That’s my cue to end the call. I don’t want to hear whatever happens next. I crave what they have. I just don’t know if I’ll ever have it. I don’t think I can trust anyone again.
When I click open the picture my mother sent, I’m genuinely surprised by how beautiful she is. Slowly, I trace my thumb on the screen. Shivani has deep brown eyes, and her black hair cascades down her small frame like a waterfall. She carries herself gracefully in the white kurti she’s wearing, its intricate embroidery highlighting her delicate features. Her smile lights up the photo—but there’s an emptiness in her eyes. Or maybe I’m just imagining it.
I’m analytical by nature—but even I can admit, she looks like a goddess.
But my admiration fades just as quickly, and usual skepticism returns. I can’t let my guard down. No, that cannot happen. Not even for a pretty face. The past taught me one thing—trust isn’t strength, it’s weakness. It’s a risk I can’t afford.
Later in the day, I call my tech team and give them her details. “I want every bit of information you can find on her,” I say.
Let’s see if you really are as sweet and kind as my mother claims, Shivani.
02
SHIVANI
“I told you not to eat that pastry yesterday. Now look—this dress is tight.” My mother sighs in disappointment as she glares at my reflection in the mirror.
"You can’t get any fatter, Shivani. You have to impress the groom.” She stops speaking, gives me another glance, and then shakes her head.
“Who’s going to like you if you look like this?” She questions me with disappointment and disgust, and instead of saying something, I stay quiet. I don’t want her to hit me. I’m twenty-two—an adult. But that doesn’t stop her from using force or violence on me.
Earlier, these words used to make me cry. But now… they just settle inside me like a heavy stone. I’m used to it now.
“I don’t know what I did wrong to have a daughter with a body like yours.” She passes another comment, and she says it so casually, like it’s normal. But it’s not. It hurts.
"It was a mistake having you. I wish you were never born." She mutters it under her breath, like she’s talking to herself, but I hear it. My head snaps to where she is standing, pain building in my stomach. Every word lands like a punch.
My eyes travel to my reflection in the mirror—a young woman with a broken spirit. My mother’s constant criticism has chipped away at my self-worth.
Sometimes, I try to see myself differently, to believe I look good... but her voice always creeps in, drowning out every kind thing I try to say to myself. She has taken away my everything.
I’m fat. I have stretch marks. My hair is thinning, and at this rate, I’ll be bald in a year or two. Nothing about me feels good enough; I am not beautiful like others. Maybe she’s right.
Yesterday, I met Rudraksh’s mother. She seemed kind—at least on the surface. I’ve seen what people are like when others are watching. They hide behind their facade. Even my own mother wears a sweet, caring mask in public and becomes a monster behind closed doors.
I just hope, for my own sanity, that my future mother-in-law is truly kind.
Yesterday, when my mom commented in front of her that I’ve "gained a little weight," I wanted the ground to swallow me. But my to-be mother-in-law stepped in with a smile and said, "She’s absolutely gorgeous." Her words, not mine. And her sudden compliment surprised me; not only that, but it also shut my mom up instantly. For a fleeting moment, I felt something unfamiliar—hope.
But a name puts a full stop on my thoughts.
Rudraksh Malhotra.
I’m not ready to meet Rudraksh yet; I know I have to. But I’m scared. Nervous. Slowly, I caress down the dress I am wearing with my shaky hands.
It’s not like he’ll bite me, but still...
After the engagement was discussed, I googled him. Photos flooded the screen. Rudraksh Malhotra. He’s... handsome. I’ll admit that. Brown eyes that look like they see everything but reveal nothing. Sharp jawline. Chiseled features. Muscular build.
He looks like he was carved from stone. But there’s something in his eyes—cold, distant.
Unapproachable. And I can’t help but wonder what he’s really like beneath that intimidating exterior. Why does he look so cold? Is it just a photo, or is that really him?
Now, in just a few minutes, I’ll be meeting him face-to-face. What if he’s cruel like my mother? What if he sees me and changes his mind? Or worse, agrees just to humiliate me later. My father will kill me if that happens.
I glance at myself in the mirror. Mother made me wear a plain black suit with a matching dupatta embroidered with delicate Chikankari work. I actually like it. But not the reason she picked it for. According to her, black makes me look thinner. And thinner means more attractive. She is doing this so that my soon-to-be husband likes me, but will he really?
Ignoring every thought with a small shake of my head and a deep breath, I began working on my hair. I style my hair the usual way—open, no fancy tricks. Minimal makeup. Just eyeliner, kajal, and a small black bindi.
