Happiest New Year everyone🎇 🎆

May this year bring a lot of joy in your life<3

Secondly, thankyou so much for interacting through inline comments. That just makes my day/night whenever I am reading them<3

Nivya Nirvaan Rathod

Horrified.

That's the only word to describe how I feel right now.

I was half on top of him a moment ago, his arms snugly wrapped around my waist as he slept soundly beside me. The realization hit me like a bolt of lightning, and I sprang up, scooting hastily to my side of the bed.

Cupping my face in my hands, I stared at him in disbelief. Just a night before, I'd proudly declared I wouldn't even dare to cross the invisible barrier between us. Yet here I was, snuggled against him as if he were my lifeline, as if I couldn't survive a moment without his warmth.

What the actual hell is wrong with me?

Has his beauty gotten to my head?

I watched as he stirred slightly, rolling onto his stomach. His T-shirt rode up just enough to reveal a glimpse of his lower back—a darkened mole on the left side, barely visible against his smooth skin. The ink from a tattoo peeked out from his sleeves, trailing from his upper forearm to somewhere beneath his shirt. I gulped, my gaze lingering longer than it should have. 

He's not overly bulky, but his frame is undeniably fit—lean yet strong. His broad shoulders seem capable of carrying the weight of the world, his clean-shaven face radiating an effortless charm. And then there's his waist—narrow and sculpted, the kind that would make even the strongest resolve falter.

As he shifted again, his mouth brushing against the pillow, I got a better look at the tattoo. It was intricate and beautiful, though its meaning escaped me. For all I know, it could be completely meaningless, but somehow, it seemed to suit him perfectly.

And that's the problem. He's too perfect—broad shoulders that promise safety, muscles that exude strength, and a face so striking it's impossible not to stare.

Get a grip, Nivya, I scolded myself. He's just a man. Just a man... who happens to look like he was carved by the gods.

I shook my head, my gaze shifting to the wall clock reading six in the morning. Stretching my arms lazily, I scanned the room before my eyes landed on the electric kettle. Warming a glass of water, I reached into the drawer for the honey jar. Drinking warm honey water first thing in the morning has always been my little ritual—it keeps me energized throughout the day. Surprisingly, it seemed to be his habit too.

Pulling myself up, I stepped into the closet and picked out the saree I'd wear for today. It was a beautiful brown tissue saree, intricately adorned with stone and mirror work. I grabbed my undergarments and towel before heading to the bathroom.

A refreshing shower later, I slipped on the underskirt and paired it with white heels featuring handmade sequined floral designs. Dressing up wasn't something I particularly enjoyed, but I had a soft spot for earrings, watches, and footwear—my guilty pleasures. At 5'4 (or maybe a smidge taller on a good day), I knew I wasn't statuesque.

I pulled on the embellished blouse, marveling at the saree's delicate craftwork. Though I had always thought sarees were cumbersome, wearing them correctly had turned out to be an art I genuinely appreciated. Comfortable yet elegant—what's not to love?

I began pleating the saree, but the tissue fabric with its heavily embellished borders was proving stubborn. Frustrated, I decided to call Pankhuri for help. I stepped out of the closet but froze mid-step when I saw the bed empty.

I turned around instinctively and found Nirvaan standing by the dresser, drinking water. The sight of me clearly threw him off as he sputtered, nearly choking on his drink. I glanced down at myself and realized the source of his reaction: my saree was half-worn, my waist fully exposed, and my entire appearance a disheveled mess.

He didn't say a word, just turned toward the closet. Then, he paused.

"Do... Do you need any help?" he asked hesitantly, his voice soft yet steady. He stopped a few steps away, meeting my eyes with a raised eyebrow.

Surprised, I blinked at him before nodding. "This saree's texture is tricky. If you could just hold the border while I pleat, it'd really help," I said, hoping my tone sounded casual.

To my astonishment, he crouched down on one knee, carefully arranging the border in his hands. His gaze flicked up, silently urging me to continue.

Snapping out of my daze, I quickly started forming the pleats, tucking them into my underskirt and securing them with the pin I had been holding between my lips.

"Thank you," I murmured softly, still a little taken aback by his unexpected gesture.

