The night was long, stretched thin between spreadsheets and flashing screens. Vardhan Ranavat leaned back in his leather chair, exhaustion gnawing at his temples. His office, perched on the thirty-second floor, overlooked the glittering skyline of Mumbai, yet his eyes weren't on the lights. They were heavy, tired, searching for some kind of pause from the grind he had chosen as his life.

He had always believed in control—over numbers, over men, over his destiny. Business was a war field, and he was the warrior who never allowed defeat to cross his shadow. Yet, on that evening, with his tie loosened and his fingers idly scrolling on his phone, something entirely unplanned happened. A short video appeared on his screen.

It was nothing special at first glance: a pair of slender hands shuffling tarot cards on a velvet cloth. But then came the voice.

Soft. Steady. Each word carried a warmth that wrapped around him before he even realized it.

"The energy feels restless," the voice said, calm and certain, as if speaking to him directly. "You've been chasing answers outside, but the truth lies in the choices you're avoiding."

He stilled. The timbre of that voice—gentle, fluid, almost melodic—slipped past his usual defenses. Vardhan wasn't a man who wasted time on such things. Tarot, astrology, rituals—they were distractions, stories for the weak who needed comfort. At least, that was what he always believed.

But he didn't swipe away.

He listened.

And when the short ended, his finger hesitated before moving on. Instead, he clicked on the account. The page opened to dozens of videos, all the same frame: hands, cards, and that voice. No face. No name beyond a single word: Ruhani.

Curiosity turned into something sharper. He played one video, then another, until the night stretched deeper into silence. Her voice followed him like a thread he didn't want to let go of. Each shuffle of cards, each pause in her speech, each small gesture of her fingers captured his focus.

It was absurd. He, Vardhan Ranavat, the man who never allowed himself to be distracted, was watching a stranger explain energies, paths, choices, destinies—things he didn't even believe in.

And yet, he couldn't stop.

By dawn, he had memorized the curve of her vowels, the rhythm of her tone. He noticed small details: the way her hands moved gracefully, almost like a dancer's, the faint mole on her right index finger, the deliberate care with which she laid down the cards.

When he finally dragged himself to bed, there was a faint smile tugging at his lips—something rare, almost foreign.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a moment's curiosity. Just a voice.

But deep down, he already knew it wasn't.

The days that followed were restless. Vardhan tried to bury himself in work, in meetings and deals, but somewhere between conference calls and late-night strategy sessions, her voice echoed. It was as though Ruhani had carved a small space in his mind, refusing to leave.

He found himself returning to her page, the way one might return to a hidden room for solace. Each evening, when the city roared outside, he opened another video. Her words wove around him like threads of smoke, calming yet unsettling, telling him things he didn't think he wanted to hear.

And then he saw it.

At the corner of her profile was a link. "Book a Personal Reading."

For a moment, he stared at it, the rational part of his mind resisting. He was not the kind of man to pay strangers on the internet for advice. He was not the kind of man who sought guidance in cards.

But he clicked.

The process was simple. A form, a payment, a time slot. And soon, he found himself staring at the screen, waiting.

When the session began, the frame was the same: a table, a soft cloth, a deck of cards. Her camera showed only her hands, poised and elegant, the light catching on her skin. The small mole on her right finger was clearer now, like a secret mark only he was allowed to see.

"Hello," her voice came, steady, gentle. "This is Ruhani. Thank you for trusting me with your reading. How may I guide you today?"

For a moment, Vardhan said nothing. His throat felt unexpectedly dry. It was absurd—he had spoken to ministers, negotiated with tycoons, commanded rooms of men twice his age without hesitation. And here he was, speechless, staring at a pair of hands and a voice that shouldn't matter.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "Tell me... who will I marry?"

The question sounded childish even to his ears, but it was the first thing that slipped out.

She chuckled softly, not mocking, just warm. "All right. Let's see."

Her fingers moved through the cards with a fluid grace, shuffling, cutting, spreading them out in arcs of color and symbol. He watched intently—not the cards, but the way she handled them, the care in each gesture, as though she was holding something sacred.

"You'll marry someone who challenges you," she said, studying the spread. "Someone who isn't afraid of your strength. She'll be gentle, but not weak. She'll make you see the world differently."

Her words lingered. He frowned slightly. It sounded like fantasy, something designed to please him. And yet, the conviction in her tone made him listen.

The reading continued, and though he asked casually, each answer from her voice pulled him deeper. She spoke with knowledge, with an intuition that seemed to cut through the surface.

When the call ended, he realized he had leaned forward the entire time, watching her hands, listening for every shift in her voice.

That night, he told himself it had been a one-time indulgence. Curiosity, nothing more.

But weeks later, he booked another session.

And then another.

The questions shifted—from marriage to business, from business to choices, from choices to life itself. And always, her voice remained the constant, threading its way into his restless nights.

He didn't know why he kept coming back. All he knew was that he couldn't stay away.

***