Chapter 3: Secrets and Suspicions

Arjun and I were college sweethearts.

We met at Pune University during fresher’s orientation, the air thick with petrichor and the smell of filter coffee from the canteen. He wore a faded kurta, a stack of library books balanced in his arms, looking more poet than businessman.

Three years of dating meant bun maska at the canteen, filter coffee always too sweet, and our laughter echoing across rain-washed corridors. We’d split vada pavs, claim to be broke, and hide from the world in the library’s dusty silence.

He worked part-time in the library, helping lost students find reference books, always sneaking me extra time with my borrowed novels. He’d walk me back to the hostel, umbrella in hand during monsoons, careful never to cross any line.

Arjun always acted broke—no fancy gifts, just Dairy Milk bars or little notes tucked into my books. I loved that simplicity.

It wasn’t until graduation, when marriage talks began, that I learned he came from serious money. One evening, he let it slip over the phone—something about his family’s textile business. My heart skipped, but I tried to play it cool.

Meeting his parents was nerve-wracking. I stood outside their sprawling Greater Kailash home, clutching my dupatta, checking my kolhapuri chappals for scuffs, wondering if my middle-class roots were showing.

Delhi’s elite have their own standards for bahus. I could almost hear my hostel mates: “Rich families always want fair, convent-educated girls, na?”

But to my surprise, Arjun’s parents liked me. His mother pressed a warm ladoo into my palm and called me ‘beta’—the first time Delhi society made me feel like I belonged.

Turns out, the Malhotras believed in old-school values. They only gave Arjun a small allowance through college, wanting him to learn struggle before inheriting the family empire. I respected that.

They seemed almost proud that I’d dated him for who he was, not what he had.

I remember his mother telling my Dadi over chai, "Meera is a simple, good-hearted girl, just what we hoped for."

It felt like every childhood prayer at the temple, every diya I’d ever lit, had come true at once.

Until, on the eve of our wedding, I overheard Arjun and his friends talking, their laughter and low voices drifting down the corridor as I searched for my dupatta.

Those three—Kunal, Kabir, and Amit—were more brothers than friends, each with his own story and stake in Arjun’s life.

Kunal, always in a sharp suit and a cheeky grin, ran jewellery stores in Karol Bagh. Kabir, the dreamy artist, always had paint on his fingers and a sketchbook under his arm. Amit, the lawyer, quoted Supreme Court judgments and made sure everyone knew it—his father had been an MLA.

“Kunal, is this the girlfriend you dated for three years?”

“She looks like she’s from an ordinary family—are you sure she’s not after your money?”

Kunal’s tone was sharp, almost taunting. I could picture his raised eyebrow, the half-smile.

Arjun sounded tired. “You know my parents only gave me ₹10,000 a month. How could she be after my money?”

Kabir’s quiet voice cut in: “Arjun, weren’t you in the papers a few times? What if she knew your identity and approached you on purpose?”

“Kabir, why are you joining in? Meera isn’t like that.” Kabir just smiled, lost in his sketches.

Amit’s voice was all lawyer—measured, precise. “You can’t be too careful. For families like ours, property disputes are the real danger. Sign a prenup. Control her finances. My dad lost crores this way.”

A chill ran down my spine, my hand tightening around my dupatta as I pressed myself against the wall, heart pounding. Their words tasted bitter, but I tried to convince myself they were only protecting him.

But I believed Arjun knew me—our late-night study sessions, whispered secrets, dreams spun in dusty libraries. Surely, he trusted me?

Yet the next morning, Arjun slid a prenuptial agreement across the breakfast table, his eyes refusing to meet mine. My heart plummeted.