He simply nodded and walked back toward the closet without another word.

I sighed softly, walking toward the dressing table. This is how my life was now—a silent existence where even a basic conversation felt like a luxury.

Opening my makeup pouch, I opted for a minimal look, applying just enough to enhance my features. Once done, I reached for the diamond set laid neatly beside me. Its simplicity felt appropriate, matching the understated elegance of my saree.

As my eyes fell on the mangalsutra, I hesitated. The delicate chain wasn't heavy in design, but the symbolism it carried felt immense. Slowly, I picked it up and clasped it around my neck, the cool metal brushing against my skin. With a brush in hand, I parted my hair neatly down the middle, applied a small amount of vermilion at the parting, and placed the brush back down.

Standing up, I grabbed my perfume bottle. A quick spray on my right wrist, which I dabbed together, followed by a light mist behind my ears and across my collarbone. The inhaled the soft fragrance with a soft smile.

A familiar pang of hunger grumbled in my stomach just as a soft knock echoed through the room. Straightening myself, I opened the door to find a house staff member standing with a trolley. The tray was filled with tea, mathri, biscuits, and a mixture, along with a small vase holding fresh flowers.

Pushing the door wider, I allowed him to wheel the cart inside. He carefully arranged everything on the coffee table, giving me a polite nod before exiting. The fragrance of the flowers mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed tea, filling the room with a momentary warmth.

I stood there, staring at the neatly set table. Should I wait for him? Or just start by myself?

The loneliness tugged at me again, but I shook it off. Taking a deep breath, I stepped closer to the table, deciding to let my hunger make the choice.

A minute later, Nirvaan stepped out of the closet, dressed but not yet showered.

"Let's have some tea," he said softly. His voice—deep, hoarse, and effortlessly commanding—always managed to catch me off guard. I nodded and took a seat on the loveseat. He settled beside me, and before I could even reach for the teapot, he had already picked it up. Pouring a steaming cup of tea, he handed it to me.

"Thanks," I murmured, offering a hesitant smile as I nibbled on a methi mathri. The taste was exquisite, clearly homemade.

"We'll leave for Sekhawat Palace in about half an hour," he said looking at me.

I nodded again, knowing we'd have breakfast there. My thoughts raced with the desire to fill the silence with conversation, to talk about anything, but I also knew better. Nirvaan wasn't the type to appreciate idle chatter, and I wasn't about to make things awkward.

Instead, I busied myself looking around the room, though my gaze kept drifting back to him. He sat calmly, sipping his tea. The aroma of cardamom wafted through the air—strong, fragrant, and perfect, much like the man sipping it.

My tongue betrayed me before I could stop it. "When will you rejoin the office?"

I immediately regretted it, inwardly cringing at how desperate I sounded for conversation. Silence wasn't my strong suit, and being around someone only amplified my need to fill the void.

He glanced at me briefly, his thumb absentmindedly brushing his ring finger. "I'm still working, but from home. I'll return to the office the day after tomorrow," he replied, his voice calm and steady.

I nodded again, unsure what to say next, and glanced at him once more. His focus was back on his tea, sipping leisurely while nibbling on a biscuit.

The silence stretched again, heavy and almost taunting.

Can't he even say another word? I thought irritably. Will he lose his fortune if he opens his mouth?

And then, as if my inner monologue wasn't already ridiculous enough, another thought struck me: Even if he had to pay taxes for speaking, it wouldn't matter. He's rich. He can afford it.

Suppressing a chuckle at my own absurdity, I sipped my tea, resigning myself to the quiet that seemed destined to follow Nirvaan wherever he went.

I could feel his gaze lingering on my fingers, making me increasingly self-conscious.

"What's wrong?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

He seemed on the verge of saying something, his lips parting slightly, but then he shook his head. "Nothing," he muttered, as if thinking better of it.

"You can just say it," I encouraged, though it took every ounce of restraint to keep the biting sarcasm off my tongue.

He hesitated for a moment, then finally spoke. "You should eat more. You're really thin."

