POV : LIYANA●☆●

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You’d think after a twelve-hour reception, two outfit changes, seven forced family pictures, and exactly thirteen uninvited aunties asking me “Beta, tumhara number kab hai?”, I’d be asleep like a dead log.

But no. Not me.

Instead, I’m standing here, alone, in my room, peeling off my lehenga like I’m molting from another life form.

The light blue silk—beautiful, glittery, bridal-level embroidered—was now half inside-out on my floor like a beheaded snake. I was left in nothing but my matching blue panties and a lacy bra that had dug so deep into my skin that I might have to surgically remove it.

I stood in front of my mirror. Backlit by the gold fairy lights that Mum insisted make the room “more romantic,” I stared at myself.

My fair skin glowed from the million layers of makeup slapped on me earlier by Nimra, Shifa, and a hyperactive makeup artist named Reema who kept calling me “ma’am” and telling me my face was a “canvas.”

Canvas? I looked like a suffocated Barbie.

I poked my cheek. “Ow.”

God, the highlighter was shining.

“Why do I look like a glazed donut?” I muttered to my reflection, scrubbing off the lipstick with the back of my hand.

I blinked at myself.

Then sighed.

Then fake-smiled like I was still posing for wedding pictures.

And just like that, the smile fell.

Yeah. That’s more honest.

The reception was finally over. Ariyaan looked deliriously happy with his new bride, Anya, who was a sweet girl from Delhi but who also kept calling Mum “auntyji” even though Mum had been dropping not-so-subtle hints like, “I still go to Pilates, okay?”

Anyway. I was done. Emotionally, physically, spiritually.

My body ached. My feet felt like bricks after dancing to “Ghungroo” twice. And my bra strap was trying to slice my shoulder open like it was on a mission.

I grabbed a towel and stomped to the bathroom.

The moment the warm water hit me, I let out a groan. Not even an elegant groan like a cavewoman who’d just discovered hot showers.

I lathered, scrubbed, and sighed.

My brain started its usual spiral.

Should I text that guy from college back?

Should I dye my hair darker?

Will Mum kill me if I refuse the new rishta she’s so excited about?

By the time I came out, I was feeling marginally less suffocated, with a clean face, damp hair, and a fluffy white towel wrapped tightly around me.

“Freedom,” I mumbled, walking barefoot across my carpet.

Until I stopped.

Because there sitting neatly on my dresser was something that was definitely not there before.

A single white rose.

Dipped—no, dripping—in red.

I blinked.

Is that… blood?

I stepped closer. Still towel-clad. Water still dripping from my wet hair. Heartbeat now louder than my thoughts.

There was a small folded note tucked under the rose.

I picked it up slowly, as if it might explode. It was written on plain paper.

Clean, thick, expensive paper—definitely not from one of those pastel sticky notes I use to remind myself to breathe or moisturize.

I opened it.

Only one sentence was written in bold, black ink:

“Nobody touches my Noor except me.”

I froze.

Noor?

The towel slipped a little and I tugged it back up, eyes glued to the note like it might come alive.

What kind of creepy poetic BS is this?

Some psycho is trying to be romantic? Who even uses roses dipped in blood as a love letter?

And who's Noor?

I snorted. “Wrong girl, bhai. This isn’t a cheesy Urdu novel.”

I checked the note again.

Nope. It didn’t say my name.

It said Noor.

I laughed out loud out of fear, confusion, and because sometimes I laugh when I’m two seconds away from a panic attack.

“Oh my God,” I muttered to the empty room. “There’s a blood-drenched-stalker with bad info??”

I tossed the note back onto the dresser like it had cooties.

Then stared at the rose.

Part of me morbidly curious reached out and touched the red on the petal.

It smeared on my finger.

Definitely not paint.

Not ketchup.

Not rose dye.

It looked like…

“Oh f*ck.”

I ran to the bathroom and scrubbed my finger under hot water like Lady Macbeth.

Who even leaves blood roses?! What is this, a thriller movie?

I’m not even the hot, broody type girls usually get stalked in dramas. I literally tripped on my own dupatta during the group dance today.

I wrapped the towel tighter.

Okay. Breathe, Liyana.

Let’s be rational.

Maybe it’s just a prank?

Maybe it’s Nimra. Or Shifa. Or that weird cousin who always gives “serial killer” vibes.

