His Forbidden Flame

Author’s POV Delhi was hotter than Aarya remembered. The air, thick with summer heat and smog, curled around her like an unwelcome embrace the moment she stepped off the plane. Her stilettos clicked sharply against the marble floors of Indira Gandhi International Airport, echoing with the kind of confidence only a woman like her could command. She didn’t glance back. She never did. Ten years. Ten whole years since she left India behind—running from the ashes of her family’s scandal and a life that never truly felt hers. And now? Now, she was back. Not as someone’s daughter. Not as anyone’s puppet. She returned as a name carved in steel—Aarya Malhotra, founder of AM Studios and Malhotra Atelier, London’s fastest-rising design firms. She wore a monochrome silk jumpsuit, her signature waist chain hidden beneath the tailored lines. Her long black hair flowed freely over one shoulder, and her expression was carved in ice—composed, untouchable, and cold as hell. “Didiii! Didi!” A dramatic voice pierced through the crowd. Aarya's cousin, Vihaan, stood waving like a lunatic at the arrivals gate, grinning ear to ear, a bouquet of blindingly pink roses in hand. “Well, well, well,” he said as he pulled her into a half-hug. “Look who finally decided to return to her roots.” Aarya arched a brow. “It was either this or letting my assistant drown me in more fashion week invitations.” He laughed. “Still dramatic.” She smirked. “Still annoying.” He slung an arm around her shoulder as they walked toward the exit. “You’re going to cause chaos, you know that? You’re thirty now. Indian aunties are going to swallow you whole.” “Let them try.” her tone was smooth, sharp. “I don’t get eaten. I bite.” Vihaan choked on a laugh. “God, I missed you.” The car was already waiting. Her luggage—designer, minimal, and expensive enough to make airport staff stare—was loaded swiftly. She slumped against the passenger seat as Vihaan’s car cruised through the palm-lined streets of Delhi. The city blurred past, a collage of noise and nostalgia. Her pulse betrayed her—too fast, too alive for someone who swore she’d buried this place years ago. Same streets. Same temples. Same suffocating expectations. She hated how familiar it felt. Her eyelids grew heavy from the nine-hour flight. "Are you still there, Didi?" Vihaan said, glancing over at her side. "Barely," she stifled a yawn. “Wake me up when we get to the mansion,” she murmured. “Sure, Didi,” Vihaan said with a grin. Malhotra Mansion The Malhotra mansion was buzzing with life. Maids darted across the marble halls, fresh flowers filled every vase, and the kitchen smelled like cardamom, ghee, and love. Excitement rolled through the air—after all, their Princess was finally coming home. It had been ten years since they’d last seen her—ten long years since she had walked out those gates, swearing never to look back. But to them, she was still their sweet Aarya, the spoiled, only daughter of the family who once had the entire clan wrapped around her finger. “Dadu! Dadu! They’re here!” shouted Ranveer, Aarya's cousin, sprinting from the second floor like his life depended on it. A car horn blared outside. Vihaan’s unmistakable sports car. The Malhotras—grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, even the staff—rushed out, their laughter spilling into the courtyard. Everyone was waiting for Aarya at the entrance. Bhavya had pooja ki thali (worshipping plate) in her hand eagerly waiting for Aarya with pure happiness "She is here," Ranveer shouted as he saw Vihaan’s car entering the compound. Ranveer and Aditya ran towards the car to meet them halfway. "Don't run, wait for them to park the car," Dadu said, seeing the excited kids running to meet their Didi, but they didn’t listen. "Leave it, papa," Aryan said, smiling inside Vihaan car “Didi, we’re here,” Vihaan said, nudging Aarya softly. She groaned, stretching her neck. “Already?” “Everyone’s waiting.” Through the tinted glass, she saw them. The sprawling white mansion glowed under the golden sunset, every window alive with faces. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. For a second, she didn’t breathe. Vihaan was already unloading her suitcases. She sighed, pushed the door open, and stepped out. And just like that— she saw her two baby cousins running towards her in excitement Ranveer and Aditya ran into her arms, making her stumble slightly before she regained her balance and hugged them tightly. They broke the hug, and Ranveer and Aditya took both her hands and led her to the entrance. Everyone happiness knew no bound seeing her after so many years. Bhavya Ma had tears in her eyes, seeing her daughter. She went towards Dadu and Dadi, took their blessings by touching their feet, and moved away without saying anything to them. They didn’t get angry, they thought they deserved the treat she giving them. She went towards Bhavya Ma and Aryan Papa to take their blessings “Aarya!” Bhavya Ma voice cracked first. She rushed forward, sari flowing, tears already streaking her cheeks. She barely had a moment before she threw her arms around her. “Ma…” she whispered, hugging her back, the familiar scent of sandalwood and home flooding her. “You’ve grown even more beautiful,” she murmured. “Please, Ma. Don’t start crying, or you’ll ruin your makeup,” she teased, though her voice wasn’t as steady as she hoped. Aryan Papa came next—still tall, still dignified. His eyes softened the moment they met hers “Welcome home, princess,” he said quietly. “Papa,” She greeted, bowing slightly before he pulled her into a brief, firm embrace. She smiled slightly, and then Ma did the aarti Then came the chaos. Uncles clapping me on the back. Aunts showering me with blessings. Cousins that I don’t recognise anymore cheering. Grandfather and grandma stood at the side seeing their family happy once again.Dadi smile was small but proud. “Ten years, and still the same attitude,” she said, eyes twinkling. She smirked. “Wouldn’t be me otherwise, Dadi.” Dadu chuckled beside her. “Good. Never change, child.” As everyone ushered her inside, laughter echoing through the halls, she paused at the doorway—her stilettos stilling on the last step. "Where is bhai"