His words hit like a dart, aimed directly at a familiar wound. He wasn't being rude, but the statement made my stomach churn. His eyes briefly flicked toward my fingers, as if to emphasize his point, and that was enough to set off a spark of anger inside me.

I'd heard it all before.

Since childhood, people had been quick to point out how thin I was, how I should eat more, and even how my parents must've neglected to feed me. My teenage years were riddled with these unsolicited remarks, and though I'd managed to gain some weight toward the end of that phase, the perception of me as "too thin" had stubbornly lingered.

People are quick to condemn fat-shaming, but nobody seems to notice the way thin people are scrutinized, too. I eat. I love food. But I happen to have a fast metabolism, and that's not something I can control.

Suppressing the urge to lash out, I took a deep breath and steadied myself, trying to find a calm response in the storm of emotions his comment had stirred.

"I didn't mean to offend you," he said gently, his tone sincere and almost apologetic. "It's just... I was worried. You've been nibbling on the same mathri for the last ten minutes."

His words, so unexpectedly thoughtful, dissolved the anger that had been bubbling within me.

"I was even thinner during my teenage years," I admitted softly, lowering my gaze. "But I gained some weight eventually, and it's not something I can entirely control." I paused, fiddling with the corner of my saree before adding, "As for the mathri, I was just lost in my own thoughts."

He nodded, the tension between us lifting as he reached for another mathri and took a bite. His simple action felt oddly comforting, a small yet significant gesture that eased the lingering discomfort from our earlier exchange.

I stayed in the room, scrolling through my phone as Nirvaan headed to the bathroom for a shower. My notifications were buzzing with congratulatory messages from high school friends, college mates, and acquaintances. I replied to a few, trying not to overthink their exaggerated enthusiasm.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened my social media. It was flooded with pictures of our wedding. The posts were relentless—people gushing over how handsome Nirvaan looked or how stunning I was or how we were "a pair made in heaven."

Heaven? I scoffed internally, chuckling sarcastically. It was ironic. But still, I clicked like on Nirvaan's formal declaration post and the photos accompanying it, a perfect PR move. After some thought, I uploaded two pictures myself—one of him filling my partition with vermilion and another where his front pressed against my back, his hand resting lightly on my waist. A picture-perfect couple, right? If only life was as flawless as these images.

Minutes later, the closet door opened, and out walked Nirvaan, dressed in a crisp powder blue shirt and tailored light grey pants. His coat was draped casually over one arm as he moved to the bed, setting it down with effortless grace. He slipped on his watch, the metallic band catching the morning light, and then reached for a small jar of gel.

He slicked his hair back, taming those soft curls that I secretly preferred wild and unruly. They gave him a boyish charm, which the gel subdued into sharp sophistication.

Then came the surprise. He picked up my moisturizer.

Excuse me. That's mine. And it's expensive.

But of course, Nirvaan didn't think twice. He casually applied it to his face, rubbing it in with precision, before swiping some lip moisturizer onto his lips. I watched, equal parts amused and bewildered.

Why did I even like that he used my moisturizer without a second thought?

He turned to me, wearing his coat with an air of confidence that made it impossible to look away. He was... breathtaking. The tailored fit of his clothes, the way the fabric clung to his broad shoulders and tapered down to his trim waist, was a sight to behold.

I couldn't help but stare.

Let's face it—handsome boys are a weakness. And this one? He's a living, breathing masterpiece. Like a character straight out of one of those Korean dramas Mihika obsesses over, but better—because he's mine.

He walked toward me after taking his wallet, holding out a black credit card between his fingers. The sleek card glinted under the light, but my focus was on his expression—calm, and unreadable.

"Keep it," he said firmly, extending the card toward me.

I froze, staring at it in shock. "I don't need it," I said immediately, stepping back and clutching the end of my saree as if it were a shield.

He didn't flinch, his hand still outstretched. "Haq hai aapka—mujhpe, aur mujhse judi har cheez par," he said softly, sliding the card onto the coffee table between us. {You have the right-on me and anything related to me.}

My heart sank. Did he find out about Bade Dadaji blocking my card?

"I really don't need it. I have my own money," I murmured, my voice firmer this time, though unease bubbled beneath my resolve.

