It had been two days since the roka. Two days since promises were made under heavy silences and reluctant nods. And in just two more, those promises would be sealed with rings they weren't ready to slip on.

Both households were ablaze with preparations. At the Malhotra mansion, decorators moved like dancers in a well rehearsed routine, weaving strings of fresh tuberose along the stair railings, their delicate fragrance curling through the air like a secret.

Conversations about centrepieces and colour palettes floated through the corridors like fluttering silk- playful, endless, and just a little dramatic. Suggestions overlapped with laughter, ideas tossed around like confetti- whether the drapes should be ivory or blush, whether the table runners should be pastel or bold, if fresh flowers would last through the monsoon air, or if paper lanterns might be a better choice.

The air was fragrant- not just with rosewater and haldi- but with the hum of anticipation, the warmth of family, and a hundred little dreams coming to life under one roof.

In one corner, the matriarchs were deep in dessert diplomacy- engaged in a spirited debate over whether the sweet spread should begin with the soft crumble of besan laddoos or the glossy perfection of kaju katlis. The men, meanwhile, sat quietly on the sidelines- tea in hand, offering the occasional nod, neither invited into the debate nor particularly eager to join.

Near the window, in a sun drenched corner of the living room, Dadu sat on his recliner with little Misha curled up in his lap— one tiny fist tangled in his kurta buttons, the other gripping a marigold like it was treasure.

“Yeh phool kiska hai, mishki?” he asked in a voice dipped in mischief and molasses.

["Whose flower is this, mishki?"]

Misha beamed, flashing all four of her tiny teeth, threatening to steal the entire wedding’s spotlight. She held up the marigold with a dramatic squeal, then promptly stuffed it into Dadu’s pocket, like presenting an award.

“Acha? Dadu itne lucky kab se ho gaye?” he chuckled, pretending to be surprised.

["Oh really? Since when did dadu get this lucky?"]

Misha paused, then furrowed her brows in deep, dramatic thought— then nodded seriously, then patted his cheek twice— as if sealing a business deal. The room had been echoing with instructions and guest lists all morning, but in that little bubble by the window, it was just the two of them. A war general and his tiniest soldier.

On the coffee table beside them, someone had left a wrapped gift box.

Misha lunged toward it with all the urgency of a one-year-old on a mission. Dadu caught her halfway, settling her back into his arms with a laugh.

“Sab shadi ke liye bhag daud me lage hain,” he said, kissing her forehead. “aur meri mishki ye soch rahi hai— phool khane layak hai ya nahi.”

[“Everyone’s busy running around for the wedding,”]

[“And my Mishki is here, wondering whether the flowers are worth eating or not.”]

And Misha, in return, offered him the highest honour her tiny brain could imagine— her half-eaten biscuit.

Sarees lay stretched out like stories waiting to be worn, guest lists were scribbled and redone, and gold passed from hand to hand- flaunted, admired, tucked away- each piece carrying the weight of legacy and tradition.

It wasn't just a wedding they were preparing for. It was a memory in the making- and every detail held the weight of love, care, and something quietly unforgettable.

In the Sharma house, chaos was no quieter. Calls buzzed, deliveries rang the doorbell every fifteen minutes, and with each one, a new box, a new bag, or a new person stepped in. Close relatives had begun arriving with overflowing suitcases and even fuller stories, hugs exchanged at the door, laughter trailing into the hallway. The living room had slowly transformed into a kaleidoscope of lehengas, fabric swatches, and beauty parlour appointment charts stuck to the fridge with magnets.

The walls echoed with instructions-"phool waala kab aayega?", "caterer ko final kar diya?"- and the sharp scent of incense mixed with the glue of freshly stuck fairy lights.

[“When will the flower guy come?”]

[“Has the caterer been finalized?”]

And yet... Diya was nowhere to be found.

She wasn't hiding. Not really. She just didn't want to be found either.

She'd slipped away the moment the questions started. The kind that made her stomach twist with irritation, not nerves. "Shaadi ke baad shift toh hona hi padega, na?" "Ladke wale kaise hain?" "Bachchon ka naam kya socha?" Diya would stare, blankly, thinking- Why would any sane person say things like that?

[“You’ll have to move after the wedding, right?”]

[“What’s the groom’s family like?”]

[“Have you thought of baby names yet?”]

She didn't hate the idea of marriage- not truly. Somewhere, in a quieter world, where no one was watching and no one had anything to say, the thought of building something soft and steady with someone didn't seem so bad.

Though she never expected love from anyone- had long stopped believing it was meant for her- she had made peace with the idea of living in a marriage without it. She didn't need romance, or fireworks, or fairytales. She just needed space to exist, boundaries that wouldn't be broken, and the freedom to finish the things she started.

She was okay with getting married one day- after completing her degree, after settling into herself, after building something that felt like her own. She had a plan. A timeline. A quiet sort of control.

