On the other side? Kashvi, Ishika, and a brigade of mischievous women. The chaos was deafening.
And me? I was helpless. On a white mare, no less. Like some confused prince in an overly dramatic Bollywood flick. No idea how the horse didn’t buck me off mid-dholbeats.
But now we’re finally here—and Kash won’t let me in.
“You want the ribbon cut?” Ishika smirks. “Pay up.”
“Just do it, man,” Vikram laughs from behind her. Advik is busy next to him tying a tinier ribbon to the scissors’ handle making a bow out of it—andfailing.
Liam’s being entirely useless in calming Kash. Karina and Isaac are recording a video. His sister Emma is laughing like this is her favorite rom-com. I’m trying not to fucking panic.
I need to get inside. I need toseeher. Do the wholevarmalathing. Call her my wife in front of everyone.
Yeah, yeah—we aretechnicallyalready married. Signed the papers in Vancouver two weeks ago. But I wantthis. The fulldesichaos. The promises. The prayers.
But the goddamnribbon.
“Two hundred thousand rupees,” I say, sighing dramatically. “And the scissors are mine. I’m cutting that damn ribbon.”
“What?No!”My dad barks from somewhere behind me. And I know it’s not because of the damn money. He’s been instructed by Mina Aunty to make a half-ass protest.
“It’s fine! Let the boy go inside,” my mom says calmly. Honestly, she’s been moreRohi’smom than mine these past few months, so her loyalty barely checks out.
But she’s right. I need to see her. I haven’t seen Rohi since last night, and I’mantsy.
A little. Okay,a lot.
After a ruthless negotiation—more likeextortionby Kash, I’m finally inside, and on the stage.
Liam is at my side, handing me water and Coke like he’s my best man and pit crew all in one.
It’s beenthirty minutes.And still—no sign of her.
Will she show up?
God, I hope so.
Will Kash actuallykidnapher?
I really hope not. But if she tries, I hope my Rohi fights her off. Orbitesher. Either works.
Out ofsheer necessityand spiraling panic, I dig my phone out of mysherwani. This damn thing weighs as much as a small child. The turban? Mostly sweat at this point. But I can’t take it off—I’ll look like Gollum on my wedding day. And that’s a memory no one needs.
I open our chat.
Me: Where are you?
Delete. Sounds too aggressive.
Me: When will you walk—
Delete. I hate myself.
Then I grin and type the one message I know she won’t resist:
Me: Congratulations! It’s your wedding day. Your groom is breathlessly waiting for you on the stage. He’s the one in a cream sherwani with red and gold embroidery.
Reply YES to join him or YES to join him right freaking now.
