She smiled. “Because when people hide behind wealth, they’re surrounded by things—not people.”
That night, they talked until dawn—about rain in the mountains, warm bread, unfinished lives. The mansion felt less cold afterward.
Rohan changed. He smiled more. Asked her opinions. Shared tea. Something unnamed grew between them.
Until rumors came.
A business partner warned him, “She’s after your property.”
For one brief moment, Rohan believed it.
The next morning, Kavya was gone. A letter lay on the table.
“You gave me respect and trust. I’m leaving before I become a shadow in your story.”
He searched for weeks. Nothing.
Months later, on a work trip to Himachal Pradesh, Rohan saw a small bakery.
“Kavya’s Marigold.”
Inside, she stood—flour on her hands, the same gentle smile.
“I thought you’d never come,” she whispered.
He pulled a dried marigold from his pocket. “You didn’t take anything from me. You took my fear.”
They spoke again—slowly, honestly. Rohan kept returning, helping bake, serving tea, sitting quietly as life passed.
The city no longer called to him.
On the bakery’s third anniversary, amid laughter and sweets, Rohan handed her a small box. Inside was a garland of dried marigolds and a note.
“Let’s begin again—not as employer and worker, but as two people who understand each other.”
Tears filled her eyes. “You still think I want something from you?”
He shook his head. “Now I only want you to want me.”
That evening, lamps glowed as the sun set behind the mountains. They sat together in silence.
“Never thought someone would understand my flowers,” she whispered.
“I never thought someone would fill my silence,” he replied.
That night, Rohan slept peacefully.
Because for the first time, he wasn’t alone.