But now? In the middle of her degree, with books still unfinished and dreams still forming, she was being pulled into something she wasn't ready for.

And yet, for a moment- a blink, a breath- she didn't mind it. Not entirely.

She could live with this too.

Because she knew herself. She wasn't chasing love, wasn't waiting for some grand connection to arrive on a white horse. She just wanted to exist- quietly, fully, on her own terms. Even if it meant doing it beside someone she barely knew.

She didn't long for magic. Didn't need promises. What she needed was solitude- room to breathe, to be, to stay untouched by the noise.

And if she had that, she could get through anything. Not thrive. Not bloom. Just endure. And sometimes, that was enough.

But what she couldn't endure was everything else around it.

The noise. The scrutiny. The obsession.

The way aunties tossed around words like "shaadi," "sasural," "bacche," and "pati"- like darts flung at a target she never signed up to be. As if those were the only milestones a woman's life could ever amount to.

[ Marriage, In laws, Babies, Husband]

The clichés made her skin crawl. The way people tilted their heads with fake smiles and said things like "ab toh nayi zimmedariyaan samajhni padengi" or "pati ka khayal rakhna seekhna hoga"- it all made her want to scream into a pillow until her throat gave out.

["Now you’ll have to understand new responsibilities."]

["You’ll need to learn how to take care of your husband."]

It wasn't the marriage that exhausted her.

It was the spectacle of it. The performance. The reduction of her entire existence into one function, one ceremony, one title. The way society clung to this idea of marriage as a destination, not a choice.

That was what scraped at her.

Not the vows.

But the vultures circling around them.

And with each syrup drenched question flung her way like it meant nothing, her discomfort twisted tighter- loud, raw, and impossible to ignore.

So she escaped- into her room, into work, into study, into structure.

Because it wasn't marriage that unnerved her.

It was the noise that came with it.

And while Diya hid from the strom vedant walked straight into it.

He returned to Whitestone after four days. Work had piled up in his absence- contracts waiting, deadlines looming, clients calling. Arnav had managed more than Vedant had expected, but still, the weight of it poured back into his shoulders the moment he stepped in. He immersed himself in board meetings, legal briefs, compliance audits, performance reviews- anything that demanded focus and left no space to think.

There was no time for proper meals, no room for sleep. His schedule stretched thin, but somehow his mind still slipped- drifting now and then to what lay ahead.

His engagement.

In just two days.

Since the roka, he mostly stayed at the office. When he did return home— always late, always tired— he'd check on dadu first, linger by his bedside for a few silent moments— and then retreat to his room, where sleep only came once he clutched a small piece of gold to his chest. A strange comfort he couldn't explain, and didn't try to.

He left early every morning— before the hum of wedding preparations could reach him. Before the murmurs, the rituals, the scent of cardamom and marigolds could pull him into a celebration he never asked to be part of.

Because unlike Diya, Vedant had never once considered marriage.

Not after a certain age.

Not after a milestone.

Not when everyone else around him did.

And definitely not like this.

He never wanted to be a husband.

Not because he couldn't be. But because there were reasons. Reasons too old and too heavy to unfold. Wounds too deeply stitched to touch.

And yet, here he was. Not in agreement, not in protest- just moving forward, like something owed.

But now that he was getting married, he didn't feel fear. Or anger. Or even resistance. What he felt was...

nothing.

Just a quiet, numb acceptance. An obligation he had chosen to carry out— a promise made beneath harsh hospital lights and a voice running out of breath.

For the only man who had ever truly seen him. For the one who had once pulled him from a darkness so thick, even Vedant didn't think he'd survive it.

A man who had almost left him behind in a world that never quite understood him. He had asked, in a voice thin with weakness and hope, and Vedant said yes.

Even now, though Dadu had stabilized. He wasn't the same. Slower. Weaker. Smaller. Holding on but different. And Vedant? He couldn't refuse him. Not when he looked like that. Not when every breath felt borrowed. He couldn't bring himself to walk back on his words.

So he was going through with it. Not for tradition. Not for companionship. Not even for himself.

But for Dadu.

And to Vedant, this marriage meant nothing more than a ritual. A formality. A title-"married." That's it.

He didn't expect it to change anything. Not how he lived, not who he was. Even if he had to share space with a stranger he was tied to by circumstances.

Because once this was done, he would take back the reins of his life. Quietly, entirely.

After this, the world could celebrate all it wanted— he'd be quietly back at the helm.

Control. That's all he wanted. That's all he ever needed.

Both homes had begun to bloom into wedding houses— bright with lights, rich with laughter, and alive with the gentle chaos only celebration brings.

But at the heart of all that colour and commotion, there was a quiet absence.

The two names written across every invitation— Diya Sharma and Vedant Malhotra— remained untouched by the festivities.

While the world danced around their union, they drifted at its edges, like whispers lost in a song meant for them.