"Nivya," he said, his tone gentle yet unyielding. "This is your right. You are my wife, and it is my duty to make sure all your wishes are fulfilled. I'm not questioning your self-respect or independence. But you've just started your career, and I'm only fulfilling my responsibility. If I saw you struggling for even basic things under my care, it would mean I had failed."

He always spoke with such precision, as if weighing every word to ensure it wouldn't offend. It was his way—considerate, careful. And yet, his words hit a tender spot in me.

The truth was, my salary—forty thousand rupees—was barely enough to cover my car's fuel and maintenance, let alone other expenses. It was more than most fresh graduates earned, but still far from what I needed to live independently. My dreams of completing my master's degree felt like they were slipping away, tangled in the complexities of this new life.

I sighed, glancing at the card on the table before reluctantly picking it up.

But something in his words pricked at my heart. Responsibility. That word lingered, heavy and sharp. Would I always be just a responsibility to him? Would I never become more—a partner, a wife he genuinely cared for?

I knew I wasn't supposed to expect anything, especially after what he'd said last night. Still, I couldn't stop the ache that came with knowing I might always live under his care, surrounded by every material luxury but starved of the emotional warmth of true love.

I looked down at the card in my hand, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should, before quietly placing it in my purse.

I knew, deep down, that accepting the card wasn't about pride or appearances—it was a necessity. My personal card barely had enough to sustain me, and my dear grandfather had ensured my struggle by blocking my other card after his anger over what happened during my bidaai.

Despite the bitterness, I had to admit it—at least Nirvaan thought about me.

"Shall we go?" he asked, slipping his wallet into his pocket. His voice was calm, neutral, as though it were just another task on his list for the day.

I nodded, bending to pick up my phone and carefully placing it inside my embellished purse. The irony wasn't lost on me—everything I wore right now, from the saree to the accessories, was worth more than I could afford. It was a harsh reminder of how far I was from achieving my dreams of becoming a successful architect. A mere graduation degree wasn't enough to reach where I wanted to be.

We walked downstairs together, heading first to the pooja ghar. After completing the morning rituals, we left for... my parents' home.

When we reached the car, he opened the back door, gesturing for me to sit. I hesitated briefly before stepping in, and he followed, taking the seat on the other side. Once settled, he instructed the driver to start the car.

Nirvaan pulled out his phone, his attention immediately consumed by it, while I turned to look out the window. The weather was pleasant—not cold, but with a crispness that hinted it might chill by evening.

I found myself staring out at the scenery, counting the trees as we passed. I tried to distract myself, letting my mind wander with each bend in the road, but the feeling of being watched lingered.

I glanced at him, expecting to catch his gaze, but his eyes remained fixed on his phone. Maybe I imagined it. Shrugging it off, I returned to my own thoughts.

Before I realized it, the car slowed, and the familiar sights of Veerkut came into view.

he car came to a smooth stop at the gate, where a uniformed guard stepped forward to open my door. Nirvaan exited from the other side, effortlessly shrugging on his coat and fastening the buttons with a practiced ease. His movements were measured, almost calculated, as he came around to my side, his expression unreadable.

My eyes traveled to the main door of the house, and there she stood—Maa. A hesitant smile played on her lips, her hands steady as she held the aarti plate. She looked regal, as always, but the faint crease on her forehead betrayed her inner conflict.

I had hurt her deeply over the past two months, and even though I told myself I had no other choice, the guilt lingered like a shadow that refused to leave.

"You look pale," Nirvaan's voice broke through my thoughts, soft and almost concerned. His gaze met mine, lingering for a moment as if searching for something unspoken.

Before I could reply, he extended his hand toward me, palm open. His gesture was simple yet resolute. Without hesitation, I placed my trembling hand over his. His grip tightened slightly, a reassuring strength seeping into me as his warmth enveloped my always-cold skin.

My hands and feet had always been cold, my body temperature seemingly lower than normal. I barely sweated, even on the hottest days. Nirvaan, on the other hand, radiated heat—his body always warm, almost unnaturally so. It was oddly comforting, the way his warmth countered my perpetual chill.

