Nirvaan Singh Rathod

That girl is absolutely insane—completely. Even now, I can't stop replaying our conversation from two weeks ago. She actually thought I was suggesting an open marriage. I mean, seriously? Does she think life is some sort of Bollywood drama? If there's one thing I know, it's that I would be utterly loyal to her for life. That's non-negotiable.

And as if that wasn't ridiculous enough, she somehow assumed I'd expect her to clean that massive villa I bought. The villa I specifically put in her name—not for show, but because she needs financial security. She doesn't realize it yet, but her position with her family is tenuous at best. Sure, she has the freedom to spend as she likes now, but that's entirely dependent on their whims. The moment they decide, they could cut her off without hesitation.

The family shares haven't even been distributed among the younger generation, and that's exactly why I've been holding back from diving into their business. She's vulnerable—she just doesn't see it. I bought that property to give her stability, something solid to fall back on. If anything ever happened to me, at least she'd have a safety net.

She doesn't realize how long it will take for her to establish herself as an architect. Success in that field doesn't come overnight. Until then, she needs assets, protection, and independence—things she won't have if she continues to take her current situation for granted. But no, instead of seeing the thought behind my actions, she's busy jumping to the wildest conclusions about me.

"Sir, here are the papers," Akshat said as he stepped into my room, holding a neatly bound file. I gave him a brief nod, gesturing toward the desk for him to place them down. I was still dressed in a simple orange kurta and beige pants from the Ganesh Sthapana earlier in the day, but soon, I'd have to change for the Tilak ceremony.

"I'll go through them now and have Mr. Rajsekhar Shekhawat sign these later," I said, glancing at the papers as Akshat nodded respectfully before leaving the room.

These documents were important—crucial, actually. They ensured that I would only step into managing their business on one condition: that my wife would receive a fixed share of the family assets.

She might not realize it now, but this is for her protection. Their promises mean nothing without legal backing, and I'll be damned if I let her future hang on the whims of her family's generosity—or lack thereof. This isn't just about business. It's about securing what's rightfully hers.

I am a businessman, and I never make a move that doesn't benefit me. It's the core principle of survival in this world. I know that old man, Rajsekhar Shekhawat, won't agree to my terms easily. His pride will make sure of that. But, ironically, he needs this deal more than I do.

His sons? Let's be honest—they don't have the vision or the drive to match the young, ambitious minds who are itching to outmaneuver them in the business world. And politics? It might get you a seat at the table, but it won't keep you there forever.

He'll resist, argue, maybe even try to negotiate, but I know his desperation will eventually tip the scales. This isn't just business for me; it's chess, and I'm already three moves ahead.

Bhai, you've still not changed? Hurry up, Sekhawats are here!" Ivaan's voice echoed through the room as he walked in unannounced, dropping himself onto the sofa with an air of nonchalance. I sighed, tucking the file carefully into the closet and locking it away before moving to change into the embroidered kurta salwar set.

The house is buzzing with activity. Ivaan, Dadu, and even Yug and Yash are busy coordinating everything. Everyone's excited, running around like it's their own wedding. It's been years since our house has been decorated so extravagantly, and it's a whirlwind of colors and traditions.

Dad... he looks genuinely happy. The in his eyes when he talks about Nivya becoming my wife—it's something I haven't seen in years. It's like the entire family is in sync for once. The distant relatives have also started arriving, adding more to the lively chaos. This is what it feels like to be part of a typical Indian wedding, where the house is flooded with love, laughter, and excitement.

After changing, I grabbed my wallet, sliding it into the pocket of my pants, and slipped on my embroidered mules. A quick adjustment to my hair and a spritz of perfume later, I turned toward Ivaan.

"Is the interior design of the new house complete?" I asked, fastening my watch around my wrist.

"Yes, as per your instructions—aligned with Nivya's preferences. But are you sure about it? Her style is more... homely and cozy," he replied, a hint of hesitation in his tone.

I nodded, grabbing my phone and tucking it into another pocket. "What about her things? Have they been moved there?"

"Yeah. Yug even made sure to arrange all your stuff along with hers in the master bedroom," Ivaan confirmed as I shut the door behind me.

I nodded at Ivaan and walked toward the lift. As expected, many male members of her family were present. After the pooja, Nivya's father stepped forward, performing the tilak ritual. Following him, Revaan came forward to do the tilak and then proceeded to wash my feet. The act made me uncomfortable, but traditions are deeply rooted, and as the prince of this estate, I couldn't question every custom.