The conference room emptied with the quiet efficiency of order— heels clicking against the floor, chairs scraping back in practiced unison, heads dipping in habitual nods as laptops snapped shut. What lingered behind was the usual residue of decision making: half finished coffee cups, financial reports annotated in his handwriting, and a few unsigned NDAs lying at the edge of the mahogany table— delayed not forgotten.

The projector still hummed, casting a sterile glow over charts that had held the weight of hard decisions minutes ago. No one else would revisit them. But I would. Later. After the noise faded.

Because being CEO didn’t mean walking out first. It meant being the last to leave— and knowing exactly what was left behind.

I didn’t rush.

The meeting had run it's course. Notes were taken. Directions given. The room had done what it was meant to. Now the rest continued— just not in here.

Back in my cabin, I shut the door behind me and placed the file on the desk. The day still had hours left, but its rhythm had already shifted. I loosened my tie, the fabric slipping against my collarbone like the day unraveling off my skin— just as my phone rang.

I didn’t check the screen. I didn’t need to. Only one person called at 2 p.m. with instructions softened into affection— so specific, so hers.

I answered with a low, practiced, “Kahiye, Maa.”

[“Go ahead, Maa.”]

“Shaam paanch baje engagement ki shopping hai,” she said, her tone casual, almost offhand— like she was reminding me to pick up bread on the way home. “Address bhej diya hai. Time se aa jaana.”

[“Engagement shopping is at five in the evening.”]

[“Ive sent you the address be on time”]

I exhaled, rubbing my temple with two fingers. “Maa, main nahi aa paunga. Kaam hai. Aapko jo theek lage, le lijiye.”

[“Maa, I won’t be able to come. I have work. Get whatever you think is right.”]

There was a pause. One second. Maybe two. Long enough for her silence to press down like an unopened letter.

Then she spoke again— this time, her voice carrying that unshakable maternal certainty. Not pleading. Just... final.

“Pata hai mujhe— kuch bhi pehen le, sunar hi lagega, mera raja beta,” she said, her voice dipped in pride and the kind of teasing warmth only she could weaponize. “Lekin ring size andaz se nahi li jaati, Vedant. Kaam baad mein bhi hota rahega. Time pe aajana.”

[“I know—no matter what you wear, you’ll still look like a prince, my golden boy.”]

[“But you can’t guess a ring size, Vedant. Work will always be there. Be there on time.”]

And with that, the line disconnected.

No space for argument. No room for negotiation.

Of course she did. That was her way— gentle where it mattered, immovable where it counted.

The clock read 2:08 p.m.

Three hours.

Just enough time to bury myself in what still needed doing— tasks that asked for focus, not feeling— and still not enough to escape what waited at five.

I rolled up my sleeves and focused on the screen, numbers blurring into patterns, when Arnav’s voice broke the quiet.

“Do you have an appointment?”

Professional. Crisp. But beneath it— confusion. A beat too long. Like he wasn’t used to being ignored.

I looked up.

She walked in anyway.

Arnav hesitated in the doorway, uncertainty written all over him. His eyes flicked to me. Should I stop her?

Too late now. She was already here.

Neha Singhania. Sharp. Polished. Entitled in ways that had nothing to do with money and everything to do with never being told no. Her last name preceded her like a crest— powerful, glossy, and carefully protected.

She wasn’t here as Assistant Audit Manager—

not with roses in one hand and intent written all over her silence.

This wasn’t about numbers.

And I knew it before she said a word.

The door clicked shut behind her.

She entered like she owned the room. Her heels whispered dominance across the floor. In one hand— a bouquet of red roses. In the other— fingers clenched, like she was holding back something far louder than nerves.

“Hi,” she said, her voice brighter than the room needed. “Thought I’d catch you before your next meeting,” she said, like timing gave her permission.

She crossed the room without invitation and placed the bouquet on the edge of my desk.

“I know you asked me not to come without an appointment,” she began, smile tight around her words, “but I figured I wouldn’t need one after today.”

Silence.

“I like you, Vedant,” she said next, her voice gaining speed. Like this was a script she’d rehearsed and now needed to outrun. “Let’s date. And then get married.”

She paused, waiting.

I gave her nothing.

“I don’t think you understand what’s in front of you,” she said, voice calm, measured, like she was laying out a business deal I’d be stupid to refuse.

“You wouldn’t just be marrying me, Vedant. You’d be aligning with one of the most powerful names in this industry. My father’s empire, his network, his legacy— it all becomes yours. Instantly. Effortlessly.”

Then, a pause. A smile.

“And me, of course. But that’s the easy part.”

My expression didn’t shift.

I leaned back slowly, the leather creaking under the weight of restraint, not comfort.

“You brought flowers. To my cabin. During work hours.”

She straightened, like posture could mask intention. “I did.”