With a silent nod from him, I stepped out of the car, holding his hand like it was a lifeline. As we walked toward the house, his steady presence beside me felt like the only thing keeping me grounded. The closer we got to my mother, the more the weight of my choices pressed down on me, but Nirvaan's grip reminded me I wasn't alone in this moment.

I stood at the threshold of my childhood home, Nirvaan's hand gripping mine tightly, anchoring me. Yet, the weight of Bade Dadaji's piercing gaze was almost unbearable. His eyes bore into me, unyielding and judgmental, and I could feel his disapproval radiating across the room. I didn't regret what I'd said to him during my bidaai, but now, standing here, I was beginning to regret the decision to come back.

Maa stepped forward, her face composed yet soft, and performed the aarti. The flickering flame cast fleeting shadows on her face, highlighting the strain she tried so hard to hide. Once she was done, Nirvaan and I bent forward to touch her feet. Her fingers lingered on my head longer than usual, a silent apology perhaps, or an unspoken reassurance.

I moved to Chachi next, who cupped my face and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead, her blessing warm and comforting. It was a rare moment of affection in a family where emotions were so often hidden behind duty and decorum.

Ignoring everyone else in the room, I straightened, my eyes darting around instinctively in search of my siblings. Their absence was a sudden pang in my chest, one I hadn't anticipated. Maa, as though reading my thoughts, guided us inside with a subtle gesture.

The atmosphere was heavy with tension, the air crackling with unsaid words. I knew Bade Dadaji wouldn't say a thing while Nirvaan was by my side, and for that, I was grateful.

"They went to school. Their exams have started," Chachi explained softly as we settled on the plush sofa.

The table before us was laden with an elaborate spread of snacks—mathris, pakoras, jalebis, and fruits—but I had no appetite. Across from us, my grandfather sat with an imposing air, his stern glare fixed squarely on me. His silence was more cutting than any words he could have spoken.

Nirvaan, oblivious to the undercurrents or perhaps intentionally ignoring them, sat beside me calmly, his posture relaxed yet composed. I envied his ability to stay unaffected while every glance and gesture in this house reminded me of the cracks in our family.

This wasn't home anymore—it was a battlefield. And I was the soldier standing on shaky ground.

"So, how is your new home?" Bade Dadaji asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm as his sharp eyes bore into me.

"At least better than how my older home was," I replied, forcing a tight smile. My hands clenched into fists on my lap, the slight tremor in my fingers betraying the storm inside me.

His glare intensified, as if he could will me into submission, but I didn't flinch. I held his gaze until he shifted his attention to Nirvaan, sitting calmly beside me.

Nirvaan's jaw tightened ever so slightly, his expression unreadable, yet the power radiating from him was palpable. He didn't say a word, but the silent challenge in his eyes was enough to halt my grandfather's next words before they could form.

Chachi, ever the peacemaker, stepped in with a warm smile, her gentle tone cutting through the tension. "Post-wedding rituals done?" she asked, her gaze softening as it fell on me.

I nodded, my expression relaxing just a little. "Yes, most of them are done," I said softly.

Her smile widened, a small island of warmth in the otherwise cold room. I focused on her, thankful for the reprieve she offered from the suffocating atmosphere.

"And when are you both shifting to your new house?" my mother asked, her tone tinged with an urgency that couldn't be masked. I knew her intentions well—she wanted me away from the chaotic environment of a joint family, somewhere I could find peace.

"Tomorrow, Aunty," Nirvaan replied, his voice low, careful, yet it carried a slight stiffness.

Maa frowned, her expression softening almost immediately. "What is this Aunty? Call me Maa," she said gently, her eyes warm yet firm.

I turned to Nirvaan, catching the fleeting vulnerability in his expression. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his usually composed demeanor cracking for just a moment. His hand clenched into a fist on his lap, betraying his discomfort.

"Maa, it takes time," I intervened quickly, offering her my most reassuring smile. She sighed but didn't press further, her gaze lingering on me as if she had a thousand unsaid words weighing on her tongue.

"Let's have breakfast now," Papa interjected, standing up abruptly, his eyes flickering toward me before looking away.

