It’s 1991, and I’m standing at the edge of a cliff in Palampur, the wind tugging at my dupatta like it wants to pull me into the valley below. The scent of pine and damp earth fills the air, and somewhere nearby, a flute plays a melody so soft it feels like a memory. I didn’t want this life—mansions, servants, expectations. I wanted something real. Something mine.

I follow the music, stepping carefully over mossy stones, until I see him—Shyam, barefoot on a rock, eyes closed, flute pressed to his lips. He doesn’t notice me until I stumble on a loose stone. His eyes snap open, dark and deep, and in that moment, I forget how to breathe.

When I slip, he lunges, grabbing my wrist just in time. My heart hammers—not from fear, but from the warmth of his hand.

'You shouldn’t walk so close to the edge,' he says, voice low, scolding but gentle.

'I was chasing the music,' I whisper.

He smiles. 'Then let me show you where it comes from.'

I know I should say who I am. That my father owns half this land. That I’m not supposed to be here. But for once, I don’t want to be Radha, the heiress. I want to be just… a girl. A girl falling in love.