Nirvaan Singh Rathod

"Why are you marrying so early?" the client asked as we settled down for dinner. Having shared years of business dealings that had grown into a personal bond, his question came across as more curious than intrusive.

He wasn't wrong. In today's world, neither men nor women are in a rush to tie the knot, and at just twenty-four, I fell into that category. Still, I had to give him an answer—one convincing enough to stop further probing.

"Have you seen my fiancée?" I replied flatly, careful to keep my tone neutral.

His brows lifted slightly in recognition before he nodded. "Yes, I saw her at the Singhania's party last year," he said, effortlessly slicing into his meal with the practiced ease of someone well-acquainted with luxury.

"She's the reason," I said simply, keeping my focus on the food in front of me.

Beside me, my secretary stiffened, and I could almost feel his unease radiating across the table. The truth behind this union was far from romantic, but no one outside the family needed to know that.

The reality? This wasn't a love story—it was a legacy. A promise sealed generations ago. But that secret was mine to keep.

After dinner, Akshat left while I sank into the car, asking the driver to take me home. The exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks—mentally drained, physically spent.

Just an hour ago, I had received a call from Revaan, Nivya's brother, asking me to meet him. I didn't want to, but I knew he wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. I reluctantly agreed to meet him tomorrow.

I already knew what he was going to say—the same tired lines about how his sister "deserves better" or how she's "not ready for commitment."

As if his grandfather would ever let her sit idle at home. Revaan has no clue what that man is capable of, but I do.

That power-hungry tyrant has it out for Nivya. I can see it in his eyes. He detests her for one simple reason—she refuses to bend to his will. He thrives on control, and Nivya refuses to be submissive.

I still don't know how they managed to make her agree to this union. Part of me half-expected her to run off, but she surprised me by showing up at the roka. She's not easily coerced.

Her family doesn't know the first thing about respecting women. To them, women are just vessels for reproduction and tools for fulfilling their own desires. And Nivya? She's a problem for them. They wanted a grandson to inherit the empire, and with Revaan still too young, they can't risk the business slipping away. They're already suffering losses—ones that aren't obvious yet, but if they continue, the board members will be forced to act.

That's why they want me to marry Nivya. They need me to take over the reins of the business, and they think tying me to their family through marriage will do the trick. They see me as sharp, capable, young. But they can't trust me, not until I have a familial tie to them.

It's all a power play, and Nivya is nothing more than a pawn in their game.

My reason for agreeing to this marriage? It's simple—she belongs to a family with deep roots in politics. Her grandfather, a former chief minister, and her father, who is poised to follow in his footsteps, hold extensive power in the political landscape. Aligning with their family only strengthens the Rathods' influence.

But above all, my mother liked her—a lot. Nivya might not remember, but when she was young, she used to visit us, playing with Ivaan. My mother was incredibly fond of her. When she learned about the promise made generations ago—a promise that might have passed to my father if not for Nivya's bua's defiance—she was thrilled.

I'm not in love with anyone, and bringing Nivya into my life isn't an issue. I'll respect her, provide for her, and remain loyal. That's enough to sustain a relationship, isn't it?

Arriving home, I stepped into the grand ancestral palace. My grandfather refuses to leave this house, clinging to its legacy. Over time, I've grown attached to it too—for one reason: my mother.

If only she were still here.

After a quick shower, I buried myself in work for another two hours before finally succumbing to sleep.

The next morning, I wasn't expecting any surprises. But life always seems to have other plans.

The elevator I usually take was under maintenance, so Akshat and I waited for the next one. That's when I felt it—a pair of eyes on me.

I turned and locked gazes with hers—those unmistakable blue-green eyes.

She looked startled, as if the last person she expected to see was me. Did she forget who owns the building she's standing in?

She murmured something to herself before stepping into the elevator, completely absorbed in her thoughts. My eyes flicked to the ID card hanging around her neck. She had landed a job here.

Good. At least she's not working for a competitor.

Nivya isn't someone with sky-high academic achievements, but she has an unyielding determination. When she sets her mind to something, she'll achieve it, no matter the obstacles. Architecture is one of those passions. It's why she's here—getting hired at Rathod Group isn't easy.