Or maybe my brain whispered the man who wrote that note meant you.

Because maybe… maybe to him, you are Noor.

I shook my head.

“Nope. Not today, Satan.”

I walked back to my room and picked up my phone.

Battery dead.

“OF COURSE!” I groaned and slapped the mattress.

I grabbed a charger, plugged it in, and stood there waiting like I was watching a pot boil.

The room was suddenly colder. The windows were closed. The AC wasn’t on.

Yet something about the air shifted. Like the moment before a storm.

I stared at the rose again. It looked too intentional. Too fresh.

Who even got into my room?

My room is inside our massive bungalow, guarded by two security men and four cameras.

And yet.

Here it was.

Blood.

A rose.

A note.

Calling me Noor.

I took a step back from the dresser, towel slipping slightly at the edge.

My breath hitched.

I suddenly wanted to wear ten layers of clothes.

Was someone watching me when I was in the shower?

Did they see me take off my lehenga?

I felt like ants were crawling under my skin.

“Get a grip, Liyana,” I whispered to myself. “Maybe it’s… some artistic cousin who thinks this is edgy.”

But the voice in my head the one that sounded like those creepy true crime podcasts I binge at night said:

No.

Someone’s watching.

And they’re calling you Noor.

And they don’t want anyone else to touch you.

But what if…?

I shook the thought.

This is getting ridiculous.

Still, I couldn’t stop the goosebumps crawling up my spine.

I finally dried off and threw on an oversized t-shirt—one of Ariyaan’s old football jerseys, XL-sized.

No bra. No shorts. Just comfort.

I paced the room like a caged animal.

Looked at the note again.

“Nobody touches my Noor except me.”

What if this person was real?

What if they weren’t done?

I sat on my bed. Cross-legged. Shivering.

Not because of the cold.

But because I couldn’t explain this.

And deep inside my chest, a weird fear curled.

Not the fear of a stranger.

But the kind of fear that makes your skin buzz.

That someone, somewhere, knew you.

Watched you.

And wanted you.

Not Liyana.

Not the student.

Not the sweet daughter of the Home Minister.

But Noor.

Whoever she was to him.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Liyana!”

I groaned. Loudly. Dramatically. Into my pillow.

Why do mothers have this sixth sense? The moment your face touches a pillow, they appear. Like mom-shaped Wi-Fi signals.

“Liyana, open the door!” came Mum’s voice again—sharp, sweet, and suspiciously excited.

I flopped over like a dying fish. “Coming!” I yelled back, hoping she heard me and magically decided to go away.

Nope. Another knock.

This time faster. Urgent.

Yep. Definitely something she wants to force me into. Probably another dumb rishta or some weird organic juice cleanse.

I dragged myself across the room like a zombie, opened the door

And there she was. In all her silk-saree, diamond-wearing, power-walking glory.

My mother.

Laila Shajid Khan.

CEO of everything, master of all lectures, destroyer of peace.

She looked excited. Too excited. Her eyes had that gleam. The “I’m-about-to-ruin-your-life-but-make-it-sound-like-a-gift” gleam.

“Beta!” she said, pushing past me like I was the guest in her house.

“Mum,” I said suspiciously, narrowing my eyes. “Why do you look like you just won a business deal and a lottery?”

She plopped herself onto my bed like a queen. “Because I did. And you’re the jackpot.”

“Oh God,” I muttered. “Is this about rishta stuff again?”

She clapped. “Yes! And not just any rishta. Listen carefully: Vedant Rana.”

I blinked.

“Wait. The Vedant Rana? As in… Chief Minister’s son Vedant Rana?”

She nodded proudly, like she’d just summoned him from a genie bottle. “Exactly.”

I stared at her. “Mum. That guy is'

“handsome?” she supplied. “Charming? Well-educated? And politically powerful? Yes. All of the above.”

I flopped back onto the bed, face-up. “No, I was gonna say ‘out of my league,’ but sure, you go off.”

“Liyana!” she scolded. “Stop that nonsense. You’re beautiful. Any guy would be lucky to have you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you call me a potato last week when I wore that baggy salwar?”

“That’s because you looked like a walking sack of rice,” she replied instantly. “But today today, you are glowing. And Vedant noticed.”

I blinked. Sat up. “He saw me? When?”