A long silence followed. Not because I didn’t know what to say—

but because I wanted her to feel every second of what she’d just crossed.

“Take them back,” I said finally. Flat. Precise.

She blinked. That caught her— not because she was hurt, but because she hadn’t considered no to be an option.

“I—sorry?”

A long beat passed. My gaze remained on her, sharp and unmoved.

"Whatever you thought this would lead to... it won’t."  I said. “Your father made a call. That’s the only reason you’re in this building. If not for him, this conversation wouldn’t exist. And neither would your position here.”

The words weren’t cruel. They were just the truth— delivered the way truth sounds when it’s not dressed to soften the blow.

Her mouth opened. A retort hovered, then collapsed.

“You’re intelligent. You have potential. Don’t sabotage that by forgetting where you are.”

I stood, adjusted the cuff of my shirt.

She stepped forward, hand rising— aimed toward my arm, like she believed proximity could substitute for permission.

I didn’t flinch.

I simply looked at her. One glance. Quiet. Precise. Sharp enough to stop motion. Enough to remind her that silence could be sharper than speech.

It wasn’t a warning.

It was a severance.

The kind of look that didn’t ask her to stop— told her she never should’ve begun.

Her hand hovered mid air, then dropped. Even her entitlement seemed to retreat in that second.

But I wasn’t done.

“If this happens again— whether here, or anywhere else, within or beyond work hours— you’ll be dealing with HR. Not me.”

That finally landed. Her lips pressed together, jaw locked— but no apology came. Not a word. Not an acknowledgment.

I didn't except one. Entitlement rarely came with remorse. And I didn't need it.

She turned and left without another word.

Arnav stepped in a moment later— questions clearly on the edge of his expression, but held back with the restraint of someone who knew better than to voice them.

I glanced at the roses— still sitting there like they had a place in this room. Like she hadn’t just walked in and torn through every line— professional, personal, written and unwritten— with the kind of arrogance that came from never being told no.

Like she thought power excused everything.

Like she thought I would.

“Throw them out,” I said, voice low, already back to work.

“Consider it done.” he said, stepping forward with the file— voice even, movements exact.

“Legal’s closed the loop. One of the international clients requested a brief Zoom slot before EOD. I held them off— for now.”

No small talk. No reaction. Just business. The way I needed it.

“Push it to tomorrow,” I replied, my gaze drifting to the clock.

He nodded. “Noted.”

The next hour passed in quiet efficiency. The kind of silence that felt sterile. Predictable. Safe. I signed what needed signing. Approved what needed none of my interest. Declined w

hat wasn’t precise.

At 4:55, I stood, buttoned my blazer, and pulled my car keys from the drawer.

Without another thought, I headed to the address Maa had sent.

The phone buzzed against the edge of my cubicle desk, slicing through the soft hum of fluorescent lights and distant typing. I stared at it for a moment, unmoving, half-hoping it would stop on its own. It didn’t.

“Hmm?”

“Aaj ghar jaldi aa sakti hai?” Maa’s voice came through, light, casual—like she was asking if I wanted chai. “Engagement shopping jaana hai, samdhan ji ke saath.”

[“Can you come home early today?”]

[“We have to go engagement shopping with your in-laws.”]

She might as well have asked me to step on a landmine.

I closed my eyes for a beat, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Maa, maine aapko bataya tha,” I began, trying to keep the irritation from creeping into my voice. I had told her. Repeatedly. That I wasn’t coming. I didn’t want any part in the performance that was unfolding around this engagement.

[“Maa, I had already told you.”]

“Haan, par ring size ke liye toh tujhe aana hi padega na, beta. Chhoti badi ho gayi toh baar baar exchange kaun karega?”

[“Yes, but you have to come for the ring size, beta. If it turns out too big or too small, who’s going to keep exchanging it again and again?”]

My fingers curled into the edge of my sleeve, crisp cotton creased from the day. She had a way of making even valid arguments sound like maternal blackmail. I sighed, the sound pulled from my chest like a reluctant truce. “Send the address. I’ll try to reach by 5:30.”

DIYA'S OUTFIT

“Time pe aajana. Bohot saari cheezein baaki hain.”

[“Be on time. There’s still a lot left to do.”]

Click. The call ended before I could respond.

Typical.

I didn’t have much work left, Truth be told. But that wasn’t the point. I didn’t want to go. Every thread of resistance in my body screamed to stay away. Yet somehow, those five words— "Send the address. I’ll try to reach"— had already sealed my fate.

It was a jewelry store.

Of course it was. Ornate glass windows glittered with all things gold and opulent, mocking me as I stepped out of the cab. The sun dipped low behind me, casting a warm golden light on the marble steps ahead. I paid the driver, adjusted my bag, and made my way to the entrance.

The first step.

The second.

And just as I lifted my foot for the third— a misstep. My heel didn’t land properly. The edge of it caught air instead of solid stone. And then—

I was falling.

