"Happy Married Life, Shivya Pathak" I weakly smiled seeing my condition, mangalsutra dangling in my neck, vermilion in hair and both hands filled with gold bangles.
"Come out quickly or do you want me to break the gate," my husband knocked again...
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Play Dooron Dooron by Paresh Pahuja in background
HaPpY ReAdInG 💋✨
Shivya sighed softly as another gust of wind brushed her face. Her saree's pallu fluttered across her arm, and she tucked it back with fingers that trembled slightly.
"Are you feeling cold?" Vedant's voice broke the silence, deep and steady, carrying that familiar calm that had the power to still everything around it. He set his cup down, empty now, the clink of porcelain barely audible against the verandah's stone. "You could have sat on the chair instead of sitting here with me on the floor."
A loose strand of her hair caught in the wind, gliding across her cheek like a whisper. She brushed it back with a small smile that seemed almost unaware of itself, soft and fleeting - the kind that could undo a man if he wasn't careful.
Vedant looked at her at that exact moment. His eyes, usually so composed, faltered. For a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe. The light curved against her features, painting the quiet strength of her face, the curve of her mouth, the unguarded warmth in her eyes.
He forced himself to look away. His jaw tightened imperceptibly, his gaze fixing on the courtyard ahead. He rubbed his palms together as if chasing away the sudden restlessness that had taken hold of him.
He wondered briefly, dangerously - what it might feel like to replace her fingers with his own, to tuck that same rebellious strand behind her ear. The thought came uninvited, unplanned, and he exhaled slowly, steadying himself.
His voice was calm when he spoke again. "And why couldn't you?"
Shivya hesitated "Because..." she began, her voice thin and unsteady, like she was afraid of breaking the stillness. "Because it's yours."
He didn't respond immediately. Vedant had a way of listening that was both unnerving and comforting - as though he could hear what she wasn't saying.
"You're the one who listens to the people," she continued, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of her saree where it draped over her lap. "You make the decisions, you hold the authority. That seat-it has power. I don't..."
He leaned slightly toward her, the shift in his posture almost imperceptible. His voice deepened, steady but edged with something that made her pulse quicken. "You don't what?"
His brows furrowed, not in irritation but in a quiet challenge - the kind that asked for honesty.
She dropped her gaze, her voice barely a whisper. "I don't think I belong there."
"It's not about deserving," she added after a moment, her tone tinged with quiet resignation. "It's just... it's yours."
Her eyes flickered toward the chair a few feet away - dark wood, carved arms, the seat polished by years of his presence. It seemed to carry a certain gravity, a reflection of him - of the man who sat there and listened, decided, led.
