Saffron Saree & Scandalous Fire

# Chapter 4: Threads of Mistrust

As she followed him back to the courtyard, Sharda's skin still burned where he'd touched her. She nearly collided with Rajveer, who was gesturing excitedly at Veer.

"Friend! When will the academy work begin? Or is this another government *tamasha*? All talk, no action—like your last five promises to our district?"

Veer's political mask slid seamlessly into place. "The center's work delayed things, Raj. You know how bureaucracy works." His eyes flicked to Sharda, who now stood frozen behind her brother. "But *Veer Kala Mandir*..." He paused, letting the project's official name hang in the air like a challenge. "...it's my priority now."

His gaze slid deliberately to Sharda, who refused to acknowledge him, her pen scratching violently across a child's math test. "I'll ensure *regular updates*."

Sharda fought the urge to scoff. Regular updates. As if she were one of his administrative officers to be placated with meaningless reports.

Raj smirked, swirling his chai with obvious pleasure at being in such important company. "Don't give *me* updates. Sharda's the one you need to convince. She's more stubborn than all the Rajputana warriors combined when it comes to that academy." He chuckled, oblivious to the way his sister's shoulders had tensed. "Been a thorn in my side about it for months."

Veer leaned forward, his voice dropping to a silken timbre that made something unwanted flutter in Sharda's stomach. "Then share her number. For... *coordination*."

The courtyard fell silent. Even the crickets seemed to pause their evening song.

Sharda's pen froze mid-sentence. She looked up sharply, finally meeting Veer's gaze. His eyes held a challenge, dark and unyielding.

*How dare he?*

Before she could object, Raj was already reciting the digits, pleased at facilitating this connection. "Good, good! Now you two can work together without me playing messenger."

Sharda's nails dug into her palm. The betrayal felt small but significant—another decision made about her life without her consent. First the academy partnership, now this.

"Excellent." Veer's voice was smooth as he entered the number into his phone, but his eyes never left Sharda's face. "I believe in... direct communication."

As he stood to leave, his voice dripped with false courtesy. "Thank you for the meal, Raj. Your family's hospitality is... *unmatched*." His eyes lingered on Sharda's now-rigid posture. "Especially the halwa. I haven't tasted anything so... complex in years."

*Complex*. The word hung between them, laden with subtext.

She didn't look up again. Not even when his shadow loomed over her, not even when his scent—sandalwood and something darker, *dangerous*—brushed her senses.

"Goodnight, Madam," he murmured, low enough for only her to hear. "Sleep well."

The implicit command in his tone made her blood boil.

As the gate closed behind him, Sharda stood abruptly, papers clutched to her chest.

"Where are you going?" Chhaya called after her.

"To sleep," Sharda replied tersely. *And to block a certain politician's number*.

***

Veer stalked around his Jaipur bedroom, the polished marble floors reflecting the moonlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. His phone lay accusingly on the silk bedsheets, the screen illuminating the dim room with each failed call.

"Arrogant woman," he snarled, running a hand through his thick hair. Ten calls, and not one answered. He'd never been ignored like this—not by ministers, not by business tycoons, not by anyone.

"Sir?" Vishal's voice crackled through the intercom. "The contractor's waiting for your approval on the academy blueprints. He's been here since—"

"Tell him to rot!" Veer barked, pacing like a caged tiger. The words escaped him before he could consider their impact. "Does she think I'm her *errand boy*?! That I have nothing better to do than chase after her approval?"

"Sir, the deadline—"

"I know the damn deadline!"

Veer yanked open the balcony doors, the desert wind carrying the scent of dust and distant rain. Below, Jaipur glittered—a kingdom he'd conquered through years of calculated moves. Tonight, it felt hollow.

Her face flashed in his mind: those disdainful eyes, that stubborn chin, the way she'd looked at him in the courtyard—like he was something unpleasant stuck to her shoe. No one looked at him that way. No one dared.

