The Billionaire's Childhood Bride

The red and gold dupatta felt like a heavy, glittering prison. Khushi Kumari Gupta, all of ten years old with ink-stained fingers and a missing front tooth, sat cross-legged on the plush velvet cushions of the Shantivan drawing room. Across the sacred fire, looking equally miserable in a stiff, embroidered sherwani that pinched his neck, sat Arnav Singh Raizada.

To the pandit chanting mantras, they were participating in an ancient, binding union arranged by their families to seal a lifelong business alliance. To the adults, it was a grand decree of destiny.

To Khushi and Arnav, it was the absolute worst way to spend a Saturday afternoon when they both could have been outside eating jalebis or playing cricket.

When the ritual required them to exchange garlands, Khushi didn't offer a shy, cinematic smile. She aggressively shoved the marigold circle over Arnav's head, nearly knocking him off balance.

"If you tell anyone I cried because I scraped my knee yesterday, I'm telling everyone you still sleep with your superhero comic books," Khushi whispered fiercely, her eyes narrowed in a silent threat.

Arnav caught the garland, his jaw tight as he jammed his own floral offering over her braids with equal hostility. "I don't care about your stupid knee, and I definitely don't read comic books. Move your foot, you're stepping on my hem."

They were forced to take the seven steps around the fire hand-in-hand, two angry, petulant children dragging their feet through a script written by adults who thought they were being clever. When the elders cheered and showered them with flower petals, Khushi muttered under her breath, "When I grow up, I'm divorcing you."

"Good," Arnav snapped right back, looking away with a scowl. "I was going to file the papers first."

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