Just as the elevator reached her floor, her heel got caught in the small gap between the elevator and the floor. She stumbled, about to fall.

Without thinking, my hand shot out to catch hers, the other instinctively wrapping around her slim waist. Her lavender scent enveloped me, subtle yet expensive, making my heartbeat quicken. Her own heart pounded against my arm as if echoing mine.

She steadied herself quickly, pulling away as if my touch burned her. Her swift movements left my arms suspended in midair, empty.

I stepped back, hands slipping into my pockets, trying to mask the odd rush of emotions that had taken over. My gaze, as much as I willed it not to, found its way back to her. She seemed fine now, but I couldn't stop glancing her way. And then it happened—our eyes met again, holding until I looked away and she walked out.

"Aapki bhi shadi ho sakti hai," Akshat muttered, disbelief dripping from his tone as though the very concept of me being married was absurd. His eyes scanned me, head to toe, in exaggerated scrutiny, only to meet the sharpness of my glare {Even you can get married.}

I raised a brow, crossing my arms. "Aur tumhe kya problem hai?" I asked, my tone flat but laced with irritation. {What problem do you have?"}

Akshat immediately raised his hands in mock surrender, the corners of his mouth twitching as he suppressed a grin. "Koi problem nahi, bhai. Bas... surprising hai," he quipped, clearly enjoying himself.{I don't have any problem. It is just surprising.}

He tilted is head slightly, his smirk deepening. "Bas soch raha hoon ki aap jaise insaan ke saath koi kaise zindagi bhar rehne ke liye tayar ho sakta hai," he said with a dramatic shrug, dodging the glare I shot his way. {I am just thinking that how can a someone agree to live with you for her whole life.}

"Akshat," I warned, my voice low, but he only laughed, shaking his head.

"Thik hai, thik hai. Aap jao. Aapko toh romantic hero banna hai ab," he teased, stepping back as I took a step forward, clearly done with his nonsense for the day. {Its okay. Now you have to become a romantic hero.}

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose as he walked away, his chuckles echoing behind him. Why did I even bother?

I have known Akshat all my life. He's the best friend I never realized I needed—the son of my mother's trusted attendee, yet so much more than that. Always standing by my side during my toughest moments, Akshat has always been there, like an unshakable pillar of support.

He's the kind of person who'd argue with me relentlessly but never hesitate to defend me against the world. The bond we share is beyond words—a silent understanding forged over years of trust, loyalty, and far too many shared secrets. 

There's too much on my plate already, and now, this marriage—another responsibility. A heavy sigh escaped me as I made my way to my cabin, swiping my key card across the scanner. Akshat followed, setting my briefcase down on the desk before pulling out his iPad to brief me about my schedule.

I couldn't focus. Not with Revaan's meeting looming over me.

I'm not looking forward to it. He loves his sister, and his plea will undoubtedly revolve around convincing me to call off this wedding. But I can't. Elections are around the corner, and her grandfather's party is poised to win. Their backing is crucial. Rejecting this marriage would be equivalent to signing my name on his hit list.

Ivaan thinks this whole arrangement is wrong, selfish even. He's not entirely wrong—it is selfish. Selfish on her family's part, selfish on mine. But not hers. She doesn't need me; she doesn't want this marriage. Yet here we are.

But honestly, most marriages in my social circle are like this—a transaction cloaked in tradition. Even arranged marriages, in their essence, are just deals. Why can't people accept that? This isn't a contract marriage, no papers, no terms. Just the unspoken agreement that we'll make it work.

I leaned back in my chair, letting the weight of my thoughts settle. Love, as far as I'm concerned, is unpredictable. It makes you weak, vulnerable. It ties you down, only to shatter you when it's gone. I've seen enough of it to know it's not a foundation to build anything on—not a life, not a marriage.

We'll learn to live this way. Marriage is a commitment, and I'm ready to honor it. I'll respect her, fulfill my responsibilities. Isn't that enough?

