re looking out for her. It makes me very happy to see my son being a protector."

"I wasn't protecting! I was being used as a human stress ball!" Dev protested, but the parents were already turning away, heading toward the luggage belt with a renewed spring in their step, chatting animatedly about how "brave" Dev was and how "sweet" the moment must have been.

You stood there, watching them go, feeling a strange mix of humiliation and triumph. You looked at Dev. He looked like he wanted to jump back on the plane and fly into a volcano.

"Nice going, Bandar..!" you whispered, crossing your arms over your chest. "You just convinced them we’re the next Raj and Simran. How’s that for 'business logic'?! IDIOT! "

Dev turned his glare on you, but for the first time, he looked genuinely rattled. "This is your fault. Your 'survival instinct' is going to get us married by the end of the week at this rate..!"

"Hey, you're the one who promised me a chocolate factory in heaven..!" you reminded him, a small, wicked smirk forming on your lips as you saw him flinch. "I’m still waiting for my hazelnuts, 'Pro-tec-tor'."

Dev let out a frustrated growl, grabbing his suitcase from the belt with a violence that suggested he was imagining it was your head. "I’m going to the van. Don't talk to me until we’re in Gstaad. And if you even look like you’re going to hug me again, I’m calling a lawyer."

"Oh, don't worry..!" you called out as he stormed off, his father laughing behind him. "The next time I hug you, Dev, it’ll be to push you into a crevasse!"

As you followed the family out toward the waiting transport, the cold Swiss wind bit at your cheeks, but you felt a strange spark of energy. The war had moved to a new front. The parents were happy, the "Protector" was grumpy, and you were officially on solid ground.

"Just like the movies, Maa.." you muttered to yourself, watching your mother link arms with Uncle Raj as they walked. "Only the heroine is planning a murder and the hero is currently having a mid-life crisis at twenty-two."

You climbed into the van, sitting as far away from Dev as possible, but as the vehicle pulled away from the airport and headed toward the snow-capped peaks in the distance, you couldn't help but notice that he hadn't put his noise-canceling headphones back on. He was staring out the window, his reflection caught in the glass—looking at you, watching your every move.

The Alps were waiting. And if the flight was anything to go by, Gstaad didn't stand a chance.

The road to Gstaad was a winding ribbon of perfection, slicing through emerald valleys and past crystalline lakes that mirrored the jagged, snow-dusted peaks above. If you were watching this on a cinema screen, you’d be swooning. The air was so crisp it felt like breathing in diamonds, and the small chalets perched on the hillsides looked like they had been hand-placed by a divine interior designer with a penchant for rustic luxury.

It was sickeningly romantic. Every turn revealed a view more breathtaking than the last—a literal postcard brought to life by your parents’ relentless ambition.

Deep down, in a tiny, tucked-away corner of your heart that you refused to acknowledge, you loved it. You loved the smell of pine and the way the light caught the frost on the meadows. But on the surface? You wanted to hurl.

"Look at that, beti!" your mother chirped from the front seat of the lead van, twisting around to point at a particularly picturesque waterfall. "It’s like the universe knew you were coming. Bilkul jannat hai na?"

"It’s a set, Maa.." you muttered, leaning your forehead against the cool glass. "A big, cold, expensive set. I bet they paint the grass every morning just to mess with us.."

Behind you, in the second row of the van, Dev was radiating a mood so dark it was practically sucking the light out of the vehicle. He hadn't said a word since the airport. He wasn't working on his laptop anymore; he was just staring out the window with his jaw clenched so tight you could practically hear his teeth grinding.

He wasn't just annoyed at the scenery. He was furious at himself. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard his own voice echoing in the Zurich terminal: “She launched herself across the seat... I’ve had business meetings less intense than the grip she had on my arm.”

He had tried to be the clever one. He had tried to mock you into submission, to make you feel small for being scared. Instead, he had handed your parents the ultimate victory. He had painted a picture of a protective hero and a vulnerable heroine, and now, he was paying the price in the form of the smug, "we-told-you-so" smiles currently plastered on the elders' faces.

"Dev, beta.." Uncle Raj called out, sounding far too cheerful for a man who had just spent ten hours on a plane. "Are you seeing these mountains? You should take our jaan here for a hike tomorrow. A little exercise, a little fresh air... it’ll do wonders for your 'stress'."

Dev’s eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, meeting his father’s gaze. "I think I have enough stress to manage from right here in the car, Dad. And I don’t hike. I treadmill."

"A treadmill in the Alps?" you snickered, finally finding a spark of your old self. "How very 'New York' of you. Are you afraid a mountain goat might challenge your authority?"

"I’m afraid of wasting my time on vertical inclines when I have a merger to finish, Choti!" he snapped back, though there was a hint of distraction in his voice. He looked at you, then quickly looked away, his ears turning a tell-tale shade of red.

He was thinking about the flight. He was thinking about how you had felt in his arms—warm, trembling, and smelling faintly of perfume and desperation. He hated that he remembered it. He hated that for three minutes, he hadn't wanted to push you away.

The van finally pulled into the private driveway of the chalet. It was a masterpiece of weathered wood and stone, tucked away on a private ledge overlooking the valley. But as you all piled out, stretching your cramped limbs, your father didn't head for the front door. He headed toward a sleek, silver convertible parked near the garage.

It was a vintage Porsche, gleaming under the alpine sun. And it only had two seats.

"Oh, look at that!" your father exclaimed, jingling a pair of keys. "The rental agency delivered it right on time. Now, Om and I have some paperwork to settle at the local office, and your mothers want to head to the village to check out the boutiques. There isn't enough room in the van for everyone's shopping bags."

You felt the trap springing shut before he even finished the sentence.

"So," Uncle Raj picked up, a glint of pure mischief in his eyes as he looked at his son. "Dev, why don't you take the Porsche and drive our jaan up to the lookout point? It’s only twenty minutes away. You can see the whole valley from there. We’ll meet back here in an hour!"

"No!" you and Dev said in a perfect, horrified unison.

"I’m tired, Papa..!" you pleaded, grabbing your mother’s arm. "I want to unpack! I want to nap! I don't want to go to a lookout point with a bandar who can’t even drive on the right side of the road!"

"I can drive perfectly fine!" Dev barked, though his eyes were fixed on the silver car with a mix of longing and dread. "But I have emails—"

"Emails can wait!" your mother interrupted, literally pushing you toward the Porsche. "Go! Enjoy the sun! Look at the two of you—young, beautiful, in the most romantic place on earth. Don't waste it on 'nap time'. Chalo, jaldi!"

Before you could protest further, Dev was handed the keys. He looked at them like they were live grenades. He looked at the car, then at his father, then at you.

"Fine.." he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. "Get in. Before they decide to make us ride a tandem bicycle instead.."

Just minutes later, the engine of the Porsche purred to life with a throaty growl that normally would have made you feel like a movie star. But as Dev pulled out of the driveway and onto the narrow, winding mountain road, the only thing you felt was the suffocating proximity of him.

The car was small. Extremely small. Your shoulder was practically pressed against his, and every time he shifted gears, his hand brushed against your knee. The top was down, the wind whipping through your hair, but the silence inside the cabin was deafening.

Dev was driving with a focused, white-knuckled intensity. He took the corners a little too fast, his eyes fixed on the road as if it were his only lifeline.

"You're going to kill us..!" you shouted over the wind, clutching the door handle. "Is this your plan? If we didn't die in the plane, you’ll finish the job in a ditch?!"

"I’m driving at the speed limit, Chudail!" he yelled back, not looking at you. "If you’re so scared, why don't you close your eyes and pretend we’re back on the 777? You seemed to enjoy that enough..!"

The jab landed squarely. You felt the heat rise in your face. "I did not 'enjoy' it! I was terrified! And you were the one who promised me a chocolate factory! I was just holding you to your word!"

"Yeah, well, consider the promise revoked.." he grunted, downshifting as the road steepened. "I was delirious from the altitude. I don't buy factories for girls who call me a 'bloody fool' the moment we touch ground."

"I called you a bloody fool because you are one!" you countered. "You told them everything! You made it sound like... like a romance novel! Why would you do that, Dev? You know how they are! Now they think we’re two seconds away from a Song sequence!"

Dev suddenly slammed on the brakes, pulling the car into a small gravel turnout overlooking a sheer drop into the valley. The silence that followed was abrupt and jarring, filled only by the ticking of the cooling engine.

He turned in his seat, his arm draping over the back of yours as he faced you. His eyes were dark, swirling with a mix of frustration and something else—something that looked almost like guilt.

"I know!" he snapped, his voice echoing off the rocks. "I know I messed up! I was trying to annoy you, okay? I was trying to show them how 'difficult' you were being. I didn't realize they’d twist it into some 'soulmate' nonsense."

"Well, they did." you said, your voice softening as you looked out at the view. The valley was breathtaking—a sea of emerald dotted with tiny, toy-like houses. "And now we’re trapped in a two-seater Porsche in the middle of nowhere. Are you happy?"

Dev looked out at the view too. He let out a long, ragged sigh, his shoulders finally dropping. The mountain air seemed to be doing the one thing it was designed to do: break through the defenses.

"No." he said quietly. "I’m not happy. I’m tired, my head hurts, and I’m engaged to a woman who wants to push me off this cliff."

"Only on Tuesdays.." you muttered, but you didn't move away from his arm.

For a moment, the bickering stopped. The scenery was simply too grand, the air too pure for the petty insults of the last seven years. You sat there, side-by-side in the silver car, two people who had spent their entire lives defined by their conflict, suddenly finding themselves with nothing left to say.

"It is pretty, though..." you admitted, your voice a mere whisper. "The mountains. They... they look like they’re made of glass."

Dev looked at you. Not at the mountains, but at you. He watched the way the wind moved your hair, the way your eyes reflected the blue of the sky. For the first time in years, he didn't see the "brat" or the "pigtail monster." He saw the girl from the letter—the firecracker who had stayed exactly the way she was.

"Yeah.." he said, his voice unusually thick. "It’s... alright, I guess."

He quickly turned back to the steering wheel, clearing his throat and putting the car back into gear. The moment was over, but the air between you had shifted. The hostility wasn't gone, but it had grown a new layer—a layer of shared, uncomfortable awareness.

"Don't get used to it," he muttered as he pulled back onto the road. "I’m still going to be a dick for the rest of the week."

"I wouldn't expect anything less, Bandar." you replied, leaning back into the leather seat and closing your eyes against the sun.

As the Porsche climbed higher into the Alps, you realized that the "set" was real. The romance was real. And as much as you wanted to throw up, you realized that the biggest danger in Switzerland wasn't a plane crash or a mountain cliff.

It was the fact that for the first time in your life, you didn't mind being trapped with the enemy.

Maa was right.. you thought, a chill that had nothing to do with the wind running down your spine. "It is just like the movies. And that’s the scariest part of all.."

The silver Porsche came to a purring halt in the cobblestone driveway of the chalet, the engine’s final growl echoing against the majestic face of the mountains. The moment the car stopped, you didn't wait for Dev to play the gentleman—mostly because you knew he’d sooner wait for you to struggle with the door handle than help you.

You hopped out, the crisp, thin air hitting your lungs like a shot of pure adrenaline. For a heartbeat, the resentment, the exhaustion of the flight, and the constant mental sparring with the man beside you simply evaporated. You didn't really get to take in thee view before, it was simply magical.

"Maa! Dekho toh sahi!" you exclaimed, your voice ringing out with a genuine, childlike wonder that had been absent since you landed.

You didn't see the jagged peaks as a trap anymore; you saw them as a masterpiece. The valley below was a patchwork of emerald and jade, dotted with cows that looked like tiny porcelain figurines. The sunlight was different here—thinner, brighter, making everything look like it had been shot through a high-definition filter.

You ran toward the edge of the terrace where your mother was standing with a cup of tea. "It’s so beautiful! Bilkul sapne jaisa..." You spun around, your face lit up with a radiant, uninhibited smile, your eyes wide and sparkling as they drank in the horizon. In that moment, you weren't the "brat" or the "warrior" in a lilac dress; you were just a girl captivated by the world.

And Dev saw it.

He had stayed by the car, leaning against the hood as he reached for his sunglasses, but he froze. He watched you spin, the wind catching your hair, your laughter floating toward him like a melody he hadn't heard in a decade.

Oh, he thought, and the word felt like a physical blow to his chest.

He noticed the way the light caught the bridge of your nose, the way your cheeks had flushed a natural rose-pink from the cold, and the way your entire expression had softened into something... soft. Something breathtaking. For the first time in years, he wasn't looking at his "enemy." He was looking at a woman who was undeniably, painfully pretty.

A slow, traitorous heat crept up Dev’s neck, settling into his cheeks. He blinked rapidly, his heart doing that weird, frantic dhak-dhak thing again—the one he’d felt when he was sixteen and writing that stupid letter. He was blushing. Dev Khanna, the cold-blooded shark of New York, was standing in the Swiss sun, turning red because a girl looked happy.

No. No, no, no!

The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water. He shook his head violently, snapping his sunglasses on to hide his eyes. Stop it, you idiot! he cursed himself internally. Yeh kya ho raha hai tujhe?! She’s a chudail! She’s the same girl who almost bit your finger off in the third grade! Don't let the scenery trick you!

He felt a surge of panic. If he started seeing you as "pretty," he was lost. If he lost his edge, the parents won. He needed to reset the board. He needed to bring the witch back out, or he’d be the one falling into the trap.

He pushed off the car, his face hardening into a mask of practiced arrogance. He marched toward you, his boots clicking sharply on the stone.

"Oye..!" he barked, his voice cutting through your moment of peace like a serrated blade.

You didn't even look back, still pointing at a distant glacier. "Dev, look! You can see the ice from here! Kitna pyara hai na!?"

"Yeah, spectacular. Groundbreaking. It’s frozen water on a rock.." he drawled, coming up behind you.

Before you could register the change in his tone, he reached out. With a swift, practiced motion, he hooked a finger into one of your loose curls and gave it a sharp, annoying tug—exactly the way he used to do when you were kids.

"Ow! Hey!" you yelped, spinning around and clutching the back of your head. The wonder vanished from your face, replaced instantly by a scowl. "What is wrong with you? I was actually being nice for once!"

Dev leaned down, invading your personal space until you could see your own annoyed reflection in his dark lenses. His expression was cold, mocking, and entirely insufferable.

"Don't get too comfortable here now, Choti." he hissed, his voice a low, jagged whisper. "And stop looking so damn excited. It’s embarrassing. You look like a tourist who’s never seen a hill before. Thoda toh class dikhao..!"

Your jaw dropped. The warmth in your chest was replaced by a sharp, cold sting of hurt. You had genuinely forgotten the war for a minute. You had actually felt a spark of something shared, a brief moment where the world was big and the fight was small. And he had just trampled over it with his polished Italian shoes.

"I’m enjoying the view, Dev.." you said, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and genuine upset. "Is that a crime in your New York rulebook? Or are you just miserable because you can't find a way to monetize the mountains?!"

"I’m reminding you why we’re here!" he snapped, his jaw tight. He hated the way your eyes looked now—dimmed, hurt, and angry. He hated it, but he forced himself to lean in closer. "We aren't here for a picnic. We’re here because our parents are trying to glue us together like a broken vase. If you walk around looking like some girl in a dream, you’re just giving them exactly what they want. Understood?!"

He flicked your forehead with his finger—a final, demeaning little gesture.

"Keep your guard up. Or do I have to remind you every five minutes that I’m the 'asshole' you supposedly hate?"

You stared at him, the breathtaking landscape behind him suddenly feeling grey and hollow.

You realized then that he wasn't just being mean; he was being a thief. He was stealing the one moment of genuine joy you’d had since this whole nightmare started, all because his ego couldn't handle a truce.

"You don't have to remind me of anything, Dev." you said, your voice quiet and icy. "I remember exactly who you are."

You turned on your heel, you didn't look at the mountains again. You didn't look at your mother, who was watching from the doorway with a concerned frown.

