the love story of a girl who fallen for a man who born in family wealth. The love word is forbidden for her.
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"I love you, Zoya," he said while looking at her face with unknown emotions.
She couldn't believe it. It felt like a dream, but...
The Surayvanshi House buzzed with the noise of servants decorating the mansion for the Karva Chauth festival, which is traditionally celebrated by married women.
Bright marigold garlands hung from the pillars, fairy lights blinked like stars along the balconies, and the aroma of fresh sweets and incense floated in the air. The women of the house, dressed in colorful sarees, moved around giving instructions. Amidst all this, Geetanjali stood near the window of her room, quietly watching the preparations.
Her hands held a red karva chauth thali decorated with mehendi, sweets, and a small sieve. Her face looked calm, but her eyes held a storm of emotions.
Two years had passed in a marriage that only existed in name. And yet, today, like every married woman in the household, she had fasted—for the same husband who had never once looked at her with love.
Her hands were adorned with Karva Chauth mehndi, but the color spoke more than just tradition—it reflected the truth of her life. The faded, dull stain wasn’t just on her skin… it was a silent mirror of her lifeless marriage, a bond that had never truly begun.
Geetanjali came out of her thoughts chain went to get ready for the Karva Chauth Puja.
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Geetanjali adjusted her dupatta and got ready for the Karva Chauth puja, her eyes carrying a silent strength behind the kohl. She stepped out of her room, her thali in hand, ready to help with the arrangements.
Downstairs, the Surayvanshi Mansion was alive with colors, lights, and preparations. Sajal, her mother-in-law, stood at the center of it all—graceful and commanding, instructing the servants with her usual authority.
"Phool ache se sajao! Sab kuch perfect dikhna chahiye!" ("Decorate the flowers properly! Everything should look perfect!")Sajal ordered, her voice sharp but focused.
In another corner of the hall, Vidhya sat beside Vikram, adjusting his kurta collar lovingly, ensuring her little son looked perfect for the festive evening. She smiled, but even her eyes showed signs of tiredness—like she was forcing happiness for the sake of the occasion.
Geetanjali quietly joined in, arranging diyas along the entrance and helping the younger girls in decorating the thalis. Her movements were careful, her silence louder than words.
Nobody noticed how her eyes occasionally searched for Abhimanyu, who still hadn’t returned home.
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