"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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Everyone had already finished their breakfast when Shivya came downstairs, but Shaurya sat at the dining table for the second time, filling his plate again just to accompany her so she wouldn’t feel alone.
“Ruh, go call Vedant and bring him here. We need to leave now; we’re getting late.” Shivya stiffened for a moment as she placed the last morsel into her mouth and began chewing slowly.
As soon as she finished her breakfast, she heard footsteps approaching. She didn’t need a second to guess whose they were. Picking up her plate quietly, she slipped into the kitchen.
She set the plate aside and quickly washed her hands. Then she reached for it again, intending to scrub it herself, when she felt a firm tug at its edge.
Her head lifted, and there he was—standing so close that she hadn’t even heard him approach. He held the other side of the plate with a quiet stubbornness that mirrored her own.
She tried to pull it free from his grasp, but his hold did not loosen. Instead, he regarded her calmly. “Vedant, leave the plate. I need to wash it,” she said, her eyes widening in warning.
“You’ve injured your hand,” he replied evenly, his gaze briefly dropping to her hand, still faintly smeared with ointment. “We have a house helper for a reason. They’ll wash it. Let me put it in the sink.”
“I can do it myself. Please go,” she insisted, even though she knew he wasn’t entirely wrong, but she's not listening to him for some reason she didn't know.
Vedant studied the stubborn tilt of her chin, and something softened inside him even as he refused to yield. “I’m not going to let you do that,” he said quietly. “You need to listen to me, or…”
“Or else?” She arched her brows and tilted her face upward to meet his gaze, her fingers tightening around the plate as though it were a shield.
He leaned closer, lowering his face to her level, and tugged the plate just enough to draw her a step toward him. The movement brought her into his proximity—close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.
“You don’t want to know,” he murmured, his voice dipping into a whisper near her ear. She drew back abruptly, her pulse misbehaving in a way that irritated her more than his teasing. “Actually, I do want to know. Tell me.”
“I’ll tie you to our bed and keep you there until your hand gets better,” he replied, mischief glinting in his eyes, though the tenderness behind the jest was unmistakable.
She scoffed, wrapping her indignation around herself like armor. “"Aap aise kuchh sochna bhi mat, muh tod dungi main aapka.”
Don’t even think about something like that. I’ll break your face .
The audacity of her threat startled him for a heartbeat before amusement broke through. An hour ago she had confessed that she feared him, and now she stood before him with fire in her eyes, challenging him with mock ferocity.
