Udaipur, Rajasthan – The Royal Gulmohar Palace
The palace courtyard buzzed with decorators balancing ladders, marigold strings, and instructions barked over Bluetooth earpieces. Ira Deshmukh stood in the middle of it all, clipboard in hand, phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, issuing orders with military precision.
“No, no, the pastel drapes go to the mehendi venue. These are for the haldi. And someone get the DJ’s flight details—why is he texting me directly?”
Her hair was in a messy ponytail, her kurta had two different shades of yellow from haldi testing, and she hadn’t had coffee since 7 a.m. In other words, she was thriving.
This was Ira’s world—chaos wrapped in color, and she ruled it.
Just then, a silver BMW glided up the palace driveway. Out stepped a man in a crisp white shirt, black sunglasses, and the kind of confidence only a man who had never had to book his own flight ticket could carry.
Vivaan Malhotra.
Ira blinked. “No. Freaking. Way.”
As if summoned by her horror, he turned, slid his sunglasses down slightly, and smirked. “Well, well. Ira Deshmukh. Still bossing people around?”
Ira crossed her arms. “Still crashing weddings you’re not invited to?”
He grinned, infuriatingly relaxed. “I'm family. Technically, I outrank you.”
She inhaled. Counted to three. "Technically, you're a distraction. And I have a wedding to run."
Vivaan took a step closer, lowering his voice. “You’re planning my cousin’s wedding. Which means I’m stuck with you.”
She arched a brow. “Correction—you’re stuck following my timeline. Stay out of my way, Malhotra.”
Vivaan chuckled. “Some things never change.”
And with that, he walked inside like he owned the palace.
Ira turned to her assistant, still glaring at the entrance. “Put me down for hazard pay.”
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