People like to romanticize marriage, to dress it up as a fairytale. But those high-society couples I see at parties—the ones who put on a show for the cameras—they're no different from us. They've turned marriage into a performance, a responsibility. Behind closed doors, love doesn't matter as much as practicality, loyalty, and maintaining an image.

People have forgotten the origins of marriage. It wasn't built on love; it was designed to bind women to men, to ensure lineage and legitimacy. Love was never a necessity—just an embellishment we've romanticized over centuries.

My father's grief is a constant reminder. He loved my mother with everything he had, and when she was gone, she took a part of him with her. He's not the man he used to be, and it hurts to see him like that—existing but never truly living.

Nivya and I? We don't need love to make this work. What we need is understanding, respect, and a sense of duty. I can give her that. In fact, I will give her that.

My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a knock at the door. Straightening my posture, I called out, granting permission to enter. Akshat stepped inside, his expression neutral but his words carrying weight.

"Revaan Sekhawat is here to meet you," he informed me, standing just inside the doorway.

I took a deep breath, leaning back in my chair as I processed the inevitable. I nodded curtly, keeping my face unreadable. "Send him in," I instructed, "and bring a cold coffee for my saale sahab."

Akshat raised an eyebrow at the slight jest but said nothing, leaving the room swiftly.

Revaan Sekhawat. The protective younger brother who had already judged me guilty of being unworthy for his sister. I could anticipate the conversation that was about to unfold, every word of his well-rehearsed in my mind before he'd even uttered them.

This was going to be interesting.

Crossing my arms, I waited, my gaze fixed on the door. The air in the room seemed to shift slightly in anticipation, a quiet tension building as I prepared myself for yet another round of accusations, concerns, and—most likely—a subtle demand to reconsider this marriage.

A few seconds later, Revaan walked in, his posture rigid, exuding defiance and suspicion. He paused briefly, giving me a look that was sharp enough to pierce steel before dragging a chair closer and sitting down. His school bag landed on my desk with a soft thud, a deliberate move to assert dominance—or at least try.

His narrowed eyes bore into me as if he were dissecting every molecule of my existence. It was obvious he had skipped school for this confrontation; the crisp uniform he wore was the same one I had donned years ago. The sight stirred a flicker of nostalgia I quickly suppressed.

Straightening in his chair, he loosened his tie and gave me a look that could've set the room on fire. If sheer disdain were a weapon, I'd be in shreds by now. For a split second, I almost admired his nerve. Almost.

"You don't even want to marry my sister," he began, skipping any semblance of polite small talk. His tone was direct, accusatory. "So why are you so eager to do it?"

Straight to the point. Classic Sekhawat blood.

I raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smirk. "And what gave you that idea?" I countered, my voice low but firm. I shifted slightly, pulling my chair closer to the desk and intertwining my fingers. My hands rested purposefully on the polished wood, a subtle show of authority meant to remind him who held the upper hand here.

Revaan didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned forward, his young but determined eyes studying me with laser focus. It was a look that screamed, I know your type. His resemblance to Nivya was striking—those sharp eyes, the unrelenting stubbornness.

He wasn't intimidated, not even slightly. In fact, he looked like he was trying to size me up, searching for a chink in my armor. He might have had grounds to criticize my emotional unavailability, but my face? Not a chance.

"It's been two days since your roka, three since this entire ordeal started," Revaan began, his voice measured but with an edge of disappointment. "Not once, not even for the sake of formality, have you called my sister or asked if she's okay with this alliance. If you were genuinely interested in her—or even this marriage—you'd have at least checked if she's ready for this commitment."

He paused, his disappointment quickly morphing into anger. "Even on the day of the roka, you didn't spare her so much as a glance. My sister is being forced into this, and you know it." His voice sharpened, the accusation clear and deliberate.

I stayed silent, leaning back in my chair, twirling the paperweight in my hand, observing him carefully as he continued.

"Why are you so keen on marrying her?" His frustration bubbled over as he leaned forward, his brows furrowed in disbelief. "We've known each other our entire lives, and not once have I seen you so much as look at my sister. Now, all of a sudden, you've agreed to marry her? Why her? Why can't you just marry anyone else?"