“At the reception,” she said, her eyes glinting. “He was invited with his father. He saw you dancing with your friends.”

My brain replayed the night. Wait. Could it be that guy in the white sherwani near the cake table? The one who gave me a shy smile before I dropped a gulab jamun on my blouse?

Oh no. He saw that.

“Are you telling me a man who saw me panic over a syrup stain wants to marry me?”

Mum nodded. “Yes. He said you were… what was the word?” She paused dramatically. “Enchanting.”

My jaw dropped.

“Enchanting?” I squeaked.

She nodded, delighted. “He asked about you. Said he liked your simplicity. Your outfit. Your smile. Said it was refreshing.”

I choked on my own breath. “Okay, but like… why me? He’s hot. Rich. Political royalty. I’m twenty, a geography student, and at reception party I tripped on my lehenga trying to walk down three stairs.”

Mum waved a hand. “That’s what men like now. Girls who are real.”

“Oh, so falling like a sack of potatoes is hot now?” I asked. “Should I throw myself down the stairs again? Get a marriage proposal and a leg fracture?”

She rolled her eyes. “Liyana, be serious. This is a big deal. He wants to marry you.”

I stilled. “Wait. Like… marry? Not ‘get to know me’, not ‘go on a date’… just marry?”

“ASAP,” Mum beamed. “His family is traditional but open-minded. He said you can continue your studies, work if you want, travel—anything.”

I blinked. “Wait… I get freedom?”

“Total freedom,” she said.

I narrowed my eyes. “Is this a trap?”

She threw a cushion at me.

I giggled and caught it, heart pounding in my chest.

Okay. So… someone like Vedant Rana likes me. Me. Me.

“What if it’s a prank?” I asked. “What if I get there and he’s like, ‘Haha just kidding, this was a dare’?”

Mum glared. “Liyana.”

I bit my lip. “Okay okay! I’m just… shocked.”

She got up and patted my head. “Good. I’m meeting his mother this evening. If all goes well, we’ll set an engagement date.”

“Engage-” I gasped. “I haven’t even gone on a proper DATE yet and now I’m being ENGAGED?”

“This is India, sweetheart. We get married first, then fall in love later.”

I stared at her like she’d told me Santa was real.

“That’s exactly why I have trust issues.”

She walked to the door and turned. “Fix your face. You’re going to meet him tomorrow.”

My mouth fell open. “TOMORROW?!”

She smiled sweetly. “Yes. Wear that mint green kurta you never wear. It brings out your eyes. I told them you like pastel.”

Before I could yell, scream, or crawl under the bed and fake my own death, she left. Door shut. Footsteps fading.

I stood there in stunned silence.

Then.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!”

I ran across the room and jumped on my bed, rolling around in my own chaos.

Vedant. Rana. Wants. To. Marry. Me.

I immediately pulled out my phone and dialed the only person who deserved to know this bombshell: Shifa.

She picked up on the second ring. “If this is about your lehenga drama again, I told you .”

“SHIFA LISTEN,” I screamed. “I GOT A RISHTA.”

Silence.

Then: “Girl, what?”

“Vedant Rana wants to marry me.”

More silence.

Then: “Wait… are we talking about THE Vedant Rana? The one who looks like Ranbir Kapoor’s hotter cousin?”

“Yes.”

Shifa screamed.

I screamed.

We both screamed.

I could hear her banging something on the floor. “I’M COMING OVER. STAY ALIVE.”

Five minutes later, my cousin-bestie Shifa barged into my room, braid swinging, earrings jingling, breathless.

She saw me lying flat on the bed and dramatically threw herself on top of me.

“I hate you,” she said. “I hate how the universe loves you.”

I grinned. “He called me enchanting.”

She fake-cried. “I have three dating apps and a therapist, and you just exist and get marriage proposals from hot politicians.”

I sat up, hair wild. “You think it’s too soon?”

“Yes,” she said. “But also… YES. Marry him and become a political queen.”

We both shrieked.

Then she grabbed my hands. “We need to celebrate.”

“Yes.”

“Party.”

“Yes.”

“Dance.”

“Yes.”

“Drink?”

“We have Rooh Afza.”

“Close enough.”

I turned on my speaker. Hit play.

Honey Singh's “Brown Rang” exploded from the speakers.

We screamed the lyrics, offbeat and tone-deaf.