It happened in a blur, but every second felt stretched. My breath hitched. My arms flailed instinctively. The pit of my stomach twisted into dread as my body tilted backwards. A hundred scenarios flashed through my mind. Broken wrist. Fractured tailbone. Cracked skull. I braced myself for the thud, the pain, the embarrassment—

But it never came.

I didn’t hit the ground. Instead, my back met something solid. Not concrete. Warm. Alive. My hands flew back instinctively, clutching whatever was behind me. My eyes clenched shut.

I stayed frozen like that. Not daring to move. Not sure what had just happened.

Then, slowly, I tilted my head to the right. Just slightly. My lashes fluttered open.

And there they were.

Eyes.

Familiar. Sharp. Too close. Too unmistakable.

“Are you okay?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Measured. Concern buried beneath composure.

That voice.

“Let’s not make this harder than it already is.”

That face. Oh God. Not now.

Why was he here?

My subconscious scoffed. For the exact reason you are, genius.

I blinked, trying to convince myself this wasn’t some twisted daydream. But no. It was real.

My body was practically molded to his. My back pressed against his chest. My right hand was gripping his bicep— tense beneath my fingers, the other still resting on his forearm— which hovered protectively around my waist.

It didn’t touch me— his arm. It lingered near, not possessive, not careless. Like he was holding space, not skin.

His eyes were calm. Concerned. Watching me.

Mortified, I slowly, cautiously, let go of his arm. Then, using the grip I had on his forearm— still lingering— I found my balance and straightened myself.

I gave him a quick nod in response to his question. He didn’t say anything more. Thank god. My pride couldn’t handle more embarrassment.

I was okay. Physically.

Emotionally? Let’s not even go there.

I didn’t say thank you. Not because I wasn’t grateful, but because the words just wouldn’t come. If it had been anyone else, I’d have stumbled over an apology, a thank you, maybe even a joke to ease the awkwardness. But not with him.

Not with the man I was supposed to marry.

The man I didn’t know how to be around.

The man I didn’t want to be around.

We entered the store side by side, but not together. Like co actors in a scene neither of us auditioned for.

Inside, the women of both families were gathered around a table, laughing softly, examining glimmering rings and delicate designs like it was a festive ritual.

As we approached, his mother looked up. “Lo, ye dono bhi aa gaye,” she said, her tone light.

[“Look, these two have arrived as well.”]

Then her eyes narrowed slightly. “Saath mein aaye ho?”

["Did you guys come together?"]

I shook my head, and greeted them, it came naturally this time.

His chachi offered a warm smile in return, and Misha’s mom pulled me into a hug. It was a soft, comforting gesture. One that briefly settled my nerves.

I couldn’t help but ask, “How's Misha?”

“She’s good. Always playing with Dadu,” she replied

Something inside me eased. A warmth. A soft tug at the corners of my heart.

I sat beside my mother, and his mother asked him to sit next to me. He did.

The rings were brought out. I stared at them, uninterested. From the corner of my eye, I saw him looking just as disinterested.

The jeweler began his pitch when suddenly, all the women started getting up.

Confused, I asked my mom, “Where are you all going?”

His mother answered instead. “Beta, we’re going to the second floor to check some neck pieces.” She smiled. “Tum dono rings pasand karo. Hum tab tak aa jaayenge.”

[“You both choose the rings. We’ll join you by then.”]

And with that they disappear.

Leaving us. Alone. With a tray of rings.

I wanted to scream.

Two people who didn’t want each other. Didn’t want this marriage. Were now expected to pick rings.

Together.

He sat beside me, quiet. I rested my hands on the glass counter, trying to find an ounce of patience. The jeweler asked, “What kind of rings are you two looking for?”

The ones you wear when being forced into marriage, I thought.

“Engagement rings,” Mr. Malhotra answered.

His voice held no edge, no emotion. Just compliance.

The man began laying out couple sets. Gold. Platinum. Diamonds that looked heavy enough to pull my hand into the floor.

I glanced at him.

He was already looking at me.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I said. My voice didn’t waver. There was no point pretending anymore.

He nodded.

We began.

I picked out a pair first. Sleek bands with tiny stones glinting under the store lights. They looked promising— safe, elegant. I handed his ring to him, trying not to glance too long at his fingers as he slid it on. Then did the same with mine.

Too tight for him. Too loose for me.

We exchanged glances. No words. Just that awkward air of forced politeness, like two strangers trying to play dress-up with forever.

The next set looked different. Thicker bands, chunkier sparkle. I tried to like them. He tried to hide his disapproval. The band looked too bold on his hand— too loud for someone like him. And on mine? It felt like wearing armor when all I wanted was something soft.

We moved on.

Another pair. This time, the diamond sat awkwardly against my skin, digging in whenever I curled my fingers. Pretty, yes— but it felt foreign, like it was trying too hard to belong.