"Maa, where is my room?-" you called out, your voice hard. "I’m tired. This 'fresh air' is giving me a headache."

"But jaan, the tea—"

"I don't want tea! I want to be alone!"

You stormed past her, your shoulder brushing against Dev’s as you pushed your way into the chalet. You didn't see him wince at the contact. You didn't see him stand there, staring at the spot where you had been standing. Oh he felt like and idiot..again!

Inside, the chalet was beautiful—warm wood, plush furs, a crackling fireplace—but it felt like a cage. You marched up the stairs, your boots thudding rhythmically against the timber.

Asshole. Ghatiya. Pathetic creature..! You hissed to yourself, throwing open the door to your bedroom and slamming it behind you.

You threw yourself onto the oversized bed, staring up at the beamed ceiling. The bad mood settled over you like a heavy, suffocating blanket. You had been happy. For sixty whole seconds, you had been genuinely, truly happy. And he had ruined it because he was too afraid of a moment of peace.

"Fine.." you whispered to the empty room, your eyes stinging with frustrated tears. "You want a war? You want the 'asshole' version? You’ve got it."

Downstairs, Dev remained on the terrace. The wind picked up, whistling through the pines, but the sound didn't soothe him. He looked out at the valley, the same view you had loved, and realized it looked remarkably empty now that you weren't smiling at it.

"Smart move, Khanna.." he muttered, his voice barely a breath. "Great job. You really showed her."

He kicked a loose stone off the terrace and watched it fall silently into the abyss. He had won the battle—he had restored the status quo, he had reminded you of the enmity—but as he walked toward the house, his heart felt like a lead weight.

The first day in Gstaad had barely begun, and already, the "heaven" they had promised felt a lot more like hell. And the worst part? He was the one who had set the fire..

Same day, hours later;

The chalet was a masterpiece of architectural precision, but as far as you were concerned, it was a high-altitude torture chamber. Your room was a sprawling expanse of honey-colored pine, plush sheepskin rugs, and a bed so large it could have accommodated a small village. It was "honeymoon chic," and every time your eyes landed on the bowl of fresh Alpine strawberries on the nightstand, you wanted to hurl them through the window.

You pacing was rhythmic, a frantic thump-thump-thump across the timber floorboards.

"Arrogant, tuxedo-wearing, soul-sucking rakshas!" you hissed, punctuating each word with a stomp. "Who does he think he is? 'Show some class'? I’ll show him class! I’ll show him a world-class right hook if he touches my hair again!"

You marched toward the French doors that led to the balcony. The view was still there—infuriatingly perfect—but you refused to look at it. Instead, you glared at the frosted glass divider that separated your section of the terrace from the room next door. You knew exactly who was on the other side. You could hear the muffled, agitated pacing that mirrored your own.

"I hate him!" you whispered to the glass, loud enough for the mountain goats to hear. "I hope his expensive Italian loafers sprout wings and fly him back to Wall Street. Badmash kahin ka!"

On the other side of the frosted glass, Dev was experiencing a crisis of a different nature. He wasn't just pacing; he was vibrating with a frantic, caffeine-deprived energy. He had tried to do what he always did when his emotions became inconvenient: bury them under a mountain of spreadsheets.

But Switzerland had other plans.

"What do you mean, 'Signal Lost'?" Dev roared at his laptop, shaking the device as if it were a disobedient child. " We are in the heart of Europe! How can there be no connection in a five-thousand-dollar-a-night chalet?!"

He had stomped over to the router in the hallway, only to be told by a cheerful Swiss housekeeper that a "small avalanche" had knocked out the local fiber-optic line and it would be fixed "eventually."

"Eventually is not a fiscal quarter!" Dev had shouted, before retreating to his room to rot in his own frustration.

Now, he was trapped. No internet meant no work. No work meant no distractions. And no distractions meant he was left with the vivid, high-definition memory of you spinning in the sunlight, looking like a dream—a dream he had promptly turned into a nightmare by being an absolute, grade-A jerk.

"She’s so sensitive.." Dev muttered, his pacing accelerating. "I was doing us a favor! I was keeping the boundary! If she starts acting all 'lovey' the parents will have us in a mandap by dessert. I had to pull her hair. It was a strategic necessity!"

He stopped, staring at the balcony divider. He could hear your voice—a low, melodic grumble of insults. He couldn't make out the words, but he knew the tone. You were cursing his lineage.

"Go ahead, Choti.." he whispered to the glass, his jaw tightening. "Call me every name in the book. It’s better than you being nice. I can handle you being a chudail. I can't handle you being... that."

He looked at his reflection in the balcony door. He looked miserable. His hair was slightly mussed from his constant running of hands through it, and his eyes were bloodshot from staring at a "No Connection" icon for two hours.

"I hate this place.." he groaned, throwing himself into a leather armchair. "I hate the air. I hate the cheese. And I really, really hate that girl."

The hours crawled by. The sun began to dip behind the Eiger, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold. You had spent the afternoon trying to read a book, but you’d read the same paragraph forty times because your brain kept replaying the way Dev’s eyes had flickered with something—was it regret?—before he’d snapped at you.

"No." you said firmly, slamming the book shut. "No 'what-ifs'. He’s a jerk. He’s a ghada. He’s a New York-standard asshole who thinks he’s too good for a waterfall."

A sharp knock at your door startled you.

"Beti? Dinner is ready! Come down, the fondues are melting!" your mother’s voice sang out from the corridor.

"Coming, Maa!" you yelled back, though the thought of sitting across from Dev at a dinner table made your stomach do a somersault.

You stood up, smoothed out your sweater, and checked your reflection. You looked tired, but your eyes were burning with a "try-me" energy. You grabbed your shawl and marched toward the door, throwing it open with a flourish of defiance.

At the exact same millisecond, the door directly opposite yours swung open.

Dev stepped out, looking like he had just survived a war with his own wardrobe. His shirt was tucked in, but his expression was a thundercloud.

You both froze, standing barely three feet apart in the narrow, wood-paneled corridor.

The silence lasted for exactly two seconds before the friction caught fire.

"Move!" you both said simultaneously.

"I was out first!" you snapped, narrowing your eyes. "And considering you spent the afternoon being a world-class prick, the least you can do is give me the right of way."

Dev let out a sharp, mocking laugh, crossing his arms over his chest and blocking the entire path to the stairs. "First of all, I was out a millisecond before you. Second of all, the 'right of way' is earned through seniority. I’m older, I’m taller, and I’m the one whose day was ruined by 'no connection' You’ve been napping like a pampered house cat..!"

"Napping?! I was recovering from the psychological trauma of being in your presence!" you hissed, stepping closer until you were nearly toe-to-toe. "And move your giant frame, Dev. I’m hungry, and if I don't get some cheese in my system, I might actually bite you..!"

"Oh, back to the biting? How primitive!" Dev drawled, though he didn't budge. In fact, he leaned a shoulder against the wall, looking down at you with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Tell me, Chudail, did you spend the last four hours thinking up new insults, or was 'psychological trauma' the best your limited vocabulary could manage?"

"My vocabulary is just fine, you damn idiot!" you barked. "I have plenty of words for you, but most of them aren't allowed in a family-friendly chalet! Now, rasta do!"

"Make me." he challenged, his voice dropping into that low, annoying rumble.

"You are so immature!" you yelled, trying to push past him. He didn't move an inch—it was like trying to shove a mountain. "Papa! Dev won't let me down the stairs!"

"Don't be a tattle-tale!" Dev hissed, grabbing your arm to steady you as you stumbled. "And stop shouting! Do you want them to think we're having a 'lover's quarrel'?"

"We aren't lovers, and this isn't a quarrel, it’s a hostage situation!" you retorted, yanking your arm back. "You’re an asshole, Dev Khanna! A big, Swiss-cheesy, internet-obsessed asshole!"

"And you're a loud, ungrateful, mountain-obsessed brat!!" he countered, his face inches from yours.

"I’m ungrateful? You’re the one who pulled my hair!"

"I was checking if it was real! It looked too fluffy to be natural!"

"I’ll show you fluffy!" you screamed, reaching up to mess up his perfectly gelled hair.

"Don't you dare—"

"Children!"

Both of you snapped your heads toward the end of the corridor. Your parents and Uncle Raj were standing at the top of the stairs, looking at the two of you with expressions of pure, unadulterated delight. To them, you didn't look like two people who wanted to commit homicide; you looked like two "passionate" lovers unable to keep their hands off each other.

"See, Raj?" your mother whispered loudly, clutching her husband’s arm. "They can't even make it to dinner without a little fight~ Look at how close they are!"

"So much fire!" Uncle Raj beamed, nodding at Dev. "That’s my boy. Keep her on her toes, Dev!"

The horror that washed over both of you was instantaneous.

You both jumped apart as if the floor had turned into lava. Dev smoothed his hair frantically, and you straightened your shawl, your faces both turning a matching shade of crimson.

"We were just... debating." Dev stammered, his voice cracking slightly. "About... the stairs. The structural integrity of the wood."

"Yes!" you squeaked, nodding violently. "The wood! It looks... slippery! Dev was just warning me! Very gentlemanly!"

"Of course, of course," your father chuckled, waving you both toward the dining room. "Whatever you say. Now come, the fondue is waiting. And please, try to keep the 'debating' to a minimum at the table. We don't want the cheese to curdle from all that... passion."

As your parents turned to lead the way downstairs, Dev shot you a look of pure, concentrated venom.

"Look what you did..!" he hissed under his breath. "Now they think I’m 'keeping you on my toes'."

"Me?! You’re the one who wouldn't move!" you whispered back, giving him a sharp elbow to the ribs as you finally pushed past him. "I’m going first. And if you sit next to me, I’m dropping a piece of bread in your lap."

"I’d like to see you try." Dev muttered, following you down the stairs, his eyes fixed on the back of your head.

The dinner hadn't even started, and the "peace" of Gstaad was already in tatters. But as you marched toward the smell of melted cheese, you couldn't help but notice that for someone who hated everything, Dev was still walking exactly two steps behind you.

The dining room of the chalet was the kind of place that looked like it had been designed specifically for a high-budget jewelry commercial. A massive oak table sat beneath a wrought-iron chandelier, laden with a spread of Gruyère, Vacherin, crisp green apples, and crusty bread. The fireplace crackled nearby, sending a warm, amber glow over the room.

It was the perfect setting for a romantic dinner. Too bad the two people in the middle of it were radiating the energy of two stray cats trapped in a wet cardboard box.

You sat rigidly, staring at your fondue fork as if it were a tactical weapon. Dev was sitting directly across from you, his face a stony mask of "Corporate Boredom," though you noticed he was stabbing his cubes of bread with a little too much aggression.

The air was filled with the animated chatter of the parents. Your father and Uncle Raj were already on their second glass of Swiss wine, their voices booming with the kind of confidence only middle-aged men with a "Vision" can possess.

"I’m telling you, Raj," your father said, gesturing with a piece of ham. "Lake Como is too cliché. We need something with more... gravity. Maybe a palace in Rajasthan? Or perhaps right here? Imagine the baarat on a fleet of snowmobiles!"

"Snowmobiles?" Dev muttered, finally looking up. "Dad, it’s a wedding, not an X-Games event.."

"Don't be so literal, beta!" Uncle Raj laughed, waving a hand. "The point is, we want it soon. October? November? By then, you’ll have had plenty of time to... get reacquainted."

Your mother leaned in, her eyes shining with a terrifyingly sharp maternal glee. "And to help that along, we’ve decided on a little schedule change for tomorrow. We heard there’s a wonderful vintage bowling alley in the village. Very retro, very charming."

"Bowling?" you asked, suspiciously. "Since when do you guys bowl? Papa, you have the hand-eye coordination of a potato.."

"It’s a sport of kings!" your father defended. "Anyway, the point is, it’s a 'Parents Only' outing. We’ll be gone from early evening until late. Just the three of us. We thought the two of you could stay here, have a quiet night, maybe watch the stars... let the 'magic' of the mountains do its work."

You let out a loud, involuntary snort and rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your own brain. "Magic? The only thing that’s going to happen is Dev having a nervous breakdown because he can't check the NASDAQ, and me throwing a pillow at his head for breathing too loudly..!"

Dev didn't even respond. He just stared at his plate, his jaw muscles working.

"Bas, beti!" your mother chided. "No more negativity. It’s decided. Tomorrow night, you two are on your own."

The rest of dinner was a blur of wedding planning— guest lists, floral arrangements, and debates over whether a sitar player could survive the Alpine altitude. You couldn't take it anymore. The smell of melted cheese was starting to feel like the smell of your impending doom.

"I’m getting more cheese.." you announced, standing up abruptly. "And maybe some chocolate. Or a giant knife.."

You marched into the kitchen, the swinging wooden door thudding shut behind you. The kitchen was cold, silent, and wonderfully devoid of talk about guest counts. You walked over to the massive Sub-Zero fridge, yanking it open and staring blankly at the shelves of gourmet dairy.

The door swung open again.

You didn't even look up. "If you’re here to tell me I’m being 'un-classy' again, Dev, I swear I will shove this block of Emmental where the sun doesn't shine-"

"Relax, Choti." Dev’s voice was low, devoid of its usual mocking bite.

You turned around. He wasn't standing there with his usual arrogant posture. He was leaning against the marble island, his arms crossed, his eyes darting toward the door to make sure the parents weren't listening. He looked... focused. Like he was about to pitch a multi-million dollar merger.

"I have a plan.." he whispered.

"A plan? Does it involve you leaving? Because I’m on board with that."

"Listen to me." he said, stepping closer, his voice urgent. "Do you honestly think they’re going 'bowling'? My Dad hates bowling. He thinks it’s a sport for people who like ugly shoes. And your parents? They’re about as subtle as a sledgehammer..!"

You paused, a piece of bread halfway to your mouth. "You think it’s a trap?"

"It’s not just a trap, it’s a huge trap with a pretty pink bow on top!" Dev hissed. "They aren't going to the village. They’re probably going to park the van around the corner and watch the house with binoculars. They want to see if we’ll finally stop fighting and start... whatever it is they think we’re supposed to do."

"Disgusting.." you shuddered. "So what? We just sit in separate rooms and ignore each other like usual?"

"Nope." Dev said, a slow, wicked glint appearing in his eyes. "That’s what they expect. And if we do that, they’ll just keep doubling down. More 'dates,' more 'surprise' trips, more 'accidental' seating arrangements. We’ll never have a moment of peace. I won't get my internet back, and you’ll spend the whole week being hunted by your mother with a wedding planner..!"

You groaned. "Maa has already shortlisted three different types of lilies. I’m drowning, Dev.."

"Exactly. So, we give them what they want," Dev said, a smirk spreading across his face—not the mean kind, but the 'we’re-in-this-together' kind. "We give them the most filmy, over-the-top, Yash-Chopra-on-steroids romance they’ve ever seen. We act so 'lovey-dovey' it makes them want to gag. We feed them the 'magic' until they’re satisfied..!"

You stared at him, your eyes widening. "You want us to... fake it? Like, act like we’re in love?"

"Not just in love. Obsessed." Dev corrected. "We walk in the garden, we look into each other's eyes, maybe I’ll even throw a sweater over your shoulders. We put on such a show that they walk away thinking, 'Okay, mission accomplished, they’re finally obsessed with each other, we can leave them alone now'."

"And then?"

"And then they stop the 'dates.' They give us our space. I can finally get a local SIM card and finish my work in peace, and you can enjoy Gstaad without being poked and prodded like a prize heifer. We buy our freedom with a little bit of bad acting..!"

You looked at him—really looked at him. His hair was a mess, his shirt was wrinkled, and he looked desperate. For the first time, you saw a common goal.

"You really want this, don't you?-" you asked.

"I want to check my emails, Choti. I am literally vibrating with the need to see a candlestick chart." he admitted, looking pained. "But more than that... I want them to stop. For both our sakes."

You leaned back against the counter, thinking. It was brilliant. It was dangerous. It was... kind of hilarious.

