.The late afternoon sun bathed the quiet neighborhood in a soft golden hue, casting long shadows along the narrow street. Laughter echoed in the air — high-pitched and carefree — as children ran about with kites and rubber balls. And right there, in the middle of it all, twirling gently in her crimson Anarkali, stood Sanvi Agarwal.

Her dress, a deep red adorned with delicate silver embroidery and tiny mirror work, fluttered around her ankles like poetry in motion. The matching dupatta clung to her shoulders but often slipped as she bent down to laugh with the children or adjust a fallen kite. Despite the dust in the air and the chaos of the little ones around her, Sanvi carried an unbothered grace — the kind that didn't scream for attention but quietly commanded it.

Sanvi was the only daughter of Arjun Agarwal, a respected businessman, and the younger sister of Arin Agarwal, her overly protective brother. The Agarwals were known not just for their name but for their warmth — something that radiated most clearly through Sanvi.

Her long, black wavy hair danced in the breeze, framing a soft, heart-shaped face. The sunlight caught the faint brown strands hidden in her waves, giving her a soft golden glow. Her eyes, a rich honey-brown, sparkled with curiosity and kindness — eyes that could comfort a crying child or challenge an entire room of elders without saying a word.

Just at the left corner of her lips, a small mole rested delicately along her lip line, like an artist’s final brushstroke on a masterpiece. Her lips were naturally pink, full, and often curled into the softest of smiles — the kind that made strangers smile back without knowing why. Her cheeks held a light chubbiness, not overly so, but just enough to give her a youthful softness, especially when she laughed — a sound as sweet as wind chimes in the spring.

Sanvi wasn’t traditionally stunning in the way society often dictated — she was something gentler, something deeper. The kind of beauty that lived in the details: the way she brushed a child’s scraped knee with motherly instinct, the way her bangles chimed softly as she clapped in rhythm with a game, the way her gaze lingered on her father when he thought no one was watching.

“Didi! Didi! Catch!” one of the boys called out, hurling a small rubber ball in her direction. She caught it in one hand with a delighted laugh, her dupatta flying behind her like a cape. The children cheered.

Watching her from a distance, elderly neighbors smiled. To them, Sanvi wasn’t just the daughter of the Agarwals — she was the heart of the lane, the sunshine after rain.

But beneath that sunshine, hidden deep within her honeyed gaze, lay the quiet acceptance of something much larger than her — a future being planned not by fate, but by family. And somewhere in that future waited Abhishek Raichand, a man with no laughter, no games, and a heart yet untouched by a girl in a red Anarkali.

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After an hour of laughter and games under the soft sun, Sanvi brushed dust off her red Anarkali and made her way home, her dupatta trailing behind her like a whisper of joy. Her cheeks were flushed from running, and her honey-brown eyes sparkled, still replaying the kids’ cheerful chaos in her mind.

She stepped into the Agarwal house — warm, spacious, filled with the comforting aroma of sandalwood and turmeric. Normally, it welcomed her with chatter and soft clinks from the kitchen. But today, something was different.

The moment she entered the hall, she stopped.

Everyone was there.

Her mother, Kritika Agarwal, sat silently on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap, eyes clouded with thought. Her father, Arjun Agarwal, stood near the window, facing outward as though searching for answers in the swaying trees. Bhai — Arin Agarwal — paced the room, jaw tight, brows furrowed. And next to him sat his wife, Suhana Bhabhi, her usually cheerful face unreadable.

The air was heavy. Thicker than anything she’d ever walked into.

Sanvi’s excitement faltered. Her smile faded, her steps slowed. “What happened, Mumma?” she asked, her voice soft but uncertain.

Kritika glanced up, eyes meeting hers. “Nothing, bacha,” she replied, almost too gently.

Arin paused mid-step, eyes narrowing slightly, but he said nothing.

Then Arjun turned around slowly. His face was composed, but his eyes — those steady, wise eyes she trusted most — were serious. “I need to talk to you, princess. It’s important.”

Sanvi nodded once, lips parting as her heartbeat picked up. “Ji, Papa,” she replied, the words automatic but respectful.

Her bangles jingled softly as she clutched the end of her dupatta, suddenly aware of the shift in the room. She sat down on the edge of the sofa, her gaze flickering between them all.

Something was coming.

She didn’t know what — but she knew it was going to change everything.

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