And then came the next one. A simpler band. I slid it on— and for a second, it fit. Looked good. Not love at first glance, but something close to... peace.

Except— it wouldn’t come off.

I twisted, tugged. My skin reddened. The ring mocked me with its stubbornness. My pulse stuttered, heat crawling up my neck. I didn’t want to make a scene in a store about an engagement ring I didn’t even ask for.

The shopkeeper noticed. “Madam, laaiye... main nikaal deta hoon,” he offered gently, extending his hand toward me.

[“Ma'am, give it here... I’ll take it out for you.”]

I was about to lift my hand— just trying to escape the moment quickly.

But before I could place my hand in his—

Mr. Malhotra's hand intercepted mine, holding it mid air.

He stopped me. His fingers wrapped around mine— not tight, not sudden, just... decisive. He didn’t say a word. Just guided my hand away from the shopkeeper and back onto the counter, like placing glass down softly.

And then, without looking at me, he slipped his fingers over mine. Slowly. Gently.

He tugged at the ring.

No force. No pain. Just ease. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like my hand had never fought it in the first place.

And it came off.

I stared at him. He didn’t meet my eyes. His expression stayed the same— still, unreadable.

And then—

still holding my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world—

he picked up another ring.

Without hesitating. Without pausing.

He just slid it onto my ring finger.

It didn’t tug or press or resist.

It slipped on like silk.

No noise, no friction.

Just a quiet weight that felt more like belonging than burden.

I had told myself I didn’t care about how the ring would look. That it was just a symbol, a formality. That it could be plain or ugly or oversized and I’d still smile through it.

But this one—

Oh.

It sat there, resting against my skin as if it had always been a part of me—

I looked down at it.

And I froze.

It was beautiful.

Not in the extravagant, camera flash kind of way. But in that barefoot on wet grass, breath caught in the throat kind of way.

The ring was nothing Opulent— no towering diamond or ornate flourish. Just a slender band of silver, delicate and graceful, its surface catching light like a whispered secret.

At its heart rested an infinity symbol, carved so seamlessly into the metal it felt like the band had folded into itself— like time looping in quiet devotion. Tiny diamonds dotted only the front, so faint they could be mistaken for stardust—visible only if you were close enough to care.

It wasn’t the kind of ring that screamed possession. It was the kind that murmured promise. Not loud, not showy— just... eternal. A soft, infinite forever resting against skin.

And suddenly— something shifted.

Because this?

This was the kind of ring I would have chosen if things were different. If I was actually in love.

If all of this— this marriage, this madness— wasn’t just a fragile performance held together by pressure and names.

If I had met someone on my own terms, loved them without fear, trusted them without trembling—

this is the ring I would’ve worn.

Something simple.

Something soft.

Something that didn’t try to prove anything to the world— only to me.

It was the kind of ring that didn’t shine for attention, but stayed— for comfort.

For meaning.

For... forever.

And maybe that’s what broke me a little.

Because I wasn’t supposed to like anything about today.

Not the process, not the man, not the symbolism.

But this ring?

This ring whispered things I wasn’t ready to hear.

And I couldn’t look away.

He released my hand.

I ran my thumb across it.

Then I looked at his— he had its pair. Same band. Same symbol. Except his had no diamonds. Just polished metal and clean lines. The same story in a different tone.

“Is this comfortable?” he asked, voice low.

I nodded— words wouldn’t come. I just touched the ring once more, grounding myself with its simplicity.

I didn’t know what to feel.

I didn’t even know what I wanted to feel.

But in that quiet second, with our hands having just let go and our rings now carrying the weight of what we didn’t say—

I didn’t hate it.

Not even a little.

“Let’s get these,” he said, his voice low, steady— like this wasn’t the most surreal moment of our lives.

I nodded. “Okay.”

Just one word. Barely a whisper.

But my heart was a symphony of contradictions.

My fingers reached into my tote bag almost mechanically, brushing past the usual mess before finding my wallet tucked neatly in one corner, like the one part of my life that still obeyed me. I unzipped it, ignoring the chaos around it, and pulled out my card.

I didn’t look at him as I pulled it out. Maybe I was too focused on pretending this wasn’t affecting me. Maybe I just couldn’t bear to meet his eyes right now, not with everything this ring was about to mean.

But of course, he had to ruin that attempt at emotional distance with just two words.

“I’m paying.”

I froze mid motion, card suspended in the air between us. My eyes finally met his, and I gave him the look— that very specific look of disbelief and lowkey offense that said excuse me, no. “No,” I said, sharper than I intended, heart racing. “I will pay for my ring.”

His expression didn’t change, but something in his jaw shifted— like he’d expected me to react this way.

“You’re not supposed to pay for your ring,” he said quietly. Not teasing. Not smug. Just…matter of fact. Like it was some universal law written in a manual I clearly never got a copy of.