"So... tomorrow night? When they 'leave' for bowling?"

"Tomorrow night." Dev nodded. "We go out on that balcony. We make sure the lights are low. We do the whole 'star-crossed lovers' routine. We make it so sickeningly sweet that they’ll be bored of us by midnight."

You felt a laugh bubbling up in your chest. "You? Romantic? Dev, you have the emotional range of a brick. How are you going to pull this off?"

"I’ve seen Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge forty times because- my dad likes it..!" he retorted, his ears turning pink. "I know the moves. I can do 'pining.' I can do 'intense staring.' I can even do 'poetic whispering' if I have to."

"Oh, this I have to see..!" you giggled, finally relaxing. "Okay, Khanna. You’ve got a deal. We give them the 'magic.' We give them the most 'filmy' romance shit ever. But if you try to sing, I’m calling the whole thing off..!"

"No singing," he promised, extending a hand. "Just... cooperation. For one night. Deal?"

You looked at his hand—large, steady, and surprisingly warm. You reached out and shook it, your small hand disappearing into his grip.

"Deal..!"

The door to the kitchen swung open again, and your mother poked her head in. "Everything okay in here? You two have been in here a long time."

Dev didn't drop your hand. In fact, he tightened his grip, pulling you just an inch closer as he turned toward her with a perfectly rehearsed, slightly dazed smile.

"Everything’s fine, Aunty." he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, charming register he usually reserved for boardrooms. "We were just... discussing the cheese. It’s very... stimulating."

Your mother’s eyes went straight to your joined hands. She let out a tiny, high-pitched gasp of delight, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh! Oh, don't let me interrupt! Carry on!" She practically floated back into the dining room, her voice trailing off. "Raj! Om! You won't believe it! The cheese!"

The moment the door closed, you yanked your hand back, wiping it on your leggings. "Stimulating? Really? That’s the best you could do?"

Dev let out a breath he’d been holding, rubbing his temples. "It was a first draft! I was under pressure! At least she bought it."

"She didn't just buy it, she’s probably calling the jeweler right now," you groaned. "We better be good tomorrow, Dev. Because if this backfires, we’re going to be trapped in this hell-"

"We won't fail." Dev said, his eyes meeting yours with a sudden, sharp intensity. "I never lose a negotiation. Not even a fake one."

He turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving you standing there in the cold light of the fridge. You looked down at your hand, still feeling the faint tingle of his grip.

"The most 'filmy' romance shit ever.." you whispered to yourself, a nervous, excited shiver running through you. You instantly felt inspired by a very old, very cliché movie.

The stage was set. The Alps were ready. And tomorrow night, the war between the Sharmas and the Khannas was going to get a very theatrical, very "romantic" update. You just hoped you could keep a straight face long enough to win your freedom—and that Dev wouldn't look too good in the moonlight...

TO BE CONTINUED..

The morning light in Gstaad was far too bright.

It bounced off the pristine white slopes and bled through the thin linen curtains of your room, mocking the muddy, confused state of your internal world. You layed tangled in the plush duvet, staring at the ceiling and listening to the distant, muffled sound of voices from the balcony next door, understanding nothing.

The guilt was a physical weight, pressing into your sternum.

You weren't a liar. Not by nature. You were the daughter who argued, the daughter who pushed back, the daughter who made her opinions known with the subtlety of a landslide—but you didn't lie... Yet, last night, you had stood in the center of the living room and performed a symphony of falsehoods. You had looked into your father’s misty, hopeful eyes and played the part of a woman falling in love, all while your heart was cold with the calculation of a prison break.

"It was for their own good.." you whispered to the empty room. "If they don't stop, I’ll end up hating them. It’s better to lie now than to resent them forever.."

But the logic felt thin. It felt like cheap tinsel draped over a wreck.

You sat up, rubbing your face. Your mother’s face from the night before kept flashing in your mind—that sharp, knowing glint in her eyes. She hadn't been fooled.

She had seen through the emerald silk and the choreographed laughter. She knew you were faking, and yet, she had twisted it. She had turned your act of rebellion into a sign of "perfect teamwork."

You were trapped in a loop. Every move you made to get away from Dev Khanna only seemed to bind you tighter to him. It was like quicksand; the more you struggled, the deeper the "magic" of the Khannas and Sharmas sucked you in.

And then there was the other thing. The thing you refused to acknowledge until the silence of the room forced you to.

You looked down at your own hands. You could still feel the phantom pressure of his fingers on your waist. When he had spun you on the balcony, his grip hadn't been tentative. It had been solid, sure, and terrifyingly grounded. For a few seconds in that ridiculous play, when his face had been inches from yours and the world had narrowed down to the heat of his breath, you hadn't been acting.

That was the problem.

The line between the performance and the performer had blurred. You had felt a jolt—a genuine, electric spark—when his nose brushed yours. Your heart hadn't just been hammering for the audience in the van; it had been thumping because Dev, the man who usually treated you like a nuisance to be managed, had looked at you with a gaze so intense it felt like it was peeling back your skin.

"It was the adrenaline.." you told yourself, swinging your legs out of bed. "High-altitude oxygen deprivation. That’s all. He’s a jerk. He’s a robot. He probably rehearsed that intense stare in the mirror for three hours before coming out.."

You walked over to the vanity and looked at your reflection. Your lips still looked a little swollen from the cold—or maybe from the proximity of a kiss that never happened. You touched your neck, right where his lips had touched you during the show for the parents.

A shiver ran down your spine, and you immediately dropped your hand as if you’d been burned.

"Get it together..!" you hissed at your reflection. "He’s a Wall Street shark. He wants his laptop and his spreadsheets. He doesn't want you, and you definitely don't want him!"

You began to get ready for the day, your movements jerky and frustrated. Today was the first of the magic dates.

A private gondola dinner? Anything could happen. You could already imagine the claustrophobia of being suspended in a glass box over a dark abyss with a man you were supposed to be grounded with.

The guilt of lying to your parents was bad enough, but the guilt of enjoying—even for a microsecond—the feeling of Dev’s arms around you? That was the real betrayal. It felt like losing a war you had been winning for all these years.

You had spent so long building a fortress against the Khannas, and last night, you had basically handed Dev the keys and a map to the treasury just to win a temporary skirmish.

You grabbed a thick wool sweater—cream-colored, modest, the polar opposite of the lehenga you wore last night.

You wanted to be invisible today. You wanted to be a brick.

There was a knock at the door.

"Beti? Are you dressed? The breakfast is getting cold, and Dev is already downstairs!" your mother called out, her voice suspiciously cheerful.

"Coming, Maa!" you shouted back, taking one last deep breath.

You walked to the door, but paused with your hand on the knob. You could hear the low rumble of masculine voices from the dining room below. Dev was down there. He was probably sitting there with that arrogant, half-smirk, acting like the perfect son-in-law while secretly plotting how to get his local SIM card working.

You hated him. You really did. You hated that he was a part of this lie. You hated that he was the only person in the world who knew exactly how much of a fraud you were.

But as you opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, your eyes drifted instinctively toward the balcony doors. The sun was hitting the spot where you had stood last night, where he had pulled you close and whispered that he wasn't letting you go.

Your skin tingled again, a stubborn, treacherous memory that refused to be suppressed.

"Ten days.." you whispered to yourself, unaware that Dev was downstairs making the exact same calculation. "Just ten more days here.."

You started down the stairs, your chin held high, the emerald silk folded away in your suitcase but the memory of it burning like a brand against your heart. You were ready for the gondola, or a chocolate museum, whatever they planned. You were ready for the carriage. You were ready for the "magic."

What you weren't ready for was the realization that in a game of pretend, the person you ended up fooling the most wasn't your parents.

It was yourself.

The dining room of the chalet was bathed in a golden, alpine glow that felt far too cheerful for the atmospheric pressure inside the room. The scent of freshly baked croissants, mountain honey, and strong Swiss coffee filled the air, but the tension sitting between you and Dev was thick enough to spread on toast.

You sat at the long oak table, huddled in your cream-colored wool sweater, staring intensely at a bowl of muesli as if it contained the secrets of the universe. To your left, Dev was a statue of sophisticated misery. He was dressed in a charcoal-grey cashmere pullover, his hair perfectly swept back, his fingers rhythmically tapping the side of a porcelain cup.

Neither of you had said a word since sitting down. The Finale of the night before hung over the table like a neon sign that wouldn't stop flickering. Every time your hand moved to reach for the orange juice, you were acutely aware of how close his elbow was. Every time he cleared his throat, you felt a phantom tingle on your neck where his breath had been.

"Sleep well, children?" your mother asked, drifting into the room with a silk kaftan billowing behind her like a sail. She looked radiant, the kind of glow only a woman who thinks she’s successfully orchestrated a dynastic union can possess.

"Like a stone, Maa.." you lied, shoving a spoonful of oats into your mouth.

"I’m still adjusting to the altitude." Dev added smoothly, his voice a cool, professional baritone. "But the air is... refreshing."

Uncle Raj and your father followed, both of them grinning like they’d just shared a very dirty, very successful joke. They sat down with a synchronized sigh of contentment.

"Well," Uncle Raj began, rubbing his hands together. "Since you two were so... active... last night, we thought you deserved a day of true exploration. A chance to see the real Switzerland. Away from the prying eyes of bowling' enthusiasts."

You froze, your spoon hovering halfway to your mouth. "Exploration? You mean like a group hike? Because I think the parents should really bond more—"

"Oh, no, jaan," your father interrupted, winking at Uncle Raj. "We’ve had enough bonding. Today is for the youth! We’ve mapped out a very specific route for the silver Porsche. Just the two of you. A private tour of the Saanenland region."

Dev’s tapping finger stopped. He looked at his father, his eyes narrowing. "A tour? Dad, I have—"

"If you say 'emails,' Dev, I will personally throw your phone into the River," Uncle Raj warned, though his smile remained. "The route is already programmed into the GPS. You’ll start with the cobblestone streets of old Saanen—very quiet, very private. Then, you’ll head out past the private airfields toward Lauenen."

"Lauenen?" you whispered.

"Lauenensee!" your mother corrected, her eyes misty. "It’s the most romantic spot in the Canton of Bern. High peaks, twin waterfalls, and absolute silence. We’ve had a picnic basket packed by the chef. Truffle cheeses, sparkling cider, and those little chocolates with the gold leaf."

"A picnic.." Dev repeated, his voice flat. "In a two-seater car. With a pre-programmed GPS. And a lake of miracles.."

"It’s not a request, beta" Uncle Raj said, his voice dropping into that tone that meant the conversation was over, his eyes giving Dev the "dont forget our deal"- look. "The car is out front. The tank is full. And the weather is perfect. You leave in twenty minutes."

The parents began to tuck into their eggs, chatting loudly about which boutique they were going to hit in the village, leaving you and Dev in a private bubble of dread.

You leaned in toward Dev, your voice a frantic whisper. "Lauenensee? Dev, that’s like... the ultimate trap. People go there to propose! There are literal songs about that lake!"

Dev didn't look at you. He was busy meticulously buttering a piece of rye bread with the precision of a surgeon. "I know the geography of the region, Choti.. I also know that if we refuse, my father will probably take away my car keys in New York out of pure spite. We’re going.."

"But the Porsche!" you hissed. "We’ll be shoulder-to-shoulder for three hours! I can't do the 'filmy' act for that long. My face will cramp up.."

"Then don't act." Dev muttered, finally glancing at you. His eyes were dark, shadowed by the same lack of sleep you were feeling.

"The parents aren't coming. The 'bowling' mission is over for today. We just drive, we sit by the water, we eat the overpriced cheese, and we come back. Simple 'maintenance' of the lie."

"Maintenance?" you scoffed, feeling a sharp jab of annoyance. "You make it sound like you’re taking a car for an oil change. Yesterday you were nipping at my ear, and today I’m 'maintenance'?"

Dev’s hand faltered. He set the butter knife down with a soft clink, then turned his head slowly, looking at you with an intensity that made the breakfast room feel suddenly very small.

"Yesterday was a performance." he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. "And if I recall, you were the one who told me to 'look at you like a chocolate factory.' I was just following instructions. Don't confuse the script with the reality.."

"I’m not confusing anything!" you whispered back, your face heating up. "I’m just saying... you don't have to be such a robot about it. We’re stuck in a beautiful car in a beautiful country. Can't we just... be normal? Without the insults?"

Dev looked at you for a long beat. He took in the cream sweater, the way your hair was tied back in a messy knot, and the slight tremor in your hand as you held your juice glass.

"Normal isn't in our repertoire.." he said, though his voice had lost some of its edge. "But... fine. No insults. For the duration of the 'Lake of Miracles' tour, I will be a perfectly functioning, polite human being. Provided you don't try to sing along to the radio."

"Deal!"

20 minutes later;

"Are you two ready?" your father called out, standing by the window. "The sun is hitting the valley! It’s the golden hour for photography!"

You stood up, grabbing your shawl. Your mother rushed over, fussing with your hair and tucking a stray lock behind your ear.

"Have fun jaan! " she whispered. "And remember... sometimes the heart sees what the eyes miss. Just... look at him. Really look at him today."

"I’ll try not to go blind, Maa..~" you muttered, kissing her cheek.

You walked out to the driveway. The silver Porsche was idling, its engine a low, rhythmic hum that echoed off the stone walls of the chalet. It looked like a jewel against the green backdrop.

Dev was already there, checking the GPS. He looked up as you approached, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. He walked around to the passenger side—actually opening the door for you this time, though he did it with a stiff, formal jerkiness that suggested he was being watched from the balcony.

"Thank you.." you said, sliding into the leather seat. The smell of high-end upholstery and Dev’s cologne immediately enveloped you.

"Don't get used to it.." he muttered, closing the door and walking back to the driver’s side.

As he slid in next to you, the cabin felt impossibly cramped. His thigh was inches from yours; his arm was resting on the center console, close enough that you could see the fine dark hairs on his wrist. The air was charged with a heavy, uncomfortable awareness—the kind that happens when two people who are supposed to hate each other have spent the night thinking about how it felt to be close.

"Ready?" Dev asked, his hand hovering over the gear shift.

"Ready." you replied, staring straight ahead at the winding road that led down toward Saanen.

Your parents and Uncle Raj stood on the porch, waving enthusiastically like they were seeing off a honeymoon couple in a 1950s movie.

"Lauenensee, here we come.." Dev muttered, shifting the car into gear.

The Porsche pulled away from the chalet, the tires crunching on the gravel before smoothing out onto the asphalt. As the house disappeared behind a stand of pine trees, the reality of the day settled over you. No parents. No scripts. No emerald lehengas. Just the two of you, the silver car, and a lake that was famous for making people fall in love.

You caught Dev’s reflection in the side mirror. He was focused on the road, his jaw set, but his fingers weren't tapping the wheel anymore. They were gripped tight.

The silver Porsche was a marvel of German engineering, designed for high-speed precision and the quiet hum of luxury.

It was not, however, designed to withstand the sheer, unadulterated cringe of a "Sharma-Khanna Love Mix" curated by three meddling parents and a father who still thought the year was 1992.

As the car rounded the first bend away from the chalet, Dev reached for the sleek infotainment screen. "Finally.." he muttered, his fingers hovering over the dial. "Let’s get some techno on. I need to drown out the sound of my own thoughts.."

He pressed 'Play.'

A sharp, twanging mandolin riff immediately exploded through the high-fidelity Bose speakers. It was unmistakable. It was iconic. It was a death sentence.

“Tujhe dekha toh yeh jaana sanam... Pyaar hota hai deewana sanam...”

Dev’s hand froze. His jaw dropped. You, who had been leaning back to enjoy the breeze, bolted upright as if the leather seat had just delivered an electric shock.

"No.." you whispered, your eyes wide with horror. "No, Dev. Turn it off. Turn it off right now-"

Dev jabbed the 'Next' button.

“Chandni... O meri Chandni!” Jolly Mukherjee's voice echoed through the Alpine valley, the bells jingling in perfect surround sound.