His voice cracked with frustration, his teeth clenched as his eyes locked with mine. The kid was seething, but behind that anger was a protective brother fighting for his sister. I let him vent, his words washing over me while I remained quiet, my hand absentmindedly rolling the smooth paperweight across the desk.

"Anything else?" I asked, my voice calm as I set the paperweight back on the desk and glanced at him, tilting my head slightly.

Revaan blinked, visibly thrown off by my lack of reaction. "Huh?" he muttered, his confusion evident as his eyes darted to my face.

"Do you want to say anything else?" I clarified, keeping my tone steady, unaffected.

Before he could respond, there was a knock at the door. The peon entered, carrying a glass of cold coffee from the office cafeteria. I gestured for him to place it on the table.

"Your cold coffee, Saale Sahab," I remarked with a subtle smirk, my tone just teasing enough to lighten the mood, though my expression remained composed.

Revaan's brows furrowed as he eyed the coffee, still brimming with frustration but clearly puzzled by my demeanor. I leaned back in my chair, waiting to see if he'd continue his tirade or finally start listening.

"What are your sister's preferences for her own house—the one she dreamt of?" I asked, leaning forward slightly. My tone was genuine; after all, we'd be shifting into a new home, and the least I could do was ensure the interiors reflected her choices.

Revaan's expression didn't soften in the slightest. Instead, he leaned back, crossing his arms. "Whatever it was, it certainly didn't include you in it," he replied sharply, the bite in his tone unmistakable.

Ouch. That stung more than I cared to admit. Not that I'd show it.

I held his gaze, my expression unreadable, though his words echoed in my head. I know I'm not her choice. I might never be. Yet, the reality remains—she is going to be mine. She'll exist in this society as my life partner, bear my name, and one day, my kids. She might not have chosen me, but she'll be mine.

"Point taken," I finally said, my voice steady, masking the slight ache his words left behind. "But since she's shifting into a house with me, her preferences for it still matter. So, any input?"

"You are such a... jerk." He started, trying to find words to describe me and settled on her. 

"Didn't care about her preference for a life partner, but suddenly care about her preference for a house? Why don't you just back out!" Revaan started, his tone laced with anger that escalated into outright yelling by the time he finished.

My temper flared instantly, but I bit it back, forcing myself to stay composed.

He loves his sister.

It was the brother in him speaking.'

Chuck it. Normally, I'd never tolerate such disrespect or anyone raising their voice at me. Not even my grandfather would dare.

"Saale sahab," I began, my voice deliberately calm, though the tension in my clenched fists betrayed my restraint, "you seem to be forgetting whose roof you're standing under."

I leaned forward slightly, narrowing my gaze at him, each word clipped and deliberate. "While you're here, lower your voice. Because if you don't, it won't take me long to rearrange those 206 bones into 602."

My glare didn't waver. Revaan might be young, but he was fierce—more so than any of my brothers, at least. I had to give him credit for standing his ground, though it did nothing to quell the annoyance bubbling beneath my skin.

"You're threatening me?" His voice was calm, but the narrowed slits of his eyes betrayed the simmering anger within him as he interlocked his fingers.

"It would be a threat if I were incapable of following through," I replied, a slight smirk playing at the corners of my lips, deliberately watching the rage stir inside him. "This is a warning. Saale Sahab."

He stood up abruptly, his gaze cold as he tossed his bag over his shoulder. "Jija jee, welcome to hell," he sneered, his words dripping with malice. "My sister will make sure you experience it firsthand."

With that, he stormed out, the door slamming shut with a deafening thud. I stared at it for a moment, the sound echoing in my ears, before closing my eyes and leaning back into the chair. My fingers instinctively pressed against the spot where the familiar ache had begun to spread again.

Since the day my mother died, hell has been my constant companion—every second, every breath, a reminder of the pain that never leaves. The place I live in, it's no different. It's a prison, a torment that never ceases. Hell isn't something new to me; it's been my reality for as long as I can remember.

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Revaan will have his own love story, exactly oppsite to his sister.

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