Chapter 3: Childhood Sweethearts, War-Time Rivals

The Sharma and Mehra families had been inseparable for generations.

Our family albums overflow with grainy black-and-white photos: both sets of grandparents smiling on the Willingdon Club lawns, sari pallus flying in the sea breeze, men with hair slicked back drinking Rooh Afza at summer picnics. Everyone said it was inevitable—Ananya Sharma and Rohan Mehra were destined to end up together.

Rohan and I were childhood sweethearts—at least, on paper.

But this infuriating man always seemed to look down on my carefree, pampered ways.

Whenever I partied and drank, he’d sit in the corner, frowning as if I was single-handedly bringing shame to the family name.

Whenever I laughed with friends, his face would darken like a monsoon cloud about to burst.

Tch, who cares if he likes me? The queue of men chasing after me could reach from here to Delhi.

It was true—my Instagram DMs overflowed with heart emojis, and at every college fest, I was crowned queen, sometimes literally. Even the waiter at Indigo Deli once tried a filmi line on me.

So when our families announced the engagement, I wasn’t even surprised.

The Sharma Group and the Mehra Group—giants of the renewable energy world—joining hands. My father called it, “Beta, the biggest merger since Tata-Birla.”

It was less about love, more about business. I didn’t particularly care for anyone else anyway; marrying whoever was all the same to me.

Still, I made a show of sulking, just to needle Rohan, acting as if I was being forced.

But I never expected him to be even more ruthless—he confronted his father at a family Diwali dinner.

It was right after the Lakshmi puja, with the whole family biting into laddoos and exchanging gold coins. Rohan’s eyes smouldered as he said, “I don’t agree to this marriage. Don’t force me.”

His words were cold, but he stood tall, defiant—a different kind of fire.

Impressive. He’d rather burn bridges than marry me?

Besides, Rohan had started his own company with college friends, so he wasn’t dependent on his father. He had the means to rebel.

His mother had passed away early, and his father couldn’t control him at all.

If he hadn’t crashed his brain racing, this marriage might have dragged on until I hit forty.

Uncle Sharma got anxious and pulled me aside, his urgency sharper than a stockbroker’s voice during a market crash.

“Ananya, while he’s still not himself, hurry up and get pregnant. Thirty crores, straight into your account.”

He spoke with the speed of someone chasing a hot tip. “Samjhi na, beta? Don’t overthink. Do this, and you’ll never have to depend on anyone again.”

Rohan’s face, that body—just sleeping with him once would be a blessing, and I’d get thirty crores on top of it?

What’s not to like?

Most importantly… when he returns to normal and finds out I slept with him, his face will be priceless.

Just thinking about it made me want to laugh out loud. That smug look, wiped off his face for once. Ha! I’ll never let him forget it.