I held his gaze. “Then let me pay for your ring,” I replied, more stubbornly than necessary. But it wasn’t just about the payment. It was the principle of it. I wasn’t about to sit here and let him take care of everything like this was some deal he had to fund.

No. If I was going through with this— if we were doing this—I wanted to meet him halfway.

He exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh that sounded like he wanted to argue but knew it would get us nowhere.

No more words were exchanged.

In the end, I paid for his ring, and he paid for mine.

We didn’t comment on it.

We didn’t smile.

But something passed between us as the receipts printed, as the tiny velvet boxes were handed over and tucked away. Something silent and strange and unspoken.

Like a pact.

Or a truce we never planned on signing.

I was still trying to make sense of it when I heard the familiar clack of heels and a flurry of sarees rustling down the stairs.

I turned, and there they were— our mothers, side by side, followed by Chachi and Misha’s mom. Their eyes bright, laughter easy. Like this was a scene from a family film.

But I…

I still felt the echo of his sigh in my bones.

Still carried the invisible weight of the ring that wasn’t yet mine.

And for a second, just a second—

I didn’t know whether I was proud of the way I stood my ground…

Or scared of how quickly I’d caved.

“Le li rings?” his Chachi asked the moment she saw us.

We both nodded. Quiet. Civil. Strangely in sync for two people who hadn’t said a word since paying for each other’s future.

“Chalo accha hai!” she said brightly.

Maa's eyes found mine. Warm. Tired. Gentle in that soft, mother code way that meant she was asking without asking if I was alright.

“Beta, I have to get a few more things,” she said, already sliding her phone into her clutch. “You can go home if you’re done.”

I nodded, a little too quickly. The thought of escaping— of slipping into the silence of my room and letting this entire day blur into soft denial— was tempting.

Then his mother chimed in, voice just as calm but firm enough to make me tense.

“Vedant, you too are done, right?”

He nodded. Barely.

“Good. Then drop Diya back before going home. Leave the rings with her.”

The air shifted. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But I felt it. That tightness in my spine, the way the room suddenly felt too still, too watched.

“It’s fine, I can go on my own,” I said quickly, my voice clipped before I could soften it. My fingers curled into the strap of my bag, the leather digging into my palm.

She shook her head, a hint of something knowing tugging at her lips, voice soft, "It's getting late, let him drop you— you'll reach safely."

I checked the time on my phone. 6:40.

I didn't argue. There was no point.

He didn’t say anything either. Just stood there, like this whole situation was nothing but a delivery errand he’d been assigned.

And maybe that’s all it was.

I looked at Maa, a flicker of worry tightening my chest before I could even name it. She caught it immediately— of course she did. Her eyes softened, reading my face the way only she could.

“Don’t worry,” she said gently, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “I came with Mukesh. He’ll drop me back on time.”

Mukesh Uncle. Our driver for the past thirteen years. Quiet, reliable, always five minutes early and never once impatient.

We had Suresh Uncle too—more recent, louder, always humming old songs while driving. But I’d never liked bothering either of them for my own errands.

I knew it was their job. I knew no one would question it.

Still.

I couldn’t bring myself to use their time for my work. I couldn’t ask them to drive me to office and back like I was some helpless thing waiting to be escorted.

Since college, I’d taken the metro, auto, bus—whatever got me there. Whatever kept me moving on my own terms.

I didn’t like depending on people.

Even if they were paid to be dependable.

I nodded at Maa, quietly grateful that she understood— grateful that she never made me feel guilty for choosing solitude over convenience.

And then I turned.

Mr. Malhotra was already waiting. Still and unreadable, like always.

We walked toward the car, side by side with silence trailing behind us like a shadow—

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just been handed something heavier than two rings in a box.

As we reached his car, sleek and black and far too elegant for a casual drop-off, I paused.

“You don’t have to drop me,” I said, my voice calm but firm. “I’ll take a cab.”

He didn’t even glance at me. “It’s getting late,” he deadpanned.

6:45.

It was 6:45 for god's sake.

Like mother, like son.

I swear they shared the same programming.

“It’s not that late,” I countered.

“And who’s going to explain that to my mom?” he replied, finally turning to look at me. His tone didn’t change. No smirk. No exasperation. Just that same dry, level voice that somehow managed to sound like an argument and a shrug at the same time.

I stared at him for a second, searching for something to say that wouldn’t sound petty or dramatic.

But nothing came.

Just a sigh. Soft. Defeated.

Because I knew he wasn’t going to budge.

And maybe— just maybe— a part of me didn’t want to walk away alone either.

I reached for the back door of his car without thinking— like muscle memory, like second nature. The front seat didn’t even cross my mind. I wasn’t in the mood to play pretend co passenger when all I wanted was to sink into silence and stare out the window.

But just as I pulled the door open, I heard the click of the front door unlocking.

He opened it.