"You want a war, Sharda Chauhan?" he whispered to the indifferent stars. "You'll get one."

He grabbed his phone again, this time sending a text:

*Your academy. Your responsibility. Your choice to ignore progress. Remember that when your students ask why construction hasn't begun.*

He hit send with more force than necessary, then tossed the phone aside. The ball was in her court now.

To his surprise, three dots appeared almost immediately.

*My students are precisely why I won't let politicians use their dreams as photo opportunities. Goodnight, Minister.*

Veer stared at the message, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. So she had some fire after all.

*Block me if you want,* he typed back. *But remember—I'm the only one who can make this academy happen.*

Her response was swift: *Then make it happen. Without the drama.*

Drama? Him? He almost laughed at the irony. She was the one being difficult.

*Meet me tomorrow. Academy site. 9 AM.*

The reply took longer this time: *I teach until 3.*

*4 PM then. Don't be late.*

There was no response after that. Veer found himself staring at the screen, waiting for those three dots to appear again. They didn't.

With a grunt of frustration, he threw himself onto the bed, his mind racing. Why did he care so much about one stubborn dance teacher from Bundi? Why did her approval matter when he had an entire state bowing to his whims?

The question haunted him well into the night.

***

The final school bell rang, liberating streams of children into the afternoon heat. Sharda adjusted her simple cotton saree, tucking loose strands of hair back into her bun as she gathered her papers. Exhaustion weighed her steps as she exited the school gates, her mind already dreading the upcoming meeting with Veer.

"Sharda Teacher! Sharda Teacher!"

Meghna's voice cut through her thoughts as the little girl bounded toward her, pigtails flying. Behind her, a familiar car pulled up, and Pratap rolled down the window.

"Caught you just in time," he called, his salt-and-pepper beard crinkling as he smiled. "Meghna insisted we give you a ride. Says you looked tired .

Sharda smiled wearily. "You didn't have to, Pratap. I could've walked to the academy."

"And face my wife's and your best friend forever wrath later? No chance." He chuckled, opening the passenger door. "Besides, Meghna wants to show you her math test. Someone's been practicing her fractions."

Sharda slid into the seat gratefully, unaware of the black SUV lurking across the street.

Inside that vehicle, Veer's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. The car's VIP plates were unmistakable. *Pratap Singh*. His political rival from the opposition party.

College memories surged unbidden—Pratap's smug face as he'd stolen Veer's debate trophy, his sneer during their first election campaigns. The man who'd called him "power-hungry" in the press just last week.

*And now... with her.*

"Follow them," Veer ordered Vishal, his voice lethal quiet.

"Sir, the academy meeting—"

"I said follow them!"

The car wound through Bundi's labyrinthine alleys, finally stopping at the dance academy. Veer watched, acid churning in his gut, as Pratap stepped out, opening the door for Sharda.

Her laugh floated through the air—warm, genuine, unguarded. Nothing like the clipped tones she used with him.

"You're spoiling me, Pratap," she said, crouching to speak to Meghna. "And you, little mathematician, I expect to see that test tomorrow!"

"Promise!" The child beamed, holding out her pinky finger.

Veer's chest tightened at the tender scene. *She never looks at me like that.* The thought came unbidden, surprising in its intensity.

Pratap waved goodbye, and Sharda smiled—dimples flashing, eyes crinkling, the afternoon sun gilding her features like a renaissance painting.

"Hypocrite!" Veer's fist slammed against the dashboard, startling Vishal. "She lectures me on propriety, then cozies up to that snake?"

Vishal cleared his throat cautiously. "Sir, if I may... Pratap's daughter studies at the school. Perhaps—"

"Silence!" Veer's phone trembled in his hand as he dialed Rajdeep. "Tell your sister to meet me at the academy.

Raj's confused voice crackled through the speaker. "But why not call her yourself? I gave you—"

"Just do it!" Veer snarled, disconnecting the call.