"Next! NEXT!" you shrieked, batting at his hand.

“Dekha ek khwab toh yeh silsile hue... Door tak nigahon mein hai gul khile hue...”

The car swerved slightly as Dev’s soul seemingly left his body. "They’ve locked the system-" he gasped, his voice cracking with a mix of fury and despair. "They’ve overridden the Bluetooth! It’s a pre-set loop! Yeh kya badtameezi hai?!"

"Dev, the hills are singing!" you wailed, throwing your hands up. "The literal Swiss Alps are currently listening to Amitabh Bachchan and Rekha having a Moment! Humari izzat ka kachra ho raha hai!"

For the next ten minutes, the Porsche became a moving theater of the absurd. You were driving through some of the most beautiful scenery on the planet, but you couldn't appreciate it because Kumar Sanu was currently serenading your eardrums about the madness of love.

"I can't do it!" you sobbed, though no tears were coming—only pure, hysterical frustration. You slumped in your seat, covering your face with your shawl. "I’m going to jump. I’m going to open this door at eighty kilometers an hour and just roll into a cow pasture. It’ll be less painful than hearing the second verse of Pehla Nasha!"

"Don't you dare jump and leave me alone with this!" Dev yelled, his face a frantic shade of red. He was hitting the Volume down button, but it seemed to have been disabled. "Dad has hacked the mainframe! He’s used his IT Genius cousin in Bangalore to trap us in a Yash Chopra fever dream! Main pagal ho jaoonga!"

“Didi tera dewar deewana...” began to play, the mischievous beat bouncing off the pristine mountain walls.

"DEWAR?! I don't even have a dewar!" you screamed at the dashboard. "I have a jerk in a charcoal sweater! Dev, kill it! Kill the car! Stab the speakers with your fountain pen!"

"I’m trying!" Dev was practically leaning over the steering wheel, his expensive sunglasses sliding down his nose. "It’s a smart-car! It’s too smart for its own good!"

He started fake-crying, a sound of pure, masculine agony.

The car slowed down as you entered the outskirts of Saanen. People on the sidewalk—chic tourists in fur coats and local Swiss residents—turned their heads. They didn't see a romantic couple. They saw two people in a silver convertible who appeared to be having a simultaneous mid-life crisis while the most iconic Bollywood love songs played in the background.

"Look! That lady is laughing at us!" you pointed at an elderly Swiss woman carrying a baguette. "She knows, Dev! She knows we're frauds! She’s judging our taste in playback singers!"

"I’m going to do it." Dev muttered, his eyes narrowing with a dark, dangerous glint. "I’m going to drive this car into that fountain. I’ll take the insurance hit. I’ll tell the rental company a goat attacked the electrical system."

"Do it!" you encouraged, gripping the armrest. "End the suffering! Khatam kar do yeh dastaan!"

Suddenly, the playlist shifted to a slow, haunting melody. “Tu mere saamne... main tere saamne...”

"Oh God, not the Darr soundtrack.." you groaned, sliding further down into the footwell. "Next he’s going to start stuttering my name..C-C-C-Choti! It’s too much, Dev! My soul is shriveling!"

"Wait..!" Dev said, his voice suddenly sharp. He had pulled over into a small turnout under a cluster of pine trees. The engine was idling, the music still pumping out its rhythmic, romantic propaganda. "I see it. There’s a sub-menu hidden behind the 'Parental Controls' icon. My Dad is a genius, but he’s old-school. He used his birthday as the passcode."

"Try it! Try 1960!"

Dev’s fingers flew across the screen. 1-9-6-0.

Access Granted.

A sob of genuine relief escaped your throat. "Yes! Kill the playlist! Delete it! Burn it from the cloud!"

"I’m doing better than that.." Dev hissed, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I’m rerouting the output through the local drive. I’m bypassing the 'Sharma-Khanna' cloud entirely. I’m reclaiming my dignity."

He tapped a final 'Confirm' button.

Suddenly, the violins of Dil To Pagal Hai were cut short. The silence that followed was so abrupt, so magnificent, that for a moment, neither of you breathed. It was just the sound of the wind in the pines and the distant lowing of a cow.

"Is it... is it over?" you whispered, afraid to move.

Dev leaned back against the leather seat, his chest heaving, a look of smug, tech-savvy triumph on his face. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.

"It’s over.." he said, his voice returning to its cool, arrogant New York chill. "The loop is broken. The mandolins are dead. I have successfully hacked the Porsche."

"Dev Khanna.." you said, looking at him with genuine respect for the first time in ten days. "You might be a ghada, but you are a ghada with excellent hacking skills.. Tumne meri jaan bacha li..!"

Dev shot you a small, cocky smirk. "Don't get emotional, Choti! It was a matter of survival. Now, give me a second to load my Real Music drive. No flutes. No bells. No pining. Just... silence and rhythm."

He reached for the screen again, ready to usher in a new era of the drive—one where the music didn't involve people dancing in mustard fields. You sat back, finally feeling the peace of the Alps. The Lake of Miracles was still ahead, but at least now you wouldn't have to arrive there with the Kuch Kuch Hota Hai piano theme stuck in your head.

"Silence is beautiful.." you sighed, closing your eyes.

"It’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.." Dev agreed, his thumb hovering over the 'Play' button for his private collection.

The silence held. It was perfect. It was calm.

And then, Dev pressed the button...

The silence lasted for exactly three seconds. It was a beautiful, deceptive three seconds in which Dev looked like a conqueror and you felt like a survivor.

Then, the Porsche’s speakers didn't just play music—they roared.

A heavy, rhythmic beat, accompanied by a suggestive, breathy synth, surged through the cabin. It wasn't the innocent mandolins of the morning. It was the sultry, unmistakable opening of “Dhak Dhak Karne Laga.”

Dev’s hand, which had been poised victoriously over the dashboard, jerked back as if the screen had turned into a hot stove.

"NAHI! "he roared, his voice hitting a register of pure terror. "This is worse! How is this worse?!"

"Dev! The 90's! The other 90's! THE SEXY 90's!! " you screamed, burying your flaming face in your hands.

The car was currently vibrating with Madhuri Dixit’s legendary gasps. The Bose speakers, designed for German precision, were now delivering the most sensuous audio experience in the history of the Swiss Alps.

"Dhak dhak karne laga... ho, mora jiyara darne laga..."

"Turn it off! Ise bandh kar, Dev!" you wailed, sliding so far down into the footwell that your knees were hitting your chin. "I can't look at you! I can't look at the mountains! I can't even look at myself in the mirror!"

Dev was frantically jabbing the screen, his face a shade of crimson that made the Porsche's leather interior look pale. "The bypass! I bypassed the romance loop and hit the 'Late Night Legend' folder! My Dad... he’s a pervert! A strategic, matchmaking pervert!"

He hit 'Next,' desperate for mercy-

The rhythm slowed down into a heavy, bass-driven groove. A man’s voice, silky and dangerously smooth, filled the car.

“Ab hai neend kise... ab hai chain kahan...”

"Oh my God," you whimpered, peek-a-boo-ing through your fingers. You caught Dev’s eye for a split second. He looked horrified, but he was also... blushing. Dev Khanna, the robot of Wall Street, was actually turning pink at the sound of a song about losing sleep over a lover.

"Stop looking at me!" he barked, though his voice lacked any real authority because “Kehti hai dil ki lagi” had just started playing, complete with the seductive saxophone riff.

"I'm not looking at you! I'm looking at the glove box! The glove box is very interesting!" you yelled back. "Dev, why is this happening? Why do our parents want us to have a 'moment' to the sound of 1992’s greatest hits?!"

The Porsche was now cruising past a group of hikers. You tried to look dignified, but it’s hard to maintain a straight face when your car is broadcasting a song that is basically the audio equivalent of a silk bedsheet.

Dev was trying to drive, but he was so flustered he nearly missed a gear. "It’s a psychological operation.." he muttered, his grip on the steering wheel white-knuckled. "They’re trying to break our defenses by making it so awkward that we have to talk about it.."

"Well, it's working!" you said, your voice high-pitched. "I’m broken! I’m shattered! I will agree to anything if you just make the saxophone stop!"

Dev hit 'Next' again, his eyes shut tight in a silent prayer.

“Tip tip barsa paani... paani ne aag lagayi...”

The iconic, dripping synth beat started. You both let out a synchronized, strangled sound of pure agony.

"NAHI! NAHI! NAHI!" you chanted, hitting the dashboard. "Not the yellow saree song! Dev, if you look at me during the chorus, I will file for a restraining order from the afterlife!"

"I'm not looking! I’m staring at the asphalt! I am becoming one with the road!" Dev shouted. He was hunkered over the wheel, his shoulders up to his ears. "Why does this car have such good bass?! I can feel the 'tip tip' in my spine!"

"It’s because your father wants grandchildren, Dev! He wants them now! He wants them to the sound of Raveena Tandon’s rain dance!"

You were two blushing idiots trapped in a silver cage of sensuality.

Every time a new song started, you both went through the same cycle: a gasp of horror, a frantic attempt to skip, and then a shared, whiny breakdown as the next track turned out to be even more suggestive.

"I hate Switzerland!" you moaned, leaning your head against the cool glass of the window. "I hate the 90s! I hate silk sarees! I hate the word 'Dhak'!"

"I hate the 'Next' button!" Dev added, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. "It’s a trap! Every 'Next' is a deeper circle of hell! We started at 'Love' and now we're at 'Intense Yearning'! By the time we reach the lake, the car is going to start playing 'Choli Ke Peeche' and I’m going to have to walk back to India!"

"Look at us.." you said, gesturing between the two of you as the car entered a tunnel, making the music echo even louder. "We are two grown adults. Professional people. And we are currently being defeated by a playlist. *Hum kitne bade gadhe hain..!"

"I’m not a gadha-" Dev sniffled mock-heroically. "I’m a victim. A victim of a well-coordinated musical assault."

He suddenly pulled the car over onto a soft patch of grass. The music was still playing.

Dev turned to you, his face glowing red in the dim light of the trees. You looked back at him, your hair a mess from the wind, your cheeks flushed, looking like a flustered mess in your cream sweater.

You both stared at each other for a second.

And then, you both burst into the most un-glamorous, wheezing laughter in the history of the Alps.

"He... he actually put the bed-creaking song on the list!" you gasped, clutching your stomach. "Uncle Raj... he’s a menace to society!"

"My Dad... is a tactical... genius..." Dev wheezed, leaning his head against the steering wheel. "He’s probably at the chalet right now, checking his watch and saying, 'Ah, they should be at the 'Dhak Dhak' stage by now.'"

"We are such losers, Dev!" you giggled, wiping a tear from your eye. "We’re sitting here blushing like teenagers because of a few flutes and a bassline."

"It’s not 'a few flutes,' it’s a lifestyle." Dev said, finally regaining some of his breath. He looked at the screen, which was still displaying the 'Late Night Legend' folder.

He reached out, and with one final, decisive flick of his wrist, he didn't hit 'Next.' He hit the 'Power' button. Hard.

The silence that followed was heavy, sudden, and blissful. The saxophone was gone. The gasps were gone.

"Is it... is it really over this time?" you whispered.

Dev looked at you. The laughter was still in his eyes, but so was that weird, intense warmth from the night before. Without the music, the air in the car was suddenly very still, and very, very quiet.

"The music is over.." he said, his voice returning to that low rumble. "But I think the 'mahaul' followed us."

You blushed—actually, genuinely blushed this time, without the help of Madhuri Dixit. "Shut up, Dev. Just drive. And don't you dare hum a single note."

"I wouldn't dream of it.." he smirked, shifting the car back into gear.

As the Porsche pulled back onto the road toward Lauenensee, the silence was no longer awkward. It was full. It was heavy. And as Dev’s hand rested on the gear shift, just inches from your knee, you realized that the parents might have been onto something. The music was embarrassing, yes—but the way Dev was looking at you now, without a single '90s synth in sight?

That was a whole different kind of Dhak Dhak... Damn Madhuri, you did it.

The walk from the car to the lake’s edge was a slow, decompressing stroll. Lauenensee wasn't just a lake; it was a sanctuary. The water was a deep, translucent turquoise, perfectly still, reflecting the jagged, snow-dusted peaks of the mountains.

​"Okay.." you breathed, the tension finally leaving your shoulders. "I’ll give them this. The view is better than the music."

​"Barely.." Dev muttered, though he was looking at the scenery with a look of grudging respect. "At least the mountains don't sing."

​You found a spot on a gentle slope of grass, partially shaded by an ancient, gnarled pine tree. The ground was soft, a carpet of wildflowers and mountain grass.

​"Here.." you said, pointing to the flat patch. "This is perfect."

​You both knelt on the grass, the wicker basket sitting between you like a neutral party in a long-standing war. For a moment, the bickering paused. There was a weirdly domestic rhythm as you began the preparation.

​"Blanket first." Dev commanded, reaching into the basket. He pulled out a heavy, red-and-white checkered wool throw.

​He stood up to shake it out, and you grabbed the other end. For a second, you were both holding the fabric, the wind catching it between you. You looked at him—really looked at him—without the "filmy" script or the defensive insults. The sunlight was catching the gold in his dark brown eyes, and the way he was concentrating on the blanket made him look... softer.

​"Ready?" he asked.

​ "Ready."

​You smoothed the blanket over the grass together, your hands brushing against each other as you flattened the creases. Every time your fingers touched, you felt that strange, low-voltage hum of electricity, but instead of pulling away, you both just kept working.

​

​"Okay, let’s see the damage.." Dev said, sitting cross-legged on the blanket. He began unpacking the containers with the same meticulous focus he probably used to dismantle a corporate merger.

​"Maa said the chef packed Gruyère and Vacherin.." you said, reaching into the basket to pull out a silver-wrapped block of cheese. "And look!—fresh figs."

​"And the chocolates.." Dev added, holding up a small, gold-embossed box. "If these have gold leaf on them, I’m calling the authorities. It’s too much."

​"Oh, hush. It’s Switzerland. Everything has gold leaf on it. Probably even the cows."

​You sat opposite him, and for the first time in ten days, the silence wasn't a weapon. It was a workspace. You began slicing the crusty baguette with a small silver knife, the bread still smelling faintly of the chalet’s oven. Dev, meanwhile, was arranging the cheese and fruit on a wooden board with a level of aesthetic precision that made you want to tease him.

​"Are you building a cheese platter or a high-rise, Dev?"

​"It’s about structural integrity.." he retorted, but there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You can't just pile Gruyère like a barbarian. There’s a hierarchy of flavor."

​"You are such a nerd." you giggled, handing him a slice of bread.

​"And you’re a chaos agent." he countered, taking the bread. "You’ve got crumbs on your sweater already."

​"It’s 'mountain chic,' Dev. Look it up."

​He laughed, a soft, low rumble that felt warm in the cool mountain air. He leaned back on one elbow, watching you as you carefully peeled a fig.

​"You know.." he said, his voice dropping into a quieter, more thoughtful tone. "I didn't think we’d make it through the drive without someone being arrested. After the 'Dhak Dhak' incident, I thought for sure you were going to tuck-and-roll out of the car."

​"I considered it..!" you admitted, popping a piece of fig into your mouth. "But then I realized I’d have to explain to the Swiss police why I was fleeing from a silver Porsche playing Madhuri Dixit songs. Bohot beizzati hoti.."

​"Fair point." Dev agreed. He picked up a piece of cheese and looked at it. "My Dad... he’s enjoying this way too much. He’s probably at the chalet right now, checking his watch and telling your parents, 'Ah, they should be at the romantic picnic stage now. The cheese should be doing its work.'"

​"Let them think they’ve won." you said, shrugging your shoulders. "For today, who cares? The air is nice, the cheese is expensive, and for once, you aren't shouting at me about your emails."

​Dev looked at you then, a long, steady gaze that made your breath catch in your throat. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses now. He looked relaxed, his jaw no longer set in that hard, defensive line.

​"I'm not shouting.." he murmured. "And I haven't checked my phone in two hours."

