When Aarav Kapoor, a shrewd businessman born into wealth, and Aanya Mehra, an ambitious architect returning to India, are thrust into an arranged marriage, neither is prepared for the secrets beneath their union. What begins as a reluctant compromis...
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As I stepped into the Mehra residence, I was greeted by the warmth of traditional Indian hospitality. The house was adorned with marigolds and twinkling lights, the scent of freshly prepared snacks wafting through the air. Yet, my mind wasn't entirely here—it was still stuck on her.
The girl from the airport.
I didn't know her name, but I couldn't forget her. The way she'd glared at me when we'd collided, her defiance, the spark in her eyes—it wasn't something I experienced often. My world was one of calculated decisions and predictable outcomes, yet she had been a complete anomaly.
And then, as if the universe was playing a joke, her face had appeared in a photograph Maaji showed me last night. "This is Aanya," she had said, her voice filled with approval.
Aanya.
Something about the coincidence—if it could even be called that—had sent a jolt through me. I wasn't a man who believed in fate or destiny, but this? This felt different.
Now, standing in her home, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was exactly where I was meant to be.
"Beta, come sit," my mother said, gesturing to a seat beside her. She was in full charm mode, discussing family traditions and wedding arrangements with the Mehras.
I glanced at her, offering a polite smile. "Maaji, if it's alright, I have some urgent work. Can we wrap this up quickly?"
My mother gave me a sharp look but nodded. "Alright, Aarav. But at least stay long enough to meet Aanya properly."
"Of course," I said, adjusting my cufflinks.
As I settled on the couch, my eyes wandered over the room, absorbing the cosy chaos of the Mehra family. It was a stark contrast to the sterile elegance of my world. They laughed loudly, their conversations overlapping, their affection for each other palpable. It reminded me of a life I hadn't experienced in years, perhaps ever.
Then, she walked in.
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The lilac saree clung to her in soft waves, the fabric shimmering under the light. Her hair was loosely tied, strands framing her face, and her hesitant steps spoke of nerves she was trying to mask.
