While working furiously inside the industrial-sized estate kitchen, the family’s elderly matriarch walked in. The grandmother looked around the busy room, her voice sharp but weary as she asked the staff to find a specific box of traditional fennel and celery seeds.
Without pausing to ask a single question or look at the labels, Ruhi walked straight across the tiled floor, reached out, and pulled open a specific, hidden drawer. Her fingers closed around the exact spice box.
The moment she did, a cold shiver ran down her spine. Ruhi stood frozen, staring at the container in her hand, completely stunned by her own muscle memory. She couldn’t understand why every single corner, every cabinet, and every hidden shelf of this unfamiliar kitchen felt so close, so deeply comforting, and so intensely dear to her soul.
Shaking off the eerie feeling of deja vu, she turned her focus back to the menu, preparing a lavish spread of golden Rajasthani vadas and crisp, spiced kachoris for the VIP guests mingling in the courtyard.
An hour later, the first trays of warm appetizers were carried out into the dining hall. As soon as the family and their guests tasted the very first bite, a sudden, heavy silence fell over the entire room. The entire family looked at one another, completely shocked. It was the exact same balance of spices, the exact same aromatic fragrance, and that unmistakable, profound feeling of home-cooked belonging that they hadn’t experienced in years.
Grandmother’s eyes grew noticeably moist, a wave of nostalgia washing over her as she thought back to the ghost of her past—to Ruhi, who used to fill this very home with that exact same culinary magic all those years ago.
Meanwhile, just outside the kitchen doors, the elegant party was interrupted by a sharp cry. Little Ruhaan, playing too close to the stone fountain in the garden, tripped and scraped his knee badly against the edge.
The moment Ruhi heard the sound of the child in pain, something primal and fierce awoke within her. The protective instinct of a mother took over completely, drowning out any fear of her disguise slipping.
She dropped her serving towel, rushed out past the heavy doors, and knelt right beside him on the grass. Moving with practiced, tender efficiency, she immediately began treating the wound, applying a soothing paste of traditional turmeric to stop the swelling.
A deep, undeniable worry was written all over her face, visible even above the edge of her mask.
Nahar watched the scene from across the lawn, his breath catching in his throat. Several onlookers nearby began to whisper among themselves, watching the masked girl cradle the boy. The raw, emotional connection was impossible to deny, leaving everyone in the courtyard with the unsettling feeling that this mysterious stranger was, without a doubt, deeply intertwined with the fabric of their family’s hidden past.