​"Is that a world record for you?"

​"It’s a personal best."

​

​You both sat there, the picnic laid out between you like a feast for a king and queen of nowhere. The sun was reflected in the lake, creating millions of tiny, dancing diamonds on the water’s surface, and you were two people on a red checkered blanket, surrounded by mountains that had seen a thousand romances and a thousand heartbreaks, and for the first time, you weren't thinking about the exit strategy.

​The "Date of Miracles" was officially underway, and as you bit into a gold-leaf chocolate, you realized that the real miracle wasn't the lake. It was the fact that you hadn't kicked him in the shins for forty-five minutes.

"We should probably pack up..." Dev said.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it broke through the quiet hum of the valley like a stone dropped into a perfectly still pool of water. He was leaning back on one elbow, his thumb mindlessly tracing the gold-embossed edge of the chocolate box. The fierce, rigid posture he usually held in the boardroom—and around you—had completely dissolved into the wool of the blanket.

You blinked, pulled out of a light, sun-drenched daze. You had been staring at the far edge of Lauenensee, watching the twin waterfalls fracture the light into tiny, glittering rainbows.

"Already?" you asked, a soft pout catching on your lips before you could stop it. "Abhi toh sukoon mila tha.."

Dev’s gaze drifted from the horizon back to you. The sunglasses were still hooked into the collar of his charcoal sweater, exposing eyes that looked surprisingly warm under the alpine sun. "If we stay here any longer, the sun will dip behind the Spitzhorn and we’ll freeze. Besides, I looked at the map before my phone officially became a paperweight. There’s an old timber village a few kilometers out, and a panoramic ridge trail that doesn't require hiking boots.."

He sat up, crossing his legs, and reached for an empty glass. "Unless you want to go back to the chalet and face the wedding committee's debriefing?"

"Never!" you said immediately, shuddering at the thought. "They’re probably sitting by the fireplace right now, rehearsing their 'we told you so' speeches. I’ll walk into a glacier before I face Maa's smug look today.."

"Then it’s settled." Dev smirked, his fingers deftly wrapping the leftover Gruyère back into its silver foil. "We stretch out the date. We do actual sightseeing. We stay out until the parents start worrying that we've actually eloped."

The packing of the basket became a surprisingly synchronized dance. There were no insults, no sharp elbows, and no frantic arguments about who was doing more work. You handed him the empty cider bottles; he tucked them into the molded grooves of the wicker lining. He wiped down the silver knife with a napkin; you folded the red-and-white checkered cloth into a neat, compact square.

"You're remarkably organized for someone who causes so much chaos.." Dev noted, his voice carrying a light, teasing undertone as he took the folded blanket from your hands.

"I am an organized chaos agent, Dev." you shot back, dusting a few stray breadcrumbs off your cream sweater. "There’s a method to my madness. Unlike your corporate life, where everything is just... spreadsheets and misery."

"Hey," he said, holding up a hand in mock defense. "Spreadsheets have a certain beauty. They don't talk back, and they always balance out at the end of the day."

"Spoken like a true romantic.." you rolled your eyes, but the laugh that followed it was light and free.

As you both stood up, you caught him looking at you again. It wasn't the fleeting, panicked glance he’d given you in the car, nor was it the manufactured, heavy stare from the balcony last night. It was a lingering, quiet look that took in the stray hairs blowing across your face and the flush on your cheeks.

"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious, your hand flying to your hair. "Kuch laga hai kya?"

"No.." Dev said softly, his voice dropping into that lower, richer register that always made your chest feel a little too tight. "Nothing. You just... you don't look like a cactus today."

Your heart did a strange, sudden flip— "Is that a compliment, Dev Khanna? Should I mark this date in my calendar?"

"Don't let it go to your head, Choti," he murmured, his smirk returning as he picked up the heavy basket. "It’s a low bar."

The silver Porsche sat waiting for you in the gravel lot, looking entirely innocent of the musical crimes it had committed an hour ago. You both climbed back in, the leather warm from the afternoon sun.

"Remember the deal.." you warned, pointing a finger at the sleek infotainment screen. "No touchy the power button. If I hear even a single note of an acoustic guitar, I’m pulling the handbrake."

"The system is completely shut down," Dev assured you, shifting the car into gear. "We are driving in absolute, blissful silence. Just the engine and your occasional complaining."

"I am not complaining! I am setting boundaries."

The car glided away from the lake, the tires crunching softly before finding the smooth, winding asphalt of the mountain road. Instead of heading back toward Gstaad, Dev turned the wheel toward the deeper, narrower valleys of Saanenland.

The drive was different now. The frantic, blushing panic of the morning had dissipated, leaving behind a comfortable, heavy warmth. The open-top car let in the scent of wild pine and damp earth. You leaned your head back against the headrest, letting the wind whip through your hair, watching the chalets pass by like beautiful wood-carved toys nestled in the green slopes.

"It’s beautiful.." you murmured, almost to yourself. "Bilkul waisa hi jaise Bachpan mein socha tha.."

Dev glanced at you through his sunglasses. "You used to talk about Switzerland all the time, didn't you? Whenever we were stuck in those boring family dinners in Delhi.."

"Because those dinners were boring!" you laughed, turning to look at his profile. "I used to sit there with my drawing book, dreaming of mountains and snow."

"I remember.." Dev said quietly. His left hand was casual on the steering wheel, his right resting near the gear shift. "You drew a mountain once that looked like a giant triangle with a smiley face. I told you mountains didn't have teeth, and you threw a piece of paneer at my forehead."

"You deserved it! You were ruining my artistic vision!"

"You had a mean aim for a 8-year-old" he chuckled, the memory softening the lines around his eyes.

The GPS, still quietly executing the parents' pre-programmed itinerary, guided the Porsche up a narrow, steep incline that seemed to lead directly into the clouds. The trees began to thin out, replaced by wide, sweeping meadows that clung to the edges of the jagged cliffs.

Dev pulled the car into a small, paved viewing turnout. There were no other tourists here—just a wooden bench, a traditional Swiss water trough carved from a log, and an endless view of the Bernese Alps stretching out like a jagged crown.

"Let’s walk a bit.." Dev said, killing the engine.

You hopped out, the crispness of the altitude hitting your lungs. You walked over to the edge of the wooden railing, looking down into a valley so deep that the chalets below looked like scattered pebbles.

Dev came to stand right beside you. He didn't lean against the railing; he just stood with his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The wind caught the collar of his white shirt, fluttering it against his neck.

From this angle, without the defensive walls of the chalet or the teasing banter, you couldn't help but notice how much he had changed from the awkward, intensely focused teenager you used to torment. He had a presence now—a quiet, solid gravity that made the vastness of the mountains feel a little less intimidating.

"Are you still glad we came?" he asked suddenly, turning his head to look down at you. "Even with the fake lehenga performance? Even with the Dhak Dhak trauma?"

You looked up at him, your shawl wrapped tight around your shoulders. The sun was starting to cast long, dramatic shadows across the peaks, painting the snow in shades of pale violet and gold.

"I am.." you said softly, your voice sincere. "The parents are crazy, and this whole wedding thing is a disaster... but the mountains didn't do anything wrong. I'm glad I got to see this."

You paused, a small, tentative smile touching your lips. "And... it hasn't been completely terrible sharing it with you."

Dev stared at you, his eyes dark and unreadable behind his lenses. For a second, the wind seemed to stop. The teasing, the sarcasm, the corporate-shark defense mechanism—all of it seemed to hang in the balance, waiting for him to decide which mask to wear.

Slowly, he reached up and pulled his sunglasses off, letting them dangle from his hand. He looked at you with an intensity that made the cool alpine air feel suddenly, beautifully warm.

"Yeah.." he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to your eyes. "It hasn't been terrible at all, Choti."

You both stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sun begin its long, slow descent behind the peaks, completely unaware that the silver car behind you was going to be a trap once again, sooner or later..

On the wide, wrap-around veranda of the luxury chalet, the afternoon sun was hitting the timber railings at a perfectly comfortable angle. The view of the snow-capped Alps was spectacular, but the three people occupying the plush wicker lounge chairs weren't looking at the mountains. They were looking at a sleek, matte-black smartphone screen lying face-up on a glass table.

Sunita Sharma, wearing oversized tortoise-shell sunglasses that made her look like a Bollywood diva hiding from the paparazzi, took a delicate sip of a crisp, ice-cold Swiss beer. To her left, her husband Om was contentedly munching on a handful of roasted cashews, while Raj Khanna sat with his legs crossed, a smug, highly satisfied grin plastered across his face.

"They've been at the panoramic viewing turnout for forty-five minutes.." Sunita announced, tapping the screen with a manicured nail. The little glowing blue dot representing the silver Porsche was perfectly stationary on a high mountain road. "No movement. No sudden accelerations. Just... sitting."

"Forty-five minutes?" Raj chuckled, adjusting his own aviator sunglasses. "That’s a record for Dev. Usually, if a meeting takes longer than twenty minutes without a contract signature, he starts vibrating. The mountain air is doing its work, Sunita. I told you."

"The mountain air is doing nothing, Raj," Sunita scoffed smoothly, setting her beer down with a soft clink. "It’s the psychological pressure. And, of course, my flawless programming of the vehicle's infotainment system."

Om let out a loud laugh, nearly choking on a cashew. "Oh, Sunita, you are a demon. Tum toh sach mein khiladi ho! When that song started playing through the chalet's backup feed, I thought Raj was going to fall off the porch."

"It was a masterpiece!" Raj agreed, raising his glass in a toast to Sunita. "A multi-layered auditory assault. If that didn't force them to break the ice, nothing will."

"But that was just Phase One." Sunita said, her eyes flashing with a wicked, brilliant glint behind her dark lenses. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table like a general outlining a military campaign. "The children think they are clever. They thought that pathetic little theater performance last night with the green lehenga and the dramatic running up the stairs would fool me? Mujhe? Apni maa ko?"

"To be fair, the sideboard bit was very convincing," Om muttered.

"It was cliché, Om!" Sunita waved a hand dismissively. "It was entirely cliche! I literally watched that movie with her three weeks ago.. She thinks I don’t notice these things. They wanted us to think they were madly in love so we would cancel the rest of the dates and give them 'space.' Space to do what? For Dev to look at his NASDAQ and for my daughter to sulk in her room?"

"Never!" Raj nodded firmly. "No space. Space is the enemy of a good marriage."

"Exactly!" Sunita purred, taking another sip of her beer. "Which is why I initiated Phase Two before they even woke up this morning.."

Raj leaned in, looking genuinely intrigued now. As a seasoned businessman, he appreciated a good, underhanded strategy. "Phase Two? I thought the pre-programmed GPS to Lauenensee was Phase Two."

"The GPS was merely the bait, Raj." Sunita explained, a triumphant smile spreading across her lips. "I knew that once they survived the playlist, they would try to stretch out the date just to stay away from us. They think the chalet is the trap. They don't realize the entire Canton is the trap."

She tapped the phone screen again, zooming in on the little blue dot. "You see, I didn't just rent a standard Porsche. I rented it through an old school friend of mine whose son runs the premium luxury fleet in Saanen. The car is equipped with a remote-management system. A very high-tech, very efficient digital kill-switch."

Om stopped chewing. "Sunita... tumne gaadi block kar di?"

"Not yet..!" Sunita corrected, her voice dripping with maternal genius. "But the moment they drive down from that ridge and enter the lower village near the old town... click." She mimiced pressing a button. "The engine will suffer a sudden, unexplainable 'electronic malfunction.' It will lock the brakes, shut down the ignition, and refuse to budge."

Raj stared at her for a three-second beat before bursting into a roaring laugh that echoed off the neighboring chalets. "Excellent! Absolute genius! So they get stranded?"

"They don't just get stranded..!" Sunita beamed. "They get 'kidnapped' by the circumstances. I have already arranged for a local towing service to arrive... eventually. But the driver, a very nice Swiss boy named Hans whom I tipped handsomely this morning, has been instructed to take the wrong mountain pass first. He won't arrive for at least three hours."

"Three hours?" Om looked at his watch, his eyes wide. "Sunita, it will be dark by then! It will be freezing!"

"Exactly!" Sunita said, completely unbothered. "It will be dark. It will be cold. There will be only one sweater in that car because I deliberately hid Dev’s heavy jacket in the hallway closet before they left. They will be forced to huddle together for warmth. They will have to walk to the nearest cafe. They will have to talk. No phones, no Wi-Fi, no parents—just mutual survival."

"And the playlist?" Raj asked, his eyes gleaming. "Does the playlist survive the engine kill?"

"Oh, the playlist is on a completely separate, hard-wired auxiliary circuit.." Sunita giggled, clinking her beer glass against Raj's. "The engine will be dead, but Madhuri will "Dhak Dhak- Dancs at maximum volume until the main battery dies. They will have absolutely no choice but to abandon the vehicle and walk hand-in-hand through the romantic, moonlit streets of Saanen."

Om shook his head, a mix of sheer terror and profound admiration on his face. "Raj, we married into a family of criminal masterminds. If your son survives this week, he can survive anything on Wall Street."

"Survive it?" Raj scoffed, leaning back in his chair with a proud grin. "He’s going to thrive. The boy needs a crisis to realize what’s good for him. Last night, he was practically vibrating when he had his arm around her on the balcony. He thinks he’s a tough guy, but he’s soft for her. He’s always been soft for her, ever since she threw that piece of paneer at his head in Delhi."

"They are a perfect match.." Sunita sighed happily, watching the little blue dot on her screen finally begin to move. It was drifting slowly down from the ridge, heading directly toward the village center. "Look. They’re moving. They’re heading into the trap."

"Should we order another round of beers to celebrate?" Om asked, reaching for the room service menu.

"Order a bottle of champagne, Om!" Raj corrected, pulling his sunglasses down to look over the rims at the screen. "Because by the time Hans the tow-truck driver 'finds' them, my son is either going to be completely in love, or he’s going to have figured out how to hotwire a German sports car using a hair clip. Either way, it’s a win for the Khanna family."

Sunita watched the glowing blue dot creep closer and closer to the designated perimeter. Her finger hovered over the 'Send Message' button to the rental agency, ready to trigger the remote "kidnapping" of the silver Porsche.

"Enjoy the quiet while it lasts, my darlings.." Sunita whispered to the screen, her smile radiating pure, unadulterated victory. "Because your mother has booked you a one-way ticket to a 1990s romance, and there are no exits on this highway.."

On the veranda, the three parents raised their glasses under the brilliant Swiss sun, completely unified, utterly ruthless, and entirely confident that their engineered disaster was going to be the best thing that ever happened to their stubborn, oblivious children..

The afternoon air in the lower village of Saanen felt thick with a quiet, old-world charm. The cobblestone streets were narrow, flanked by traditional timber chalets with heavy wooden eaves and window boxes overflowing with early blooms. It was exactly the kind of place where time seemed to slow down, forcing you to look at the details.

For the last two hours, the war had officially been put on pause. Without the pressure of the chalet or the terrifying soundtrack of the morning, you and Dev had slipped into something resembling a normal rhythm.

You wandered through a handful of small, cute boutique shops. You spent ten minutes debating the flavor profile of a locally made mountain honey, and Dev had actually bought a small wooden music box as a souvenir.

Then, you found the chapel.

It was a small, ancient structure nestled at the edge of the village square, its thick stone walls covered in climbing ivy. While Dev had been distracted looking through the window of a high-end menswear boutique next door, you had pushed open the heavy oak doors of the chapel and stepped inside.

The silence hit you first—cool, heavy, and profound. The interior was simple, with dark wooden pews and a series of magnificent stained-glass windows that caught the fading afternoon light, scattering fractures of emerald, sapphire, and ruby across the stone floor. It was beautiful, and it fascinated you. You walked slowly down the aisle, your leather shoes tapping softly against the stone, your eyes fixed on the intricate woodwork of the altar.

The heavy door creaked behind you. Dev stepped into the dim light, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. He didn't say anything at first. He just stood by the back pew, watching you look at the glass.

