Six months later.

Aashi Rathore.

That was still her name. Even after the divorce, she'd kept it. Not for Arjun.

For Mehera.

She lived in the haveli still. In the room next to Mehera's. The family knew. The staff knew. And slowly, carefully, the world was beginning to know.

Mehera had come out publicly at a press conference. Not with a grand announcement. Not with a dramatic speech.

A reporter had asked about her relationship status.

Mehera had looked directly into the camera and said:

"I'm in a relationship. With the most extraordinary woman I've ever met. And I'm the luckiest person alive because she chose me."

The internet had broken.

The family had weathered the storm.

And on a quiet Sunday morning, six months after everything changed, Aashi woke up in Mehera's bed.

Mehera was already awake. Propped on one elbow. Watching Aashi with those dark, intense eyes that still made Aashi's heart race.

"Good morning," Aashi mumbled.

"Good morning."

"Why are you staring at me?"

"Because I can."

Aashi blushed. Even after all this time, she still blushed.

"You're beautiful when you blush," Mehera said.

"Stop."

"Never."

Aashi hid her face in the pillow. Mehera laughed—that rare, precious sound—and pulled the pillow away.

"I made you something," Mehera said.

"You? Made something?"

"Don't sound so shocked."

Mehera reached under the bed and pulled out a small canvas.

It was a painting. Aashi's style—but different. Rougher. Less skilled. But unmistakably sincere.

It was two women, sitting on a rooftop, wrapped in a shawl, looking at the stars.

Aashi's eyes filled with tears.

"You painted this?" she whispered.You painted this?" she whispered.

"I took online classes. At 2 AM. For three months."

"Mehera..."

"I wanted to give you what you gave me. Something made by my hands. Something real."

Aashi pulled Mehera down and kissed her.

"You gave me everything," Aashi said against her lips. "You gave me courage. You gave me hope. You gave me a love I never dared to dream of."

"I'm still learning," Mehera said. "I'm still cold sometimes. Still angry. Still possessive—"

"I know. I love all of you. Even the cold parts. Even the angry parts. Especially the possessive parts."

Mehera smiled.

The real smile. The one that was only for Aashi.

"Come on," Mehera said, pulling her out of bed. "Maa's making parathas."

"Race you to the kitchen!"

Aashi ran, barefoot, in Mehera's oversized hoodie, down the hallway of the Rathore haveli.

Mehera followed, slower, watching the woman she loved run through the house like she owned it.

She does, Mehera thought. She owns this house. She owns this family. She owns me.

In the kitchen, Maa was indeed making parathas. Priya was setting the table. Arjun—yes, Arjun, who had healed and forgiven and moved on—was pouring chai.

And Aashi was there, in the middle of it all, laughing, alive, home.

Mehera leaned against the doorframe and watched.

Aashi looked up and smiled.

That smile.

That impossible, beautiful, life-changing smile.

"Come sit," Aashi said, patting the chair next to her.

Mehera walked over.

She sat down.

She took Aashi's hand under the table.

And she thought:

This is what it means to be alive.