Vishal stared straight ahead, saying nothing as Veer ordered him to drive to the academy site. In the fifteen years he'd worked for the minister, he'd never seen him this rattled—not during election scandals, not during cabinet reshuffles, not even when his father had publicly criticized his policies.

All because of one schoolteacher from Bundi.

***

Moonlight bathed the skeletal structure of the academy, painting silver highlights on exposed beams and piles of construction material. Veer paced the unfinished stage, his polished leather shoes crunching over debris, his tailored suit incongruous against the raw building site.

"You summoned me like a servant?"

He turned slowly, controlling his expression. Sharda stood at the entrance, her silhouette defiant against the darkening sky, her simple cotton saree billowing slightly in the evening breeze. She'd changed since he'd seen her with Pratap, he noted. Her hair was loose now, falling past her shoulders.

"You ignored my calls," he said, advancing toward her with measured steps. "Too busy with *Pratap*?"

She crossed her arms, meeting his gaze steadily. "My students come first. Even you should understand that, *CM Sahab*."

"Students?" He laughed bitterly, the sound echoing off half-built walls. "Or his ?"

Her eyes narrowed, confusion briefly flickering across her features. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He closed the distance between them, close enough to catch the jasmine scent of her hair. "You lecture me on morals and integrity, then cozy up to political snakes?"

"Cozy up?!" She shoved him back, her palm connecting with his chest. Fury ignited her voice, making it tremble. "Pratap's wife is my *friend* from college. His daughter is my *student*. Unlike you, I don't *play* politics with people's lives!"

"Liar!" He gripped her wrist, yanking her close. "I saw you. You smiled at him. You laughed with him....... Differently

Her pulse raced under his fingers, her breath coming quicker.

"Careful, Madam." His thumb brushed her racing pulse, and he felt a jolt of something electric pass between them. "You keep calling me a monster... but your heart's beating *very* fast."

She jerked free, her eyes flashing with an emotion he couldn't quite name. "It's called *disgust*."

He stepped back, his laugh hollow. "Disgust? Or fear?"

"Fear of what?" She spat, chin raised defiantly.

"Of this." His gaze dropped deliberately to her lips, lingering there. "Of wanting to hate me... but wondering *what if*."

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension. A nightingale sang somewhere in the ruins, its melodic call seeming to mock them both.

"You're delusional," she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Am I?" He moved closer again, watching her closely. "Then why aren't you leaving?"

She backed away, her hand finding the rough wall behind her. "I came here for the academy, not your ego trip. Show me the revised plans or I'm walking out."

Veer studied her for a long moment, then abruptly turned and strode to where blueprints lay rolled on a makeshift table. "Fine. Business it is."

He spread the plans with unnecessary force, pointing to modifications. "Larger practice rooms, as you demanded. Storage space, expanded. Auditorium capacity, increased. Satisfied?"

Sharda approached cautiously, keeping the table between them as she examined the plans. "The ceiling height is still wrong. Kathak requires—"

"I know what Kathak requires," he cut in. "I researched it."

She looked up, surprise evident on her face. "You did?"

"Contrary to what you believe, Madam, I don't half-ass my projects."

"Just your promises," she muttered, but there was less venom in her voice.

Their eyes met across the table, and for a brief moment, something shifted. Not quite understanding, but perhaps the beginnings of grudging respect.

The moment shattered when her phone rang. She glanced at the screen, and Veer's jaw tightened as he caught Pratap's name.

"Go ahead," he said coldly. "Your *friend* is calling."

Sharda silenced the call without answering, her eyes never leaving Veer's. "I don't mix personal and professional matters."

"Unlike me?" He challenged.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." He rolled up the blueprints with sharp, angry movements. "Your disapproval is written all over your face."

"My disapproval is about your methods, not your personal life." She took a deep breath, seemingly gathering her thoughts. "This academy means everything to these children. Their parents save for years to afford dance lessons. If you're doing this for political points, just tell me now so I can find another way."