"You've been in here for twenty minutes.." he murmured, his voice bouncing softly off the vaulted ceiling. "I thought you'd been kidnapped by Swiss nuns."

"It's beautiful, Dev!" you whispered, not looking back. "Look at the way the light hits the floor. It looks like... like liquid jewelry."

Dev walked up beside you, his long legs taking up the space easily. He looked up at the windows, the colored light catching the sharp angle of his jaw. "It’s old. Thirteenth century, probably. The structural architecture is impressive for the time."

"Of course you’d look at the architecture.." you smiled, finally turning to face him. "Can’t you just appreciate the vibe without analyzing the foundation?"

"The foundation is what keeps the vibe from collapsing, Choti. " he replied, a familiar, lazy smirk tugging at his lips.

You walked back out into the bright, crisp village square, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind you. The menswear boutique Dev had been eyeing earlier was right next door, displaying a perfectly tailored, sharp charcoal suit on a mannequin in the window.

You stopped in front of the glass, crossing your arms. "You were staring at that for a while. Are you planning to wear a suit like that to the wedding?"

Dev glanced at the mannequin, then down at his own cashmere sweater. "Usually, I wear a suit. Unless I’m naked. It’s the corporate dress code."

You let out a snort, swatting his arm playfully. "Idiot! I'm being serious. You’re going to wear a standard, boring gray suit to an Indian wedding? In front of three hundred people?"

"It’s not boring, it’s classic..!" Dev defended, leaning one shoulder against the shop’s wooden frame. "A well-tailored Tom Ford suit has more structural integrity than most buildings. Besides, what else would I wear? A sherwani? I’d look like a walking curtain."

You stepped closer to him, looking him up and down with a critical, teasing eye. "That’s because you’re too 'New York' now, Dev Khanna. You’ve spent so much time in Wall Street skyscrapers that you’ve forgotten how to carry yourself. I think some traditional clothes would look so much better on you."

Dev’s eyebrows shot up. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, looking down at you with a sudden, amused intensity. "Oh, really? The chudail has fashion advice for me now? What exactly do you picture me in, Choti? A velvet kurta?"

"Nahi," you said, your voice dropping its teasing edge for a fraction of a second as you genuinely pictured it. "A classic, deep midnight-blue sherwani. Raw silk. No embroidery, just clean lines. It would balance out your... your ridiculous posture. Traditional clothes give a man a different kind of..well- I mean- ...anyway! It makes you look like you belong somewhere, not just like you’re waiting for an elevator in Manhattan..."

Dev stared at you. The village square was quiet around you, the sound of a distant fountain splashing softly. For a second, his cocky smirk vanished, replaced by a strange, quiet expression. His dark eyes searched yours, taking in the earnestness in your face before you could cover it up with another insult.

"Midnight blue?" he asked, his voice low and rhythmic.

"Yes.." you muttered, suddenly feeling very warm under your thick cream sweater. "With a white pocket square. And... and no ugly ties."

Dev let out a soft chuckle, reaching out to give your braid a gentle, playful tug. "Alright. I’ll make a note of it for the boardroom.

The playful bickering carried you all the way down the cobblestone path toward the designated premium parking zone where the silver Porsche was waiting. The sun was fully setting now, painting the bottom of the valley in a deep, electric blue while the tops of the peaks still glowed with a faint, dusty pink.

It had been a peaceful afternoon. A genuinely nice afternoon. For the first time in ten days, you hadn't felt the need to build a wall between yourself and the man walking beside you. He was still annoying, still arrogant, and still entirely too "New York," but he was also... Dev. The boy who knew your drawing style, the man who could make you laugh in the middle of a chapel.

"The car looks abnormally quiet..." you noted as you approached the silver convertible. It sat under the shadow of a large chestnut tree, looking perfectly sleek and innocent.

"Don't tempt fate." Dev warned, pulling the key fob from his pocket. "If I unlock this door and hear oldies starting up again, I’m leaving the keys on the tire and buying a bicycle.."

"If it plays Tip Tip, I’ll help you push it into the river!" you promised, walking around to the passenger side.

Dev clicked the unlock button. The lights flickered, the mirrors unfolded with a soft, mechanical whir, and... silence. No flutes. No heavy breathing. No Sridevi vocals..

"See?" Dev said, looking over the roof at you with a triumphant grin. "The system is clear. We survived Phase One of the parental blockade."

"Don't celebrate yet," you said, sliding into the leather seat. The chill of the evening was starting to settle over the valley, and the car’s interior felt crisp. "We still have to drive past the lower village checkpoint. Knowing Maa, she probably has a spy drone tracking us."

"Let her track us.." Dev said, climbing into the driver’s seat. He slammed his door shut, the solid, expensive thud sealing the two of you into the tight, intimate cabin once more. He hooked his sunglasses into his collar and reached for the ignition. "We have the cheese, we have the honey, and we have a mutual agreement that I look excellent in midnight blue. We’re untouchable."

"I said you would look better, not excellent," you corrected immediately, leaning your head back against the headrest. "Don't misquote the oracle."

"Same difference.." he smirked, turning the key.

The engine fired up with its characteristic, powerful growl, the exhaust note echoing off the timber walls of the nearby shops. Dev shifted into first gear, his hand steady on the leather-wrapped knob, just inches from your knee.

As the car began to roll slowly out of the cobblestone parking lot and onto the main road leading out of the village, you let out a long, contented breath. The date was over, the sightseeing was done, and against all historical odds, you had actually enjoyed yourself.

You looked out at the darkening mountains, a soft smile playing on your lips, completely unaware that miles away on a heated veranda, your mother was currently staring at a matte-black phone screen with her finger poised directly over a digital execution button.

The silver Porsche was gliding down the main mountain artery leading out of Saanen, its headlights cutting twin beams of sharp white light through the gathering alpine dusk. You were wrapped tightly in Dev’s blazer while Dev hummed something that wasn't a Bollywood song under his breath. It was, arguably, the most functional, peaceful ten minutes the two of you had shared since the Clinton administration.

Then, the German engineering decided to have a stroke.

It started with a faint, digital beep. Not an aggressive alarm, but a polite, soft chime from the dashboard.

"What was that?" you asked, glancing over at the instrument cluster.

"Nothing..!" Dev said quickly, his eyes scanning the dials. "Probably just a tire pressure warning because of the temperature drop. This car is hypersensitive.."

Beep. Beep.

The sleek digital speedometer suddenly began to flicker. The numbers tumbled frantically backward: 60... 40... 20... yet the car was still rolling forward at the exact same speed.

"Dev.." you said, your voice dropping its relaxed tone. "Why is the dashboard flashing like a disco ball?"

"It’s fine.." he muttered, though his jaw had tightened into that familiar, rigid line. He tapped the screen. "It’s just a software glitch. I’ll reset the—"

Before he could finish the sentence, every single light on the dashboard turned a blinding, apocalyptic shade of red. A massive warning icon shaped like an exclamation point inside a gear popped up, filling the entire screen. Simultaneously, the engine’s powerful, purring growl didn't just fade—it stopped dead. The sudden drop in mechanical momentum caused the car to lurch forward, throwing you both against your seatbelts.

"Whoa! Kya hua?!" you shrieked, grabbing the dashboard.

"The power steering is gone!" Dev gasped, his shoulders tensing as he threw his entire weight against the steering wheel to guide the heavy, dead convertible toward the narrow dirt shoulder of the road. "The brakes are stiff! Abey, chal na!"

With one final, pathetic metallic shudder, the Porsche rolled to a complete halt beneath a massive, ominous pine tree. The headlights flickered twice, then died, plunging the cabin into the dark, shadowy blue of the alpine night.

Silence. Total, freezing, unadulterated silence.

For three seconds, neither of you breathed. You sat frozen in the leather seats, staring out through the windshield at the empty mountain road.

"You broke it.." you whispered, turning your head slowly to look at him. "Dev. You kicked the tire earlier. You knocked a German sensor out of alignment with your corporate rage."

"I did not break a hundred-thousand-dollar sports car by kicking a rubber tire!" Dev shouted, turning the key frantically in the ignition.

Click. Click. Click.

The engine didn't even attempt to turn over. The car was as dead as a piece of ancient granite. But then, as if on cue, the center infotainment screen flared to life, glowing a ghostly, vibrant blue in the darkness.

A heavy, synthesized rhythm—accompanied by a wild, undulating accordion and a glass-shattering scream—shook the Bose speakers.

“Aa... aa-aa... MEHBOOBA! MEHBOOBA! ”

Your jaw dropped. Dev froze, his fingers still wrapped around the ignition key.

"No," you whimpered, covering your face with your hands. "No, no, no. Not Helen. Not right now!"

"The engine is dead, but the auxiliary loop is alive!" Dev yelled over the deafening opening chords of Sholay’s greatest item number. "How is this possible?! The mechanical systems are totally fried, but Gabbar Singh’s favorite song is playing in high-definition surround sound!"

"It’s a curse, Dev! We’ve angered the gods of the '90s!" You scrambled in your seat, hitting the power button on the screen. Nothing happened. You twisted the volume knob. The volume went up

"Oh, mehbooba mehbooba uhuuhhhhh!"

"Shut up! Shut up!" you screamed at the dashboard, batting at the plastic. "Dev, do something! Call a tow truck! Call the police! Call the United Nations!"

Dev frantically pulled his phone from his pocket. "I have one bar of service. Just one. Hold on." He aggressively scrolled through his contacts until he found the emergency number provided by the rental boutique in Gstaad. He jammed the phone to his ear, leaning halfway out of the open-top car to catch the signal.

"Hello? Yes! Hi!" Dev shouted over the roaring chorus of Mehbooba. "My name is Dev Khanna. We rented the silver Porsche 911. The car has completely died on the road between Saanen and Lauenen. Yes, kaputt! The engine is kaputt!"

You leaned closer to the phone, trying to hear over the music. A deep, agonizingly slow Swiss voice boomed through the receiver.

"Ah... ja... Herr Khanna. The silver Porsche. I see the GPS alert on my system. Very unfortunate. This is Hans."

"Great! Hans! Excellent!" Dev paced his words, speaking with the manic energy of a New York trader on a deadline. "We need a tow truck. Immediately. It is freezing, we are on the shoulder of a mountain, and the car is currently possessed by a Bollywood demon. How fast can you get a truck out here?"

A long, agonizing pause stretched over the line. You could hear the distinct sound of Hans taking a slow sip of what was likely a very hot, leisurely cup of tea.

"Ja... well, Herr Khanna... the main transport truck is currently out on the Col du Pillon. There was an incident with a herd of cows and a cheese delivery van. Very complicated."

"I don't care about the cheese van, Hans!" Dev bellowed, his voice cracking. "I care about my survival! Give me a timeline! Ten minutes? Twenty minutes?"

"Ah... no. More like... three hours, ja? Maybe four. The mountain pass is very blocked. And the backup driver is... how do you say... having his dinner."

"His dinner?!" you shrieked into the phone, leaning across the center console. "He’s eating while we’re freezing to death to the sound of Sholay?! Tell him to drop the fondue and get in the truck, Hans!"

"I cannot disrupt a man's dinner, Fräulein.It is against the union regulations. Just stay with the vehicle. Turn on the heater."

"The heater is dead because the engine is dead, Hans!" Dev roared.

"Ah. Then you must huddle. For the warmth, ja? Hans out."

Dev slowly lowered the phone, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated disbelief. He looked at the glowing blue screen, his eye twitching.

"Three hours-" Dev whispered, his corporate authority entirely evaporated. "We are stranded in a multi-million-dollar Swiss valley, and our fate rests in the hands of a man named Hans who respects dinner formatting more than human life."

"And we have to listen to this for three hours?!" You slumped back into the leather seat, pulling his blazer up over your chin. "Dev, my ears are going to bleed. The parents... if they find out about this, they’re going to think it’s a sign from God. Maa will probably say the car stopped because our aura wasn't aligned."

"Your mother is probably the one who cursed this car..!" Dev muttered, climbing out of the vehicle and pacing the gravel shoulder. The mountain air was turning icy, the wind whistling through the pine trees. "This makes no sense. A brand-new Porsche doesn't just completely lose its powertrain while maintaining full battery output to a hard-wired media drive. It’s statistically impossible."

"Nothing is impossible when our parents are involved." you wailed, shivering as the cold began to seep through your sweater. "They’ve probably hired a digital witch to destroy our transport!"

Dev stopped pacing. He looked down at you, huddled in his oversized blazer, your nose turning pink from the cold, your eyes wide with a mix of theatrical misery and genuine panic. Despite the roaring music and the freezing temperature, a sudden, helpless smile broke across his face.

He walked back to the passenger side, leaning his arms on the door frame. "Well, Choti... looks like your traditional midnight-blue sherwani plan is going to have to wait. Right now, we need to figure out how to survive the next 180 minutes without murdering each other or learning the choreography to this song."

"Don't laugh, Dev!" you whined, though a small, involuntary giggle escaped your lips. "This is a tragedy! A certified Bollywood tragedy!"

"Mehboba... o mehbooba...!" the car cheered in response, its headlights dead, its engine gone, but its commitment to the vibe completely unshaken...

Exactly sixty minutes had passed, and the silver Porsche had officially transformed from a high-end sports car into an instrument of cruel and unusual psychological torture.

The backup battery was apparently fueled by the infinite, unyielding power of pure spite, because the soundtrack had finally looped back to the beginning. The unmistakable, undulating accordion riff of Mehbooba O Mehbooba started playing for what felt like the fourteenth time.

"If I hear that song one more time, Dev, I am going to throw myself into the ravine!" you announced, your voice muffled by the collar of his blazer. You were huddled so low in the passenger footwell that you were practically one with the floor mats.

Dev didn't answer. He was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, staring straight ahead into the pitch-black alpine night, his jaw clenched so tightly you could practically hear his teeth grinding. His hair, usually a masterpiece of New York styling, was now entirely wild from the freezing wind.

"That's it," Dev suddenly snapped, his voice hitting a sharp, manic register. He reached over, grabbed his phone, and yanked the key out of the dead ignition—which, of course, did absolutely nothing to stop Helen from singing and dancing. "We’re leaving. I am not spending another two hours on the shoulder of a Swiss highway acting as the captive audience for a 1975 item number. We walk."

"Walk?" You peeked out from the jacket, shivering violently as the mountain air bit at your cheeks. "Dev, look outside! *Andhera ho gaya hai! It’s pitch black, it’s freezing, and my shoes are meant for strolling through boutiques, not a midnight mountain trek!"

"It’s either the dark or the disco, Choti." Dev said, throwing his door open and stepping out into the crisp night. "Pick your poison. Because I am choosing the wilderness."

You let out a loud, pathetic whine, but the thought of staying in the cabin alone with the phantom surround-sound was worse than the cold. You scrambled out of the car, slamming the passenger door behind you. The moment you stepped onto the gravel, the mountain silence hit you—broken only by the muffled, rhythmic thump-thump-thump vibrating from inside the sealed Porsche.

The walk back toward the lower village of Saanen was an absolute exercise in cinematic misery. The road was a winding ribbon of black asphalt, illuminated only by the faint, silver glow of a crescent moon throwing long, jagged shadows from the towering pine trees.

You walked with your arms wrapped tightly around your chest, Dev’s heavy blazer tucked up to your chin. Your leather loafers clicked sharply against the road, a rhythmic reminder of your impending frostbite.

"This is ridiculous.." you muttered, your teeth chattering. "We are two highly educated, successful adults. Why are we walking down a mountain like two refugees from a failed romance novel?"

Dev was walking half a step ahead of you, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, his shoulders hunched against the wind. "Because our parents are tactical masterminds who have successfully subverted the entire transport infrastructure of Western Europe. That’s why."

"Do you think Hans is actually coming?" you asked, stepping over a large pinecone.

"Hans is currently having a three-course fondue meal and respecting his union regulations.." Dev grunted, his breath pluming in the freezing air. "He isn't coming until midnight. And even if he does, what’s he going to do? Give us a ride on the back of his tow truck? We can't even call the chalet. My phone died ten minutes ago."

