Chapter 1: The Olive Bar & Kitchen Crowd

Rohan Malhotra was the kind of Delhi boy you spotted the moment you walked into Olive Bar & Kitchen in Mehrauli. The clink of glasses and laughter rolled over the old stone walls, the faint aroma of truffle fries curling through the air as the city’s most glamorous crowd orbited around him. Waiters addressed him as 'sir' with an extra hint of deference, lingering at his table a second longer, knowing he tipped like royalty. His laughter—warm, throaty, always a bit too loud—carried across the courtyard, drawing eyes and whispers.

People spoke of Rohan’s charm with the reverence usually reserved for old film stars. He had that effortless way of making every girl feel like she was the only one in the world—at least for a little while. His reputation was as worn-in as the expensive watches on his wrist: generous, attentive, always ready with a thoughtful gift or a late-night call. But when it came to shaadi, he drew the line. Even the strictest mami at weddings couldn’t get a promise out of him—Rohan Malhotra never talked marriage, no matter how close things got. After his first heartbreak, the story went, his heart had stayed stuck somewhere in the past, and no girl since had managed to nudge him closer to the mandap or mangalsutra.

He treated every girlfriend like royalty, gave them anything they wanted—except the one thing that truly mattered.

The girls who dated him went home with stories: dreamy dates at Khan Market, midnight ice-cream runs, extravagant gifts delivered to their door. But when the conversation turned to rishta, he’d grow quiet, gaze drifting away. It had become a running joke among his friends: Rohan would go to any lengths for his girlfriends, except the one that truly counted.

Everyone knew he still couldn’t let go after breaking up with his first love. He just couldn’t take that last step with anyone else.

Among his set, people still remembered Ananya. She was the only one who’d ever glimpsed the real Rohan, the only one who’d received a ring. Every girl after her was just a gentle echo—a stand-in for a love he couldn’t forget, no matter how much he tried to pretend.

In the fifth month of being with him, my family started putting on the pressure. With no other choice, I said goodbye: “I heard your first love is coming back too. Congratulations.”

My mother had begun dropping hints about 'nice boys' from church, and every Sunday, my aunt would call: “Beta, any good news? When are you bringing him home for tea?” That evening, as shadows stretched across Lajpat Nagar, I finally gathered the courage to end it. My words felt like pebbles in my mouth, but I tried to keep my voice light, hoping he wouldn’t see how much it hurt.

He smiled and said, “Hmm.”

He looked at me, that trademark half-smile on his face—never quite reaching his eyes. For a moment, I wondered if he’d try to stop me, say something that would make me stay. But he just nodded, like he was agreeing with some silent logic only he understood.