The raw honesty in her voice caught him off guard. For once, she wasn't wielding her words like weapons.

"Is that what you think of me?" He asked quietly. "That I'm just collecting photo opportunities?"

"Aren't you?" Her eyes searched his, looking for something. "What does Veer Kala Mandir actually mean to you, beyond another nameplate?"

The question lingered between them, unexpectedly personal. Veer turned away, gazing at the half-built structure.

"My mother was a dancer," he said finally, the admission surprising even himself. "Not classical—folk dances. Village celebrations, harvest festivals. She never had formal training, never had a proper space to practice." He touched the exposed beam beside him. "This... this is what she should have had."

The vulnerability in his voice seemed to startle her. She watched him with new eyes, uncertainty replacing hostility.

"I didn't know," she said quietly.

"You didn't have to." He turned back to her, his political mask sliding back into place. "We'll raise the ceiling height. Anything else, Madam?"

The moment of connection evaporated as quickly as it had formed. Sharda straightened, professional once more.

"The timeline. Winter performances are coming, and the children need—"

"Three months," he interrupted. "Not a day more."

She nodded curtly. "I'll hold you to that."

"I expect nothing less." He gestured toward the exit. "I'll have my driver take you home."

"That's not necessary."

"It's nearly nine, and the streets—"

"I said it's not necessary." She gathered her bag. "Goodnight, Minister."

As she turned to leave, he called after her: "Sharda."

She paused, startled by the use of her first name.

"Next time, answer your phone."

She didn't respond, but he caught the slight hesitation in her step before she disappeared into the night.

Left alone, Veer ran a hand over his face, disturbed by the evening's revelations—not about her, but about himself. The jealousy that had surged when he'd seen her with Pratap. The c***k in his carefully constructed façade when speaking of his mother.

"What the hell are you doing, Veersingh?" he muttered to the empty building.

In the ruins of the unfinished academy, a dangerous truth began to take form—perhaps his fixation with Sharda Chauhan wasn't entirely about the politics after all.

***

Meghna giggled in the backseat of Pratap's car, swinging her legs as she practiced her dance mudras. "Sharda Aunty's the best, Papa! Did you see how she helped me with that chakkar? And she even helped me understand fractions!"

Pratap smiled into the rearview mirror. "She's special, beta. Your mother always said so—they were roommates in college, you know."

"I know!" The child rolled her eyes dramatically. "You tell me ALL the time."

"Well, it's important you know," he said, glancing at his wife Parineeta's photo on the dashboard. "Friends like that are rare. That's why we must help her with this academy problem. That politician is trouble."

"The one with the big car and angry eyes?" Meghna asked innocently.

Pratap's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "You saw him?"

"He was watching us today. When we dropped Sharda Aunty." She shrugged, already distracted by the passing scenery. "He looked sad."

"Sad?" Pratap frowned, puzzled by the observation. "No, beta. Men like that don't get sad. They get even."

He made a mental note to warn Sharda. Veersingh Rathore's interest in the academy project had always seemed suspicious. Now, watching his daughter cheerfully practice her dance in the backseat, Pratap wondered if there was something more personal at stake.

"Careful, Sharda," he murmured to himself. "You've caught a scorpion's attention."

Unseen by all, the threads of misunderstanding continued to tighten, weaving a complicated web between hearts too stubborn to recognize what was happening.

In the darkness of his car, driving away from the academy site, Veer scrolled through his phone until he found the candid photo his aide had snapped earlier—Sharda, in that unguarded moment of laughter with Pratap and his daughter.

His thumb traced her smiling face on the screen.

"You want me to be the villain, Sharda Chauhan," he whispered. "But what if I'm not?"

He deleted the photo and tossed the phone aside, but the image remained burned in his memory—a glimpse of what might be possible if she ever looked at him the way she looked at the rest of the world.