You stopped dead in the middle of the dark road. "Wait. Your phone is dead? Sachi?!"

Dev turned around, pulling the black screen out of his pocket to show you. "Dead. The cold killed the battery. And unless your phone magically resurrected itself in the last hour..."

"Mine died before we even reached the lake..!" you whispered, a sudden wave of genuine panic washing over you. "We can't call our parents. We don't even know the way back to Gstaad from here without a GPS!"

Dev stared at you through the gloom. The arrogant, untouchable New York executive was completely gone, replaced by a man who looked remarkably flustered by the fact that he couldn't solve this problem with an email. He looked up at the sky, then down the dark road, and let out a long, ragged sigh.

"We can't walk back to the chalet.." he admitted, his voice dropping into a quieter, more serious tone. "It’s over eight kilometers uphill in the dark. You’ll freeze, and I’ll break an ankle."

"So what do we do?" you asked, your voice trembling from a mix of cold and anxiety. "Do we sleep under a tree? Do we find a cave? Bhoot-voot toh nahi hote na yahan?"

"There are no ghosts, Chudail," Dev sighed, stepping closer to you. He reached out and adjusted the lapels of his blazer around your neck, his fingers brushing your cold skin with a sudden, protective warmth. "But there is a village. Saanen is less than a kilometer down this ridge. We make it to the village square, and we find a solution there..."

Twenty minutes later, your feet were entirely numb, but the twinkling, warm yellow lights of Saanen finally appeared through the trees. The village square, which had been so bustling and charming during the afternoon, was now quiet and deserted. The boutique shops were closed, their windows dark, and the cobblestones glistened with a thin layer of evening frost.

You both stood beneath the shelter of a timber awning, shivering in unison.

"Okay.." Dev said, rubbing his hands together to generate heat. "The village is closed. The train station is dark. We have no phones, no car, and no way to contact the elders."

You looked across the square. There was a Hotel...! Hotel Landhaus. Through the lower windows, you could see the warm, amber glow of a crackling fireplace and the silhouette of a sleepy night receptionist sitting behind a wooden desk.

You looked at the inn. Then you looked at Dev.

The silence between you turned heavy, charged with a sudden, hilarious, and utterly terrifying realization.

"No." you said, your eyes widening. "No, Dev. Absolutely not."

"What?" he asked, though a slow, wicked smirk was already starting to form on his face despite his frozen lips.

"We are not doing the 'Only One Room Left' trope!" you pointed a trembling finger at the hotel. "I know how this works! We walk in there, we’re stranded, we have no choice, and suddenly we’re sharing a bed with a single plush duvet! It’s too cliché! If we do this, the universe wins!"

Dev let out a sharp, breathless laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh, I’m sorry, Choti. Do you have a better corporate strategy? Would you prefer to sleep on the stone steps of the chapel to protect your artistic integrity? Because my toes are currently entering the early stages of necrosis."

"We could... we could ask the receptionist to call our parents!" you suggested desperately.

"And tell them what?" Dev countered, stepping out from under the awning and marching toward the inn’s heavy glass doors. "Tell them that their brilliant plan worked perfectly? That we’re stranded in a romantic village, helpless and desperate? If we call them tonight, my father will have the wedding contracts printed and signed before breakfast. If we stay here, we control the narrative. We check in, we sleep in separate corners of the room, and tomorrow morning we find a normal taxi like civilized human beings."

You stood in the cold for a split second, watching his broad shoulders lift as he pushed open the hotel door, a blast of wonderful, cinnamon-scented heat billowing out into the street.

Your pride fought a brief, violent battle with your desire to not die of hypothermia.

The warmth won.

"Fine!" you hissed, stomping after him into the lobby. "But if there’s only one bed, you’re sleeping on the floor, Khanna!"

The lobby of the Hotel was a haven of polished wood, antique clocks, and a massive stone hearth where a fire was lazily dying down. An elderly Swiss receptionist with a magnificent gray mustache blinked awake as the bell above the door jingled.

Dev stepped up to the desk, instantly slipping back into his authoritative, elite persona despite the fact that his white shirt was slightly rumpled and he was missing his jacket.

"Good evening," Dev said in his perfect, boardroom English. "We’ve had an electronic failure with our vehicle on the mountain road. We need to book a room for the night."

The receptionist adjusted his spectacles, looking at the two of you with a quiet, knowing expression that made your stomach drop. He looked at your cream sweater, your windswept hair, and the fact that you were wearing Dev’s blazer like a shield.

"Ah, ja... a very cold night for a drive.." the old man murmured, pulling out a heavy leather-bound ledger. He flipped through the pages with an agonizing slowness that felt distinctly like it had been choreographed by your mother. "Let me see... it is the high season, you know. Many skiers. Many romantic couples..."

You leaned against the desk, holding your breath. Please say you have a double room with two twin beds. Please.

The receptionist tapped a pen against his chin, looking up with a polite, apologetic smile. "Ah. It seems we have only one room remaining tonight, A beautiful bridal suite on the top floor. A historic king-sized bed, a private fireplace... very cozy for the winter."

You let out a soft, strangled groan and dropped your forehead onto the wooden counter.

Dev froze. He didn't look at you. He just closed his eyes for a brief second, his chest rising as he took a deep, steadying breath.

"We'll take it. Bring it on." Dev said, his voice entirely flat.

The keys were given to Dev, and without another word you headed upstairs. The door swung open with a soft, heavy creak, and the two of you stepped over the threshold into what could only be described as a Swiss-themed trap for the romantically helpless.

The room was vast, dominated by a massive, high-backed bed made of dark, gnarled alpine timber. Stacked high on the mattress was a cloud-like mountain of pristine white down duvets and silk pillows. To make matters worse, a small stone fireplace sat in the corner, pre-loaded with dry logs, waiting for a single match to transform the room into a scene straight out of a luxury honeymoon brochure.

You stood in the center of the room, hands planted on your hips, your jaw nearly touching the polished pine floorboards. "No. No, no, no. Yeh koi mazaak ho raha hai kya?"

Dev closed the door behind him with a soft click, leaning his back against the timber paneling. He looked at the bed, then at the fireplace, and finally at you. The exhaustion of the drive and the freezing walk had caught up to him; his hair was gloriously messy, and his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned just enough to look distinctly un-corporate.

"Don't look at me like I personally styled the room.." he muttered, running a tired hand over his face. "I didn't choose the down duvets, Choti."

"But you chose to accept it!" you spun around, pointing an accusing finger at him. "The 'Bridal Suite'? Really, Dev? You couldn't have negotiated for a broom closet? You’re supposed to be a Wall Street shark! Where is your leverage?!"

"My leverage froze to death somewhere around kilometer three!" Dev shouted back, his New York patience completely snapping as he marched past you into the room. "The village is dark, the temperature is sub-zero, and I am currently operating on two cups of coffee and a handful of gold-leaf chocolates. I wasn't going to argue with a Swiss grandfather about bed configurations at eleven o'clock at night!"

He threw his wallet and his dead phone onto a wooden chest at the foot of the bed and immediately began unbuttoning his cuffs.

"What are you doing?!" you gasped, taking a defensive step back.

Dev stopped, looking at you like you had just lost your mind. "I am unbuttoning my cuffs so I can wash my face, Chudail. Unless you want me to sit here in full boardroom attire all night?" He rolled his sleeves up his forearms, his dark eyes narrowing with malicious amusement. "Relax. I’m not going to jump you. You look like a very angry, very frozen marshmallow in that sweater."

"Oh, really? Tum bade gentleman ho na?" you hissed, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "Let’s establish the ground rules right now. That bed? That is my fortress. You are not allowed within a three-foot radius of it."

Dev let out a sharp, mocking laugh, leaning his hips against the heavy wooden bedpost. "Your fortress? Excuse me, but who paid for this room? My credit card is currently holding the line against our bankruptcy, Choti. If anything, the bed is mine, and you’re a squatter."

"I don't care about your corporate expenses! I am a woman, and you are... Dev" you argued, stepping closer until you were nearly toe-to-toe with him on the thick sheepskin rug. "You are sleeping on the floor. Look, there’s a lovely, flat, incredibly hard patch of wood right by the door. It matches your personality perfectly."

Dev leaned down, invading your personal space until you could see the dark, stubborn flecks of amber in his eyes. His voice dropped into a low, irritatingly confident rumble. "Listen to me, you stubborn brat. It’s a king-sized bed. It is approximately six feet wide. We could fit a small continent between us. And let's be realistic here—our parents are currently planning a three-day festival where we will be forced to sleep together anyway soon. Why are you acting like a Victorian virgin over a piece of furniture?"

The mention of the wedding hit you like a bucket of ice water. Your face flamed, a violent, hot blush rushing up your neck.

"Bhagwan! Tum kitne ghatiya ho!" you yelled, delivering a sharp shove to his chest. It was like trying to push a solid brick wall, but he stumbled back half a step out of pure surprise. "Don't talk about the wedding like it’s a done deal! We are doing this to avoid it, remember? And I am not sharing a mattress with a man who thinks a legal contract gives him the right to my down duvet!"

"I am talking about statistical probability!" Dev roared back, his ears turning pink. "*Tum toh bilkul pagal ho gayi ho! Fine! You want the floor? You want me to get back spasms before the horse-drawn carriage ride tomorrow?"

"Yes! I hope your back locks up completely! Ghada kahin ka!"

For a solid minute, the only sound in Room 404 was the heavy, furious breathing of two people who were too stubborn to admit they were exhausted. The fire in the grate remained unlit, and the chill of the alpine night was slowly beginning to creep through the thick glass of the windowpanes.

Dev stared at you, his chest rising and falling beneath his white shirt. He took in your defensive posture, the way you were practically vibrating with a mix of anger and genuine, bone-deep tiredness. The harsh, stubborn glint in his eyes suddenly softened into something heavy and weary.

"Fine.." he muttered, his voice dropping all of its defensive volume. He looked away, walking over to the wooden chest. "You win. Take the fortress."

You blinked, caught entirely off guard by his sudden surrender. "Wait. Really?"

"Yes, really!" he snapped, yanking one of the smaller, spare down pillows off the top tier of the bed. He didn't look at you as he tossed it onto the sheepskin rug near the corner of the room, furthest from the bed but close to the cold draft of the door. "I don't have the energy to fight a civil war with you tonight. Just take the bed, shut up, and let me get four hours of sleep before Hans resurrects the car."

He threw himself down onto the floor, his long legs stretching out awkwardly across the rug. He didn't have a blanket—only his own dark blazer, which you had finally taken off and dropped onto the armchair earlier. He dragged the heavy wool jacket over his chest, his shoulders bunching as he tried to find a comfortable position on the unyielding timber beneath the rug.

"Turn off the lamp." his voice came from the darkness of the floor, flat and entirely done with the day.

You stood by the edge of the high mattress, feeling a sudden, uncomfortable prickle of guilt in your chest. The bed looked impossibly soft, a luxurious paradise of warmth, while Dev was currently curled up on a piece of hide like a discarded prop from a historical drama.

"Dev? Do you want a duvet? There are three—"

"I’m fine." he growled, turning his back to you. "Light. Off. Now."

You clicked the small bedside lamp off. The room was instantly plunged into a deep, shadowed blue, the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains and casting long, barred shadows across the floorboards.

You climbed into the massive bed, sinking into the down mattress. It was warm, it was perfect, and yet, as you pulled the thick duvet up to your chin, you couldn't help but stare over the edge of the high wooden frame, down into the dark corner where Dev lay perfectly still.

The silence grew heavy, but underneath it, you could hear the faint, sharp intake of his breath. The room was getting colder by the minute, and the floorboards by the door were notoriously drafty.

You lay in the luxury of your fortress, your heart doing that strange, uneasy flutter again. The bickering was over, the insults were spent, and the sheepskin rug was an absolute fraud. It looked like a cloud in the moonlight, but underneath lay the uncompromising reality of ancient Swiss oak.

Dev shifted his weight, his hip bone grinding against the floorboards with a dull, echoing ache that felt personally coordinated by his father. The draft coming from beneath the heavy timber door was systematic, a steady, icy blade of alpine wind that sliced right through his socks and mocked the thin wool of his suit jacket.

He was freezing. His toes were entirely numb, his lower back was already threatening a full-scale corporate lockout, and his ears were filled with the soft, infuriatingly rhythmic sound of your deep, peaceful breathing from the fortress above.

“Ghada kahin ka..” he muttered to the dark ceiling, repeating your insult through chattering teeth.

He pulled his jacket tighter over his chest, his fingers digging into the lining. He couldn't sleep.

He glanced up at the shadow of the high wooden bedframe. You hadn't stirred. You were probably buried under three layers of premium down, dreaming of ways to turn his life into a chaotic mess.

"This is ridiculous.." he growled.

With a stiff, painful grunt, Dev hoisted himself up from the floor. His knees let out a sharp crack that sounded like a pistol shot in the silence of Room 404.

"Dev?" your voice came from the mountain of blankets, instantly sharp, suspicious, and heavy with sleep. "What are you doing? If you step one inch closer to this mattress, I am screaming 'fire' in three languages."

"Calm down, Chudail" Dev hissed, standing rigidly in the center of the room, his hands rubbing his upper arms for warmth. "I am not invading your fortress. I am looking for a spare blanket or a pillow that hasn't been corrupted by your presence."

"There are no spare blankets! I took the extra ones!" you snapped, shifting beneath the duvet until only your dark eyes and the top of your cream sweater were visible in the silver moonlight. "Go back to your sheepskin. You’re ruining my REM cycle."

"I am currently entering the early stages of hypothermia because you insisted on playing the Victorian heroine.." Dev retorted, his voice a fierce, frantic whisper as he began to navigate the shadows of the room. "I’m looking in the wardrobe."

"Don't look at me while you do it!"

"I am not looking at you! I am looking at a piece of nineteenth-century cabinetry!"

Dev marched toward the massive, dark-wood wardrobe that stood against the far wall like a sentinel. He yanked the heavy doors open, the hinges letting out a loud, groaning protest that made you let out a sharp gasp of annoyance from the bed.

"Quiet!" you whispered. "The grandfather downstairs is going to think we're murdering each other!"

"He’d be right!" Dev muttered, his hands blindly rummaging through the empty, cedar-scented hangers. There were no extra blankets. No spare duvets. Just a couple of heavy wooden coat hangers and a lint roller.

He slammed the wardrobe doors shut and turned his attention to a low, antique chest of drawers sitting under the frosted windowpane. The moonlight filtered through the glass, casting a pale, silver sheet across the top of the dark wood.

"Dev, seriously, stop pacing.." you grumbled, turning over with a loud rustle of silk. "You look like a giant, dark ghost. Just take my second pillow if you're that miserable."

"I don't want your second pillow," he snapped immediately, his pride flaring up despite the chill in his bones. "Your pillow probably smells like chaos and expensive hair oil. I’ll find my own solution."

"Fine! Freeze! See if I care!"

Dev ignored you, his fingers gripping the brass handle of the lowest drawer. He pulled it open. It was empty, save for a small, embroidered linen runner. He moved to the top drawer, pulling it out with a sharp jerk.

It wasn't empty.

His hand hit something solid, cold, and distinctly metallic. He frowned, his corporate-trained fingers immediately identifying the shape. It wasn't a blanket. It wasn't a pillow.

He reached deeper into the dark recess of the drawer, his fingers wrapping around a heavy, smooth glass neck. He lifted it out into the moonlight, the liquid inside sloshing with a slow, dark, and beautiful viscosity.

It was a flask—a heavy, antique silver-and-glass hip flask, nestled beside a dusty, unlabelled green bottle.

Dev squinted at the faded cursive on the bottle's parchment label, his heart giving a sudden, unexpected leap of pure, unadulterated joy.

"Well, well, well," he murmured, his voice dropping its sharp, defensive edge for the first time all night.

