Chapter 1: The Morning After

I ended up with the man who used to bully me at school!

As the golden morning sunlight seeped through the faded maroon curtains of our modest 2BHK in Mumbai, I shifted my arm just a little.

Outside, the clang of the milkman’s cycle echoed alongside the hawker’s cries—“Doodh le lo!”—a familiar Mumbai chorus. The sun’s warmth touched my skin, the maroon curtain fluttered from the ceiling fan’s lazy breeze.

Suddenly, the arm around my waist tightened possessively.

Arjun’s palm was heavy, his presence pressing against my back. The sharp, citrusy aftershave he wore still lingered from last night, mixing with the city’s sticky humidity.

He lowered his head, pressing a kiss to my neck, his voice thick with sleep and something darker:

"Soya tha kya kal raat? Or did you keep thinking about me?"

His breath was warm, and the scratch of his stubble grazed my shoulder. His tone—half teasing, half mocking—always left me uncertain.

I went still for a second, then nodded automatically.

Obedience had become second nature. In this flat, in this city, between the two of us, resistance felt like a story from another life—something girls like me learned to smooth away, like pleats on a saree fresh from the line.

Maybe before, I would have fought back. But three weeks with him had taught me one thing:

Just do as you’re told.

Sometimes I wondered if all Indian brides learned this—the slow, burning pride you swallow, the lessons hidden in silence. But I wasn’t a bride yet. Not really.

Arjun took my hand, amused, weaving his fingers through mine.

His touch was warm, his fingers long—hands that could grip a steering wheel or snap a pencil in two. He brushed his thumb over the back of my hand. I stared at our hands—his skin a little darker, his knuckles scarred from an old school cricket injury.

He leaned into my hair, laughing softly, voice playful:

"This time, you didn’t lose the ring I gave you?"

That schoolboy arrogance still clung to his words, pulling attention and warning all at once—reminding me who had the upper hand.

...

He was talking about the diamond ring on my finger.

There’d been two before—one I hid in the fridge, the other I threw into the colony’s garden fountain.

That fountain, always choked with marigolds and stray coins, had seen more drama than any TV serial. The fridge still had a scratch on the old Tupperware where the ring scraped. My little rebellions always ended the same—Mummy’s anxious face, Kamla’s sideways glances, Arjun’s cold anger.

I don’t want to remember what happened after those rings. As for the third one, it feels inevitable:

I have to marry him—the boy I once feared most.

Marry him.

Even now, the word tastes odd. Like elaichi in my chai—unexpected, a little bitter. I wondered if the city could sense my dread, if the neighbours in the next flat could hear my thoughts through the thin walls. But for my mother, for the world, this was a dream match—Arjun, the business tycoon’s son, and me, the nobody.