I ignored him entirely. He had let me down far too many times for me to consider mending our relationship now. My focus was solely on Maa, Chachi, and my siblings—the only family that mattered to me anymore.

As we settled at the dining table, I noticed how Maa and Chachi were fawning over Nirvaan, pampering him like he was a guest from another realm. His plate was heaped with food—far more than he could ever finish—and I could see the unease in his posture. He tried to smile politely, but the sheer volume of food on his plate had him visibly nervous.

One thing about Nirvaan was that he would never leave anything on his plate, no matter how full he was. It was a principle he lived by, and I could tell it was stressing him out.

"Maa, I'm not very hungry. I'll eat from Nirvaan's plate," I said casually, reaching out to stop her from serving me.

Nirvaan's eyes darted to mine, his relief palpable. He exhaled softly, the tension melting from his shoulders. I bit back a chuckle, amused at how even someone as composed as him wasn't immune to the overwhelming hospitality reserved for a son-in-law.

He placed his plate in the center, a silent thank-you reflected in his eyes as I gave him a small smile.

The table was laden with dishes, each one more elaborate than the last. I could tell Maa and Chachi had poured their hearts into making this meal. The flavors were incredible, rich with love and care, and I savored each bite.

While the food at Nirvaan's house was undeniably good, this meal held something special—comfort, familiarity, and the essence of home.

As we ate in silence, Nirvaan's gaze occasionally flickered toward me. I could feel his gratitude, unspoken yet loud in its intensity, and I realized how this small gesture had eased his discomfort in a way only I could.

A while later, we were all sitting in the living area when Nirvaan received a call. Excusing himself, he stepped away, returning after a few minutes.

"We should leave now," he said softly.

I was about to nod in agreement when I caught the pleading look in my mother's eyes. She wasn't ready for me to leave so soon; it had only been a couple of hours since we arrived.

Sensing her desperation, I hesitated and looked at Nirvaan. He paused, his gaze flickering toward Bade Dadaji before meeting mine. There was a trace of hesitation in his expression, as though he didn't want to leave me alone here.

I stood and walked to a corner, signaling him to follow.

"You want to stay here?" he asked, his tone low, his worry evident.

I nodded. "I haven't even met Nitya and Revaan yet."

His lips pressed into a thin line. "What if your Bade Dadaji says something?" he asked, the concern in his voice uncharacteristically apparent.

"I've handled him all my life," I reassured him, keeping my voice steady. "Come and pick me up when you're free."

He looked unconvinced, his eyes flickering to my face.

"Stop biting your lips," he said suddenly, frowning. "They're already red. They'll start bleeding soon."

Caught off guard, I stilled. "Give me your phone," I said softly.

Without a moment's hesitation, he handed it over. The swiftness of the gesture surprised me, but I quickly recovered, typing in my number and saving it as Prettiest Princess with a heart-eye emoji.

Handing it back to him, I saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes, a barely-there smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He tapped the number and gave me a missed call.

"If anyone even dares to hurt you," he began, his voice dropping slightly, "don't forget who your husband is and what he's capable of. And don't forget who you are. I'll handle everything. Don't worry."

There was a firmness in his words that sent a strange warmth through me, though I also noted the clear unwillingness to leave me behind.

Before I could respond, he reached out and gently tapped my cheeks with his palms. The unexpected gesture startled me, and my eyes widened in surprise. Seeing my reaction, he blinked twice, as though trying to lighten the moment.

I followed his gaze and noticed Bade Dadaji observing us keenly, his sharp eyes taking in every interaction.

We returned to the sitting area, Nirvaan trailing behind me.

As tradition demanded, my father applied tilak to Nirvaan's forehead, handing him an envelope and a few gifts. It was a simple ritual, customary for a son-in-law's first visit after marriage.

Despite everything, my family had always adhered strictly to tradition, even if love and warmth weren't always part of the equation. For them, appearances mattered more than emotions, especially when it came to societal expectations.

Nirvaan exchanged polite goodbyes, but his lingering gaze on me as he left carried a silent promise—that no matter the distance, I wasn't truly alone.

-----

Nivya is my bae 💋

Don't forget to like and comment. 

Thankyou<3