"If you ever get on my sister's nerves, I'll make sure to cut these nerves I'm touching right now," Revaan muttered under his breath, glancing at me as he took a towel from the helper to dry my feet. Once done, he stood up, carefully placing the ceremonial gift on my lap. I couldn't help but smile at his fierce protectiveness—it was evident how much he adored his sister.

After the ceremony, the guests were served a lavish meal before departing. Once things settled, I headed to my office room and buried myself in some pending work. My phone pinged, breaking my focus. It was a message from Ivaan.

Lucky you.
Photo attached 🔗

Curious, I downloaded the images, and there she was—absolutely stunning. Nivya sat gracefully, her smile wide as she displayed her bangles for the camera. But something felt off. That smile, though beautiful, didn't reach her eyes—it seemed painfully rehearsed, almost hollow.

I sighed deeply, saving the photo to my gallery before setting my phone aside. A fleeting thought lingered: what could I do to bring back her genuine, radiant happiness?

I can't do anything. She craves love, and I'm incapable of giving her that. All I can offer is fulfilling my responsibilities—nothing more, nothing less.

Three hours passed when Yash burst into my office, nearly tripping over himself.

"Bhaiya!" he shouted, his excitement catching me off guard as I looked up at him, raising a questioning brow.

"You're still not ready! The mehendi ceremony starts in an hour. Bhabhi sa is already dressed, and Ivaan Bhai said the Sekhawats have arrived at the venue," he said, practically bouncing with enthusiasm.

I nodded, quickly finishing up my work as Yash leaned on the edge of my desk, his eyes gleaming mischievously. "You're so lucky," he sighed dramatically. "You're getting a literal Disney character as your wife."

I frowned, standing up and heading toward the door as he trailed behind me. "What are you even talking about?"

"Bhai, come on. She's so stunning and gorgeous. I mean, just look at her for a minute straight, and I swear you'll fall head over heels in love," he said, his voice dreamy as if he were talking about a fairytale princess.

I shook my head, trying to stifle a chuckle. "She's your Bhabhi sa. Show some respect. Now, get lost. I need to get ready," I said, firmly pushing him out of the room.

Heading to my closet, I scanned the near-empty space. Most of my clothes had already been sent to the new house. The only ones left were a handful of casual and formal outfits, along with the traditional attire that Ivaan, Yug, and Yash had carefully selected for the wedding functions.

I pulled out the outfit for the evening—a deep green and gold sherwani with intricate embroidery, paired with matching churidar pants. It was simple yet elegant, just the way I preferred.

As I changed, my mind wandered back to Yash's words. He wasn't wrong—Nivya truly looked stunning, but it wasn't just her beauty. She wasn't loud or attention-seeking, yet she commanded respect in her own way.

Once dressed, I adjusted the cuffs and looked at myself in the mirror. The outfit fit perfectly, thanks to Ivaan's impeccable planning. I picked up the emerald-studded brooch and pinned it onto my chest, completing the look.

Just as I was about to grab my watch, my phone buzzed again. Another message from Ivaan.

"Bhai, everyone's waiting. Don't forget the smile—it's your mehendi too."

I huffed a soft laugh, shaking my head. These two—Yash and Ivaan—had taken it upon themselves to ensure I didn't look like a brooding groom throughout the ceremonies. It was amusing, though I wouldn't admit that to them.

Grabbing my watch and phone, I headed out, where Yash was already waiting, leaning casually against the wall.

"Finally! Bhai, you look amazing. Bhabhi sa is going to be speechless," he said, giving me an exaggerated thumbs-up.

"Let's go before you get any more dramatic," I replied, patting his shoulder as we walked toward the car. 

I got into the car, greeting the driver as usual. The drive felt smooth, and soon, we reached the venue. The Sekhawats had already arrived, though the bride, her brother, and cousin were yet to make an appearance. The men were scattered, either attending to their wives or talking business in hushed tones.

Women were gathered in a circle, their laughter and chatter filling the air as skilled mehendi artists worked diligently, creating intricate designs on their hands. The scent of fresh henna mingled with the soft hum of conversation, adding to the festive atmosphere. The artists, with their steady hands and focused expressions, brought each pattern to life, weaving delicate flowers, paisleys, and vines that seemed to dance across the women's palms. It was a scene of tradition and celebration, where every stroke of mehendi carried a story of joy and anticipation.

