Love isn't supposed to be this complicated- at least, that's what Manya thought before Sarth entered her life.
She's fiercely independent, and he's the infuriatingly charming guy who knows how to push her buttons.
Their connection? Intense, messy...
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The morning sun slants through the window, casting a golden hue on the unfamiliar surroundings. I blink disoriented, and it all comes flowing back in a rushed breeze-the wedding, the vows, and the suffocating weight of my new identity.
Mrs. Sarth Rathore.
I sit up rubbing my temples. Last night I lay awake on the bed as my mind wandered off to a thousand places at once. I don't remember falling asleep though, the exhaustion might have caught on me at some point along the lonely night. The room is still pretty much gray, even with the sunlight illuminating some of it, or trying to, but now it feels less like a showroom and more like a prison cell. The neatly made up bed is a stark contrast to my chaotic mood.I turned to the other side where he should have been, only to find it as empty as it had been the entire night.
It's not been more than a few hours since the wedding and Sarth has already slipped away leaving no trace of his presence.
As if on cue, the door creaks open, he paces inside the room and leisurely leans against the bedpost. His eyes lock onto mine and there's a glint in them- amusement and... something darker. I pull the sheets closer, a bit more aware of my disheveled appearance. My hair must be a mess, and the borrowed nightgown clings awkwardly to my frame.
"Good morning, wife," he drawls, emphasizing the word with a hint of sarcasm. "Did you sleep well?"
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. "As well as one can on their wedding night," I reply, my voice sharper than intended.
He straightens, pushing away from the bedpost. " My mother will be arriving soon."
His mother? Panic flares within me. What kind of impression have I made? I'm not exactly the epitome of a dutiful bride. "Your mother?" I manage to ask, my heart racing.
"Yes, Mrs. Rathore," he says, emphasizing the title. "She's eager to meet her new daughter-in-law."
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, aware of how vulnerable I am. "What should I call her?" I ask, my mind racing through the etiquette lessons I'd half-heartedly attended.
"Ma," he replies, and for a moment, his expression softens. "She's not as intimidating as she seems."
I doubt that. But I nod, trying to appear composed. "And what are my duties as Mrs. Rathore?" I ask, half-jokingly.
He steps closer, and I can smell the faint traces of his cologne. "Well," he says, his voice low, "you'll be expected to attend social events, smile for the cameras, and play the perfect wife."
I raise an eyebrow. "And what about showering my dear husband with love?" I challenge. "Is that part of the package?"
His lips curve into a bitter smile. "Love is a luxury we can't afford," he says. "Our marriage is a merger, remember?"
