Chapter 1: Return to the Proposal

My maid impersonated me, secretly fell in love with Arjun—who was temporarily staying at our family’s bungalow in Delhi—and ended up pregnant.

The news still stings even in memory, as if someone had poured a bucket of icy water down my back on a biting December morning in Delhi, leaving my skin prickling and my heart numb. It’s strange, the things that linger—the taste of stale chai on my tongue, the swirl of winter mist curling beyond the bungalow gates, the distant clang of steel plates in the kitchen, and the muted roar of traffic past the colony’s iron gate.

Arjun, the pride of our extended Sharma clan, had topped the UPSC exams and later arrived at our home to propose marriage. My father, delighted, gave his consent without hesitation.

The house buzzed like a Delhi market before Diwali—servants polishing silver trays, marigold and bougainvillea garlands trailing from our own garden, and my father radiating pride in his crisp new Nehru jacket. He played host with the seriousness of a veteran politician, every gesture precise, every word laced with both gravitas and hospitality.

In despair, the maid threw herself into the colony’s well. Two lives were lost in one body.

For weeks, whispers rippled through the colony. Someone placed a garland on the well’s ancient brick rim; women in the servants’ quarters forbade their children from wandering near it. I saw my mother rise at dawn to light a diya for Neha, her eyes rimmed red, though she’d never confess to mourning a maid aloud.

On our wedding night, Arjun discovered I was not the woman he truly loved. His face remained calm, but I saw the storm behind his careful words and cold gaze. That night’s tension hung thick as the city’s smog—his sentences clipped, his eyes hard. Even now, I can smell the lingering agarbatti from the evening’s puja, a fragrance that never quite left our rooms.

For the next ten years, he leveraged my father’s network to rise fast. On the surface, he treated me with the gentleness of a perfect husband, but when a corruption scandal struck our family, he struck us down without mercy. My father was executed on false charges, and my family was exiled from Delhi’s heart.

Our disgrace blared across the front pages. Our phones rang without pause—old friends offering hollow condolences. My mother clung to her prayer beads, reciting the Hanuman Chalisa at dawn, but the gods seemed deaf. The Delhi winter that year felt crueler than ever.

Under Arjun’s torment, I was thrown into an icy pond and left to drown in the coldest Delhi winter.

The water’s chill clamped around my bones. I remember the scream trapped in my throat, the blurry shimmer of colony streetlamps as I slipped under.

When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day he came to our house to propose marriage.

1

The chill of death still clawed at my skin as I sat before the mirror, my face pale, teeth chattering softly. My reflection was delicate, haunted, but my mind churned with a single, sharp thought: how to destroy Arjun.

My hands trembled as I adjusted my dupatta, smoothing its edge across my shoulder. The familiar clatter of Gopal trimming the hedges drifted in from outside, anchoring me to the present. But inside, I was no longer the naive Priya of before—I was awake, alert, and dangerous.

I knew he would come today to propose.

The air in the bungalow was taut with expectation. Even the maids whispered, pausing with half-washed plates and damp sarees as each horn sounded in the driveway.

With great fanfare, as if determined the whole world should witness it.

Already, Mrs. Mehra and Mrs. D’Souza were calling to confirm the time for tea, eager to see the union of two prominent Delhi families. The drawing room gleamed, the best tea set ready. Gossip swirled in every corner.

Everyone said the new UPSC topper had fallen for the politician’s daughter at first sight—what a match!

Aunties on their balconies speculated about wedding dates and honeymoon destinations, their voices floating down like lines from a TV serial. “Such a good match, hai na?” I could almost hear them.

But in truth, the one he noticed first was my maid, Neha.

Neha—quiet, nimble, always with a gentle smile for the old watchman, a soft hand for my nephews. Who would have guessed?

Arjun and I, both Sharmas by distant blood, so when he came for the exams, he stayed with us as tradition demanded.

My mother made sure he ate every meal with us. My father discussed politics with him over breakfast, the cook served him extra parathas. Even in a busy household, Arjun was treated as one of our own.

My father admired his talent and treated him with deep respect.

I still see them in the verandah after dinner—my father regaling Arjun with stories from his youth, always ending with, “Aap jaise ladkon se hi desh ka bhavishya hai.”

My eldest brother bragged about him at the club, certain he’d be the topper.

He’d say, “That Sharma boy, Arjun, mark my words, first rank lega!” Our family pride grew by the day.

Neha became interested, impersonated me, and approached him more than once.

She’d drape my dupatta, wear my bangles. Sneha, the other maid, would giggle behind her hand, but I paid no mind then. Now, every detail stung—like red sindoor against white.

Their love was quick and secret—a classic Delhi story. Hidden glances, whispered words near the back gate, small gifts passed under everyone’s noses. In a joint family, no secret stays hidden for long.

I had no deep feelings for Arjun, but this was an excellent match: a UPSC topper, my father’s blessing, his future limitless.

Such matches are rare—like finding a front-row seat at the Republic Day parade. My mother’s friends would have envied me for years.

Besides, his family was poor, with only an old mother at home. He would depend on us; no one would dare mistreat me.

It meant security, respect, and endless possibilities. This is what girls are raised to want—a powerful alliance, a safe future.

So when my parents asked, I nodded quietly. No drama, no hesitation. My father’s eyes shone with pride. My mother lit a lamp at the mandir, whispering for my happiness.

But this time, when Aunty Radha—my mother’s trusted matron—came to fetch me, she said, “Young Master Arjun wishes to marry Neha, the maid by your side. Madam says you may decide.”

Her gold bangles jingled, but her face was grave. For a moment I thought I’d misheard. But the truth was clear—this life was different. Arjun had returned too.

And so had I.