"What?" you asked, sitting up slightly in the bed, your curiosity finally overcoming your annoyance. "Did you find a blanket? Is it ugly?"

Dev turned around slowly, holding the heavy glass bottle up so it caught the direct beam of the silver moonlight. The liquid inside glowed like liquid amber, dark, rich, and thick.

"Not a blanket," Dev said, a slow, wicked, and entirely authentic smirk spreading across his face as he looked from the bottle up to your shadowed face. "Cognac. High-altitude, aged Swiss cognac. Hidden in the emergency hospitality drawer.."

He let out a low, satisfied breath, the cold wind from the door suddenly feeling a lot less threatening. "The German sports car may have failed us, but the Swiss hospitality infrastructure... that just saved my life."

Dev stood in the center of the room, his long fingers wrapped around the heavy glass neck of the bottle, staring at the cursive label as if it were a newly signed, billion-dollar acquisition contract.

From the depths of her fortress of down duvets, you peered out, your dark eyes narrowing with immediate, defensive suspicion. "Cognac? Why would they just leave a bottle of alcohol in a random drawer, Dev? It’s probably rubbing alcohol. Or poison. Or a trap set by Hans to make us drop our guard."

"It’s not rubbing alcohol, Chot.." Dev scoffed, his thumb deftly picking at the wax seal around the cork. With a sharp, satisfying POP that echoed through the quiet room, the scent of oak, burnt sugar, and deep, fiery warmth instantly bloomed into the cold air. He took a long, deep breath of the vapor, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across his face. "It’s premium. And right now, it’s my primary defense against a back spasm."

He tilted his head back and took a long, smooth swig directly from the bottle. The liquid fire hit his throat, sending an immediate, blooming wave of heat straight down to his frozen toes. He let out a ragged, satisfied gasp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Oh my God-" you gasped, sitting completely upright in the bed, the thick white duvet bunching around your waist. "You're actually drinking it?! Direct from the bottle like a barbarian? Tum kitne ghatiya ho, Dev! Where are your corporate manners? Where is the crystal glass?"

"The crystal glass is in Manhattan, and my toes are in a freezer!" Dev retorted, his voice already sounding a fraction warmer as he leaned his hips against the low chest of drawers. He took another, smaller sip, swirling the amber liquid with the easy familiarity of a man who spent his weekends at high-end whiskey tastings. "And for your information, this isn't just 'alcohol.' It’s a medicinal intervention."

You let out a loud, mocking snort, leaning back against the wooden headboard, your arms crossed tightly over your cream sweater. "Medicinal? Please. It’s liquor, Dev. Pure, brain-cell-destroying liquor. You’re just a desperate corporate shark who found a puddle."

Dev froze, the bottle halfway back to his lips. He slowly lowered it, a wicked, deeply nostalgic glint flashing in his eyes as he looked up at you through the silver gloom.

"Liquor?" he asked, his voice dropping into a low, deliberately dramatic cadence. "Cognac... sharab nahi hoti, Choti."

You blinked, caught entirely off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. "What?"

Dev took a slow, theatrical step toward the foot of the bed, holding the bottle out like a dramatic film prop. "Cognac... sharab nahi hoti."

The realization hit you like a lightning bolt. Your jaw dropped, a hysterical gasp escaping your throat as the reference clicked into place. It was Chandni, The legendary 1989 Yash Chopra film. The exact, absurdly famous line Rishi Kapoor says to Sridevi in the middle of a snowy, romantic mountain landscape.

"No-" you whimpered, a laugh already bubbling up in your chest despite your best efforts to choke it down. "No, Dev. Do not do this. Do not bring Rishi Kapoor into this room."

"Kalaakar ko roko mat" Dev teased, his baritone filling the dim room as he took another step closer, leaning over the wooden footboard. "Cognac sharab nahi hoti... yeh toh garmi dene wali dawa hoti hai!"

"You are a lunatic!" you shrieked, a wild, breathless laugh bursting out of you. You scrambled across the mattress, your knees sinking into the soft down duvet until you reached the edge of the footboard. You reached out, your fingers wrapping around the cool glass of the bottle right above his grip. "Give me that! If you’re going to quote Sridevi movies to me in the dark, I need to be legally intoxicated to survive it."

"Hey! This is my medicine!" Dev argued, but he didn't pull back. His fingers lingered against yours for a second, the heat of his skin transferring to your cold hands before he relinquished the bottle.

You didn't hesitate. You tilted the bottle back and took a small, cautious gulp. The cognac hit your tongue like a sweet, fiery explosion, burning its way down your throat and immediately lighting a small, glorious furnace in your chest. You let out a loud, shuddering “Haaah! ” and coughed slightly, your eyes watering in the moonlight.

"See?" Dev smirked, leaning his forearms against the footboard, watching you with an amused, lazy grin. "The 'medicine' works."

"It tastes like a campfire and old leather..!" you wheezed, wiping your lips, but you didn't hand the bottle back immediately. You cradled it against your sweater like a prize. "And you still quoted it wrong. Rishi Kapoor said it with more... passion. More tadap. You sounded like you were reading a financial audit of a liquor store."

"My tadap is perfectly fine, thank you very much.." Dev huffed, snatching the bottle back from your grip with a playful jerk. "I was channeling the modern, corporate Rishi Kapoor. A man who appreciates efficiency in his romantic prose."

He took another swig, his broad shoulders relaxing completely as the alcohol began to work its magic on his frozen lower back. He looked down at the floor, then up at the massive, cloud-like mattress where you were sitting cross-legged.

"Soo.." he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a soft, challenging glint. "Does the marshmallow fortress have room for a medicinal practitioner? Or am I still condemned to the sheepskin prison?"

You looked at him—really looked at him. The tension that had kept your shoulders stiff all day was entirely gone, melted away by the fire of the cognac and the sheer, unadulterated ridiculousness of the situation.

"Fine.." you grumbled, sliding backward across the sheets to make space. "But if you steal the duvet, Dev Khanna, I am using the empty bottle to defend my territory..."

Dev didn't need to be told twice. He climbed onto the high wooden frame, his long legs stretching out across the white down sheets as he leaned his back against the pillows next to you. The bed was so large that even with both of you sitting there, a wide expanse of white linen lay between you, but the closeness changed the air completely. It was warm. It was safe.

He handed the bottle back to you. "Your turn, Sridevi."

You took a sip, the warmth spreading through your limbs, making your head feel delightfully light and fuzzy. "You know... if Maa could see us right now, she would be so proud. She’d say, 'Look, Raj! The cognac plan worked! They are sharing a bottle in the bridal suite!'"

"Don't..." Dev groaned, letting his head fall back against the headboard with a soft thud. "Don't bring the generals into this. It ruins the flavor of the oak."

"But it's true!" you giggled, the alcohol loosening the filter on your tongue. You turned to look at his profile in the moonlight. "Think about it, Dev. The Porsche 'conveniently' dies. Hans 'conveniently' has a dinner regulation. The hotel 'conveniently' has only one room left. We are living inside a script written by a five-year-old who watched too many Yash Raj films."

Dev let out a low, rumbling chuckle that quickly escalated into a full-blown laugh. "A script written by an angry mother with a remote kill-switch. It’s diabolical."

"And the music!" you wailed, handing the bottle back to him as a fresh wave of hysteria hit you. "The Dhak Dhak! The heavy breathing! Dev, when you were hitting that screen and the volume just kept going up... mujhe laga main marr jaungi! Your face was the color of a tandoori chicken!"

"My face was a normal human color under immense digital duress!" Dev defended loudly, but he was laughing so hard he could barely hold the bottle straight. "You weren't helping! You were hiding in the footwell shouting about standard deviations and the Geneva Convention! Who quotes international law during a Madhuri Dixit song?!"

"I was desperate!" you screamed into a pillow, your shoulders shaking with uncontrollable laughter. "It was a high-stakes scenario!"

The bottle passed between you once more, the amber liquid dropping lower and lower until the room felt entirely warm, entirely distant from the reality of Gstaad or the impending wedding. The initial bickering had completely degenerated into a beautiful, chaotic mess of shared jokes and childhood memories.

"Remember... remember the time you tried to show me how to play golf in the backyard?" you wheezed, sliding down the pillows until you were lying flat on your back, staring at the timber ceiling beams.

Dev slid down beside you, his head resting just inches from yours on the massive plush pillows, his long frame sinking into the down mattress. "I was trying to teach you form. You had the swing of a cricket batsman."

"I hit your father’s favorite flowerpot, Dev! It shattered into a million pieces!"

"And you blamed it on a stray cat!" Dev shouted at the ceiling, his deep voice bouncing off the walls as he laughed, his chest heaving. "A stray cat in a gated colony in New Delhi! My Dad bought it, too! He spent three weeks looking for a feline vandal!"

"Because I was a genius!" you giggled, turning your head on the pillow.

Dev turned his head too. In the soft, silver sheet of moonlight, your faces were very close. The laughter was still lingering in the lines around his eyes, his mouth tilted into a soft, genuine smile that you had never seen before. The "Wall Street Shark" was entirely gone. The "Cactus" was gone. There were just two people on a giant bed, breathing in the scent of cedar, chocolate, and aged Swiss cognac.

"Cognac sharab nahi hoti...~ " you whispered softly, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone.

Dev’s smile widened, his gaze dropping to your lips for a long, quiet beat before rising back to meet your eyes. The warmth between you wasn't just from the liquor anymore. It was something heavier. Something slower.

"No~" he murmured, his hand shifting on the down duvet until his knuckles brushed against yours. "It’s definitely not sharab, Choti."

You were both past the point of sophisticated banter. You were in the deep, dangerous trenches of drunk silliness, lying flat on your backs on a bed that felt like a cloud, staring at the ceiling beams as if they were performing a comedic routine.

"I’m just saying.." Dev muttered, his voice a slow, gravelly slide. He was staring at his own hand, lifting it up to the moonlight and moving his fingers like a crab. "If my managing director saw me right now... he’d ask me for a performance review of this mattress. Because it’s high-yielding. Bohot solid return hai."

"You are so stupid, Dev!" you wheezed, a sudden, violent burst of giggles hitting you. You rolled onto your side, burying your face in a plush pillow. "A performance review for a bed? Who talks like that? Tumhare dimaag mein dhande ke alawa kuch nahi hai kya?"

"It’s an asset!" Dev defended loudly, though his tongue tripped over the 's' sounds. He turned his head toward you, his eyes blinking sleepily in the dark. "And for your information, my brain is currently operating at peak capacity. I have successfully deduced that our parents are amateur filmmakers who ran out of budget..~"

"No, no!~" you gasped, waving a hand frantically in the air. "They didn't run out of budget! They spent it all on the Dhak Dhak bass boost! Dev, my ears are still vibrating. I think Madhuri is living in my left eardrum..!"

"At least she’s a good tenant.." Dev snorted, a deep, rumbling laugh escaping his chest. "Helen is currently occupying my entire nervous system. ’Mehbooba... o mehbooba...’ It’s a biological hazard."

You both dissolved into a fresh wave of breathless, wheezing laughter, kicking your legs under the heavy down duvet like two toddlers who had stayed up past their bedtime.

"Hey...!" you whispered, poking his shoulder with a limp finger. "Say it again. The line. Say it like the movie."

Dev let out a theatrical sigh, clearing his throat with immense, unearned gravity. He looked up at the ceiling, his face turning deadpan. "Cognac... sharab nahi hoti, Choti!"

"Yes!" you cheered, clapping your hands sloppily. "Yeh toh dawa hoti hai!"

You two had the laugh of a lifetime, laughing loudly, about past days and memories of your childhood, about your Family's clever plan to get you closer, but as the echoes of your laughter faded into the quiet corners of the room, the heavy, numbing weight of the alcohol finally caught up to your limbs.

The ceiling stopped spinning, the jokes lost their momentum, and a massive, jaw-cracking yawn stretched across your face. The warmth of the room was intoxicating, but the draft from the balcony door was still whispering against your ankles.

Suddenly, the bed felt entirely too large. The white sheets felt too vast, too empty, and your body, entirely governed by cognac and primitive survival instincts, decided it needed immediate, localized heat.

Slowly, clumsily, you began to crawl across the mattress.

Dev, who had just closed his eyes to enjoy the sudden quiet, felt the mattress dip violently. He opened one eye, only to see a mass of cream wool and dark tangled hair invading his half of the king-sized bed.

"What... what are you doing?-" he mumbled, his corporate reflexes trying and failing to sound authoritative. "Are you launching a land grab, Choti?"

You didn't answer with words. Instead, you let out a soft, distinctly whiny grunt. You didn't just slide next to him; you crashed into his side. Your knees tucked up, your hands—still frozen from the mountain walk—reached out and aggressively grabbed the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer as if he were a giant, human-shaped hot water bottle.

Dev went completely, utterly rigid. His breath caught in his throat with a sharp, audible hitch. His hands froze at his sides, his fingers splayed wide against the linen sheet as your forehead pressed directly into the hollow of his neck.

"Cold.." you whined, your voice small, high-pitched, and entirely needy. You wiggled closer, your nose burying into his collarbone, your breath warm against his skin. "Dev... you're warm. Stop moving. *Bohot thand hai..."

"I'm not moving.." he choked out, his voice sounding like it had been run through a blender. His heart was suddenly hammering against his ribs so loudly he was terrified you’d hear it. He was a man who handled high-stakes negotiations in New York boardrooms without breaking a sweat, but right now, a drunk girl in a cream sweater was causing a complete systemic meltdown.

You let out another sleepy, frustrated whine because his arm was still pinned awkwardly beneath your shoulder. You reached up, grabbing his bicep and pulling it over yourself like a blanket. "Cuddle.." you demanded, your voice slurring as your eyes drifted shut. "Don't be a robot, Dev... just... cuddle."

Dev stared blindly at the dark ceiling, his eyes wide, his entire body locked in a state of absolute, paralyzed shock.

This wasn't in the script. This wasn't the sharp, defensive girl who had spent years treating him like an annoying business transaction. She was soft. Impossibly soft. When she was relaxed like this, stripped of her sarcasm and her walls, she felt tiny in his arms, her fingers loosely hooked into his shirt like she was terrified he might disappear if she let go.

He looked down at her. In the silver moonlight, her face was completely peaceful, her eyelashes casting long, delicate shadows over her flushed cheeks. She let out a tiny, soft sigh against his chest, her body molding itself perfectly into his side, completely trusting him to keep the cold away.

The sheer neediness of it—the raw, unscripted vulnerability—shattered something deep inside Dev’s chest. The cynical, arrogant armor he had worn all day didn't just crack; it dissolved into the down mattress.

Slowly, with a hesitation that was entirely uncharacteristic of him, he allowed his arm to drop over her shoulders. His large hand found the small of her back, his fingers curving around her waist, pulling her just a fraction tighter against him. The moment his warmth enveloped her, her whiny restless movements stopped. She let out a deep, contented breath, her head settling comfortably over his heart.

The rhythmic, steady rise and fall of her breathing began to soothe the frantic racing of his pulse. Dev rested his chin gently against the top of her hair, inhaling the sweet, heady mix of her hair oil and the smoky sting of the cognac.

He thought of his father. He thought of the ten-day countdown, the secret exit, and the ironclad promise of his freedom.

“If you don’t say those exact words—Dad, I was wrong—the wedding is dead.”

He looked down at her sleeping form, his fingers idly, protectively patting her back.

He didn't want to leave this room.. He didn't want to let go of the girl currently snoring softly against his collarbone.

A soft, self-deprecating smile touched his lips in the dark. Was he wrong..?

You shifted slightly in your sleep, your lips brushing against his shirt as you mumbled one final, hazy thought from your dream. "Cognac... sharab... nahi... hoti..."

Dev’s grip tightened around you, his chin resting securely against your head as he closed his eyes, finally surrendering to the heavy, warm current of the night.

"No, Choti.." he whispered into the dark, his voice thick with a sudden, terrifyingly real emotion that had nothing to do with the movies. "Cognac... sharab hoti hai.."