She is… beautiful. Not the loud, look-at-me kind. The kind that stuns you into silence. Her long black hair falls like a sheet down her back, and her black kurti is modest but flattering. Her eyes—dark, wide, uncertain—she scans the lounge until they land on me. And in that instant, I see it.
Fear. Nervousness. Like she’s walking toward a firing squad, not a fiancé. I rise slightly as she approaches and motion to the seat across from me.
“I’m so sorry,” she starts, breathless. “The hotel is massive, and I couldn’t find anyone to ask for directions. I—"
“It’s okay, Shivani,” I cut in, my voice coming out softer than I planned. Her eyes widen with surprise, as if she were expecting me to bite her head off.
She sits down slowly, hands clasped in her lap, obediently, shoulders hunched as if trying to make herself smaller.
Silence creeps between us. She doesn’t speak. I don’t either. I’m not good at this—conversations, small talk, whatever this is supposed to be.
My eyes flicker to my watch, and a wave of irritation crawls on my neck. Five minutes of nothing. I have a meeting in an hour. This needs to move.
“Listen,” I begin, leaning forward so she knows I’m serious. “I don’t know what your expectations are from this marriage. I’m not going to give you grand romantic gestures or fairy tales. What I can give you is respect. Loyalty. I’ll never humiliate you or make you feel like you don’t belong. Once we’re married, you’re mine, and I don’t share anything that's mine.”
Her eyes dart up at my bluntness. Shock flickers in her eyes. But I continue anyway. “I mean it. If you have someone else in your life, you can walk away now. I won’t stop you. But if you try anything after marriage, I won’t take it lightly. And trust me—I’m not someone you want to make an enemy of. I don’t forgive, and I sure as hell don't forget.”
She looks scared. Good. I want her to understand—I don’t share. She has to understand this: that if she chooses to marry me, she belongs to me.
“Do you get it?” I ask, my tone firm.
“Yes, sir,” she whispers.
Sir? Did she just call me sir?
“It’s Rudraksh for you,” I tell her. “You’re going to be my wife. You have the right to call me by my name.”
Silence again basks over us, and again, she stares into her lap. Clearly gathering courage to say something.
Then, so quietly I barely catch it, she says, “I’ll always be yours if you marry me. But… you shouldn’t marry me.”
I lean forward, confused. “Why would you say that?”
She hesitates. I watch her, trying to read her expression. I know she doesn’t have any scandalous history—no past relationships, no drama. She’s got good academics, no disciplinary issues, and, most importantly, Ma likes her. Ma always knows what’s right for me. Her throat moves as she swallows. She still doesn’t meet my eyes.
“I could give you a list,” Shivani says with a bitter laugh.
Something’s not right. My brows furrow at her words, and I push myself more on the table.
“What do you mean? Do you like someone else? If you do, now’s the time to tell me. You won’t get a chance to back out once we’re at the mandap.”
“No,” she says quickly. “But… have you seen me?”
She finally looks at me—and what I see cracks something in me. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, her face etched with defeat.
“I’m not what you need, Rudraksh. I’m not strong, or confident, or beautiful. I don’t belong beside someone like you.” Her words waver as she casts down her eyes and takes a deep breath before continuing.
“You walk into a room and own it. I walk in and hope no one sees me. I’ll never be able to match you. I’ll always be behind you, and people will look at us and wonder what you ever saw in me.” She pauses but doesn't look at me. “What I am trying to say is you need someone who can walk beside you. I’ll always walk behind you.”
Her words aren’t loud, but they land like punches. And worse—she believes every one of them.
“You clearly know nothing about me,” I say, scoffing. My hand moves of its own accord before I even know what is happening.
My index finger and thumb pinch her chin in a gentle grip, and I pull her face up. Her eyes widen with surprise, and I continue my words. “If I didn’t think you were worthy of me, I wouldn’t be marrying you. And if you think I care about looks, you’re wrong.” I hold her gaze.
“And confidence isn’t something you’re born with. You build it—by facing your fears, by showing up even when you're scared. It takes time and effort.”
Her lips tremble. She bites her bottom lip, and for some reason, it stirs something in me. Sympathy? No—I don’t do sympathy.