Soon Nivya walked in. Her presence was magnetic, but today, it carried an edge. Though she wore a polite smile, I noticed the subtle clench of her fists against her skirt, a telltale sign of frustration she was trying to mask. Her eyes darted around the room before settling on something—or someone. I followed her gaze and saw Ivaan, Laksh, Rohan, and an unfamiliar man standing together. It was clear something had upset her, but she maintained the composure expected of her.

Moments later, Nivya was seated beside me after some coaxing by my bua sa, Manisha. Our shoulders brushed slightly, and she stiffened, her fingers instinctively grabbing my forearm to stop me from moving away. Surprised, I glanced at her, only to see her angry eyes fixed on the group where Ivaan stood. She masked it well with a shy smile, but I could feel the tension radiating from her.

Manisha bua sa performed the rituals, casting off the evil eye and murmuring blessings. "God bless you. May your couple be like that of Shiv and Shakti," she said softly, her words laden with both hope and tradition.

I was soon ushered to another seat where a mehendi artist began applying intricate designs to my palm. As per my instructions, he left my nails untouched but carefully filled the tips of my fingers, adhering to the tradition. Mehendi, symbolic and sacred, felt like another small thread weaving into the fabric of this complicated union.

"Write Nivya," Yug said, sitting beside me with a teasing grin. He adored Nivya for her vivaciousness and her ability to light up any space she entered. Both my brothers remained blissfully unaware of the real reasons behind this marriage. For them, Nivya was a beloved friend of Ivaan and someone who effortlessly brought joy wherever she went—a trait that made her genuine and unpretentious.

"No need," I replied, but the artist had already etched her name on my palm. The irony didn't escape me; her name was carved into my skin, much like it seemed fate had written her into my life.

The stark differences between Yug and Yash always fascinated me. They were like fire and water—indispensable opposites that completed each other. Yug, calm and reserved, with a passion for cooking and books, contrasted sharply with Yash's mischievous, carefree personality. Similarly, Adarsh and Advik—though bonded by blood and loyalty—were distinct in temperaments. It made me wonder how such a varied family managed to remain so united, a rarity in today's world.

Around us, the energy shifted as young women began dancing to festive mehendi songs. Nivya finally seemed to relax, sitting at the center with two women adorning her hands with henna. She looked more like herself—joyful and engaged, her love for music evident in the way her foot tapped subtly to the rhythm. It reminded me of my mother, whose passion for music often transformed the atmosphere of any room she was in.

For a fleeting moment, a smile touched my lips, but the weight of reality brought it down again. I rose from my seat, leaving the cheerful crowd behind to mingle with the guests. It felt easier to navigate through pleasantries than to linger in the shadow of emotions I wasn't sure how to handle.

Mehendi rachegi gehri,
Pyaar gehra hoga,
Laal khushhaal rang,
Sang tere hoga.

The lively atmosphere around me was infectious, but I couldn't fully immerse myself. Mahi, the daughter of another influential family and a close friend of Ivaan and Nivya, quite literally dragged me towards Nivya, forcing me to sit beside her. Uncertain of what to do, I simply complied, glancing around at the dancing women and the cheerful ambiance. The air was thick with celebration, yet pockets of unspoken tension lingered if one cared to notice.

Mehendi raachi hai surangi,
Banna thare naam di,
Aayi subh ghadi dekho,
Mhara aangan aaj hi.

Another woman, whom I assumed to be Adarsh Mehrotra's wife, approached Nivya with a warm smile. Gently helping her stand, she led her toward the group of women dancing at the center of the room. At first hesitant, Nivya soon joined them, her soft smile finally reaching her eyes as she swayed to the rhythm.

Bhool na jaana hume,
Jaake sasuraal tu,
Tadpegi mamta meri,
Aayegi yaad tu.

The lyrics shifted to a mother's heartfelt plea to her departing daughter, and my gaze instinctively turned toward Nivya and her mother again. Though surrounded by laughter and music, the unspoken tension between them was palpable. Nivya's movements faltered briefly as her eyes darted toward her mother, the smile slipping ever so slightly before she regained her composure.

Her mother watched her with a wistful expression, her hands clasped tightly as though holding herself back from reaching out. The moment was fleeting but spoke volumes. Nivya's earlier stiffness during her mother's kiss wasn't just an anomaly—it was part of a larger, untold story.

