ruhanika's pov 

I sat on a velvet cushion, my back straight, while the Mehndi artist meticulously traced intricate patterns onto my palms. The cold, wet paste felt like ice against my skin—a sharp contrast to the burning heat I felt whenever I sensed him nearby "A little more detail here, please," I told the artist, my voice steady. I was choosing a heavy bridal-style design, even though I wasn't the bride. I wanted my hands covered. I wanted to hide the scars from the glass under layers of dark, swirling ink.