At the same time.

And then we just… stood there.

Me holding the back door.

Him holding the front.

Both of us paused, mid motion, staring at each other like we were caught in some psychological stand off.

He clearly saw me going for the back.

He could’ve just let it be.

But no he had to make a point without saying a word.

So I didn’t move. Didn’t close my door.

If he wanted to be stubborn, fine. Two could play that game.

And there we were.

Both doors on the left side open.

Both of us standing barely a few feet apart—me by the back, him by the front— neither moving, neither blinking.

Refusing to budge.

Refusing to yield.

A metaphor, honestly.

When a full minute passed and he still hadn’t backed down, I sighed— again— and gave in.

“I’ll sit at the back,” I muttered, barely looking at him.

He didn’t even blink. “Do I look like a driver?” he asked, in all seriousness.

Who’s going to tell him?

Another sigh escaped me, the kind that felt like it came from my soul. With reluctant fingers, I shut the back door with a soft thud.

He didn’t gloat. Didn’t smirk. Just opened the front door wider, a silent invitation.

I slid into the passenger seat, resisting the urge to roll my eyes on impact. The leather was cool against my skin, and the silence between us louder than ever.

He placed the shopping bags in the backseat with the kind of quiet precision that made me wonder if he always moved like that— measured, focused, like the weight of things didn’t touch him unless he let it.

Then he rounded the car, his footsteps steady, and slid behind the wheel.

We didn’t speak.
We didn’t need to.

The car moved, slow and smooth through the thinning evening traffic. The silence between us wasn’t heavy— it was oddly light, peaceful. Like both of us had agreed, silently, not to disturb it.

At a red light, the car slowed to a stop. I leaned slightly toward the window, my eyes wandering out without purpose. And then I saw them.

A child— no older than five— curled up on a worn patch of footpath, fast asleep.
Next to him, two puppies lay cuddled against his side like they belonged to him. Or maybe he belonged to them.
No blankets. No shoes. Just that small body, still and soft, with two living little heaters pressed close to his ribs.

Without thinking, my hand moved into my tote.
Camera.
Click.
A picture, captured before the spell could break.

And then— two steps away— I noticed her. The mother.
The mama dog, watching over all three of them with a quiet, steady gaze, her own body curled but alert. Not resting. Guarding.
I lifted the camera again.
Click.

Another frame. Another story.

This one felt different.
Wholesome. Real.
Like love in its most instinctive, unpolished form.

I lowered the camera slowly, a gentle smile tugging at the corner of my mouth without permission.

And that’s when I felt it—
That unmistakable tug of being seen.

I turned slightly.
He was looking at me.

Quiet. Still.
One hand resting on the gear, eyes not on the road, but on me.
Like he was seeing a version of me I hadn’t meant to show.

For a second, neither of us said a word.
The red light blinked to green. He turned away and drove.

When the car finally pulled up in front of my house, I slowly unclipped the seatbelt. The click echoed more than it should have in the calm. I opened the door and stepped out, the evening air brushing against my arms like a reminder that the day had actually happened.

He followed, opening the backseat door and retrieving the shopping bags.
The rings.
He handed them over.

And then—

Nothing.

We both stood there.
Not moving.
Not knowing what to say next.

Was I supposed to thank him?
Was he waiting for that?
Did he expect anything? A smile? A nod?

Thank you for today, Mr. Malhotra, I said—
In my head.
Because I couldn’t say it out loud.

I don’t know why.
Maybe because this entire thing was already toeing the line of too much.
Maybe because I sucked at things that required emotional grace.

We shouldn’t do things we aren’t good at.
And I was clearly terrible at…
whatever this was.

So I did what I always did when I didn’t know how to feel—
I moved.

Turned away. Walked up the steps to my front door.
Home. Safety. Familiarity.

I opened the door and stepped inside, the bags brushing against my leg, my hand lingering on the handle.

Something tugged at me to turn around. I don’t know what.

But I did.

And there he was.
Still in the driver’s seat.
Looking straight ahead— no, at me.

We locked eyes.

For just a few seconds.
No smile.
No wave.
Just that same unreadable stillness in his expression, the kind that left you wondering if he was thinking anything at all— or everything at once.

And then, without breaking the moment too abruptly, his car began to move.
Quietly.
Like he hadn’t just looked straight through me.

I closed the door slowly, heart a little fuller and a little heavier than before.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

okay okay, im extremely sorry for the delay 😔 check insta for tea.

i made the chapter longer to compensate for the delay, don't hate me please 💔🥀😔

(everything below this was written before— when i didn't see the delay coming)

hello natkhats, how was this chapter? majja avi gayo?

also engagement me aana hai sabko! diya and vedant personally asked me to send invitation to you all.

im commentpaglu, so please drop alot of comments 😔 and ⭐ do touch the star.

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thankyou so much for reading.

with love.

—M 💌