While the room erupted in joy, this silent undercurrent of unresolved emotions hung in the air. It was a stark contrast—the vibrant celebration clashing with the weight of their unspoken words. Sometimes, even amidst grand festivities, it's the quiet moments that reveal the most.

Beti hain paraya dhan,
Padta hai jaana,
Duniya ki rasmon ko,
Humein hai nibhana.

The melancholic lines resonated through the vibrant air of the mehendi ceremony, casting a poignant undertone to the otherwise lively celebration. Nivya's gaze briefly dropped, her hands fidgeting with the intricate patterns on her palms.

Her mother, standing not far, wiped an invisible tear, her face carefully composed, but the sentiment was unmistakable. It was a moment suspended in time, where tradition and emotion intertwined, reminding everyone present of the unspoken realities of life.

I stood up, stepping away as I noticed Nivya's gaze lingering on the food counters. Remembering which dishes she seemed to like, I prepared a plate for her and made my way toward Revaan, who was deep in conversation with his group.

"Revaan," I called, and he immediately stood up, his attention snapping to me. I noticed his gaze flicker toward a young woman in the group several times before he turned to face me.

"Your sister looks hungry. I've made a plate for her. Please take it to her," I said, trying to sound casual, though my voice came out stiffer than I intended. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't soften my tone, especially with my brother-in-law.

He blinked in surprise, momentarily caught off guard, before he quickly shook himself out of his daze. With a nod, he took the plate from my hands and went over to Nivya. Sitting beside her, he presented the plate to her, and though she let out a soft sigh—one I could barely catch—her smile was wide and warm. As Revaan began feeding her, he spoke between bites, and Nivya laughed softly, clearly at ease in her brother's company. It was in those moments that she seemed truly content, surrounded by the familiarity and care only a sibling could offer.

The next morning, I woke up and went through my usual routine. As I changed, my eyes landed on the file Akshat had given me yesterday. I knew I had to find the right moment to get Rajsekhar Sekhawat to sign it. Today was Haldi, followed by the Sangeet in the evening, and I had to be careful with my timing.

As I continued getting ready, my gaze fell on my palms. The mehendi design from yesterday still lingered on my skin. It wasn't anything elaborate—just the center of my palms filled with intricate patterns, and the tips of my fingers covered in dark, rich henna. But as I stared at it, I couldn't help but notice the way Nivya's name seemed to stare back at me from my hand. The contrast between the dark mehendi and the fairness of my palms was striking, a reminder of the rituals that had already begun to bind us together.

After getting ready in a yellow kurta, I stepped outside to grab my phone. My eyes narrowed when I noticed a few messages from an unknown number. Curiosity mixed with a sudden sense of unease, and I opened the chat. What I saw made my blood run cold.

If your fiancé is in love with someone else, why are you destroying your life by marrying her?

Photos attached 🔗

I clicked on the link and downloaded the images, my breath catching in my throat. The photos were clear: Nivya, dressed in the same lehenga she wore for mehendi, and a man—after zooming in, I recognized him as Laksh—leaning in closely to her. In one photo, his hand was on her shoulder while in other, he was on his knees, the intimacy between them undeniable.

A wave of rage surged through me. Before I knew what was happening, I had clenched my fist and slammed it down onto the glass table beside me. The glass shattered with a violent crack, pieces scattering across the floor. A few shards embedded themselves into my knuckles, but the pain barely registered.

All I could think about was the gut-wrenching betrayal I was staring at. Was that why she'd talked about an open marriage? So she could sneak around under my roof with her... lover?

How dare she?

I could feel the anger bubbling inside me, but it was laced with something more dangerous. If she ever thought she could cheat on me, she was gravely mistaken. The consequences of crossing me—of crossing us—would be nothing short of catastrophic. And no one, not even her, would be spared from the storm that was about to break loose.

I stormed into the bathroom, my anger still boiling beneath the surface. Grabbing the first aid kit, I cleaned the shards of glass out of my knuckles, the sting barely registering compared to the storm of thoughts racing through my mind. I couldn't let this go—there was no way this marriage could continue without getting answers.

I had to talk to her. This was the one thing I wouldn't tolerate: betrayal. Everything else—every obstacle, every fight—I could handle, but this? No. I wouldn't let it slide.

-----

Damn.

The song used in sangeet is from Yeh rishta kya kehlata hain. This show has the best wedding playlist.

Nirvaan seems angry. 

Did Nivya made a mistake meeting Laksh?

Thankyou<3