( before starting reading remember , Reader's The story' progress on Both Point of view our
Male character and Female character)
The whiskey in my glass swirls like liquid amber, catching the dim light of my office. Outside, Mumbai's skyline pulses with neon and ambition, but here, the world is silent. Controlled. *My* kind of silence.
Grandmother's call still rings in my ears. *"Aditya, beta, come home. There's something we need to discuss."* Her voice had trembled—not with age, but with… guilt? I drain the glass, the burn in my throat a welcome distraction.
The mahogany clock on the wall ticks louder than usual. *9:47 PM.* I should be reviewing the merger contracts, not dwelling on cryptic family summons. But when Gouri Oberoi says "come home," you come. Even if home is a sprawling South Mumbai mansion that feels more like a museum than a place where people live.
My driver, Ravi, doesn't speak as we glide through the city. Good. I'm not in the mood for small talk. The car smells of leather and my cologne—sharp, unyielding. Like me.
When we arrive, the house is lit like a wedding venue. My jaw tightens. Grandmother sits in the parlor, her silver hair coiled into a flawless bun, hands folded over a cream-colored envelope.
"Sit, Aditya," she says, her voice soft but firm.
I obey, loosening my tie. "What's this about?"
She slides the envelope toward me. Inside, a single photograph: a young woman with wild curls and a smile that could melt glaciers. *Suhani Mishra.* The name is scribbled in Grandmother's elegant script.
"Her grandmother and I made a promise sixty years ago," she says, avoiding my gaze. "A union between our families."
I stare at the photo. The woman's eyes are too bright, too… alive. "You're joking."
"I've never been more serious."
The air thickens. My fingers curl around the armrest. "You expect me to marry a stranger?"
"I expect you to honor your family," she snaps, then softens. "Meet her, Aditya. Just once. For me."
The clock chimes. *10:30 PM.* I stand, smoothing my suit. "I'll meet her. But that's all."
Her sigh follows me out. *"You'll thank me one day."*
Doubtful.
The ceiling fan groans above me, struggling against the Mumbai heat. I count the cracks in the plaster for the hundredth time. *Eleven.* One for every rupee I don't have.
"Suhani?" Ma's voice drifts from the kitchen, followed by a wet cough. My chest clenches. The medicine isn't working. Again.
"Coming, Ma!" I tuck the frayed hem of my kurta and hurry to her. She's leaning over the stove, stirring dal with trembling hands. The smell of cumin and desperation hangs in the air.
"Let me." I take the spoon, nudging her toward the rickety chair. Her skin is paper-thin, her eyes clouded with pain she'll never admit to.
"You shouldn't be doing this," she murmurs.
I force a smile. "And let you burn dinner? Never."
The lie tastes bitter. We both know why I'm here—why I dropped out of college, why I work three jobs. Promises. The ones I made to Dadi before she died. *"Take care of them, Suhani. No matter what."*
The knock at the door startles us. A man in a tailored suit stands in the hallway, clutching an ivory envelope. My name glows in gold script.
"Miss Mishra?" he says, like he's never spoken to someone in a fifth-floor walk-up before. "A message from Mrs. Gouri Oberoi."
The paper feels heavy. Inside, an invitation to the Oberoi mansion tomorrow. *"To discuss a matter of great importance to both our families."*
Ma's cough rattles louder. "What is it, beta?"
"Nothing," I lie, folding the letter. But my hands shake. Oberoi. The name is a legend—old money, power, a world where people don't count cracks in ceilings.
Dadi's voice whispers in my ear. *"Sometimes, promises are bridges, Suhani. Even if they're built on someone else's dreams."*
I don't sleep that night.
She arrives at noon.
I watch from the study window as a rusty auto-rickshaw sputters to the gate. The woman steps out, adjusting her dupatta with nervous hands. Her dress is simple, faded at the seams, but she walks like she owns the gravel beneath her feet.
Annoying.
Grandmother greets her at the door, clasping her hands like a long-lost granddaughter. I linger in the shadows, arms crossed.
"Aditya," Grandmother says, her tone a warning. *Behave.*
Suhani turns. Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, the room tilts.
She's… ordinary. No, not ordinary. *Alive.* Her cheeks are flushed from the heat, curls escaping her braid, and her gaze doesn't waver. Not even when I glare.
"Mr. Oberoi," she says, voice steady. "Thank you for meeting me."
I don't offer a hand. "This isn't my idea."
Her smile flickers. "Mine either. But here we are."
Grandmother excuses herself, leaving us in the suffocating silence of the parlor. Suhani sits, back straight, hands folded. A warrior in a borrowed sari.
"Let's be clear," I say, pacing. "I'm not interested in marriage. Or you."
She tilts her head. "Then why agree to meet?"
"Family duty."
"Ah." Her lips quirk. "So you're a man who keeps promises."
"And you're a woman who doesn't know her place."
The words hang, sharp as glass. I expect tears. Flinching. Instead, she laughs—a warm, rich sound that shouldn't belong in this sterile room.
"My place?" She stands, meeting my gaze. "I've scrubbed floors, sold chai on trains, and carried my brother to the hospital on my back. My 'place' is wherever I decide to stand, Mr. Oberoi."
For the first time in years, I'm speechless.
She steps closer, her perfume a mix of jasmine and defiance. "But if you're so against this, why not just say no?"
The answer claws at my throat. *Because Grandmother's the only person I've ever loved. Because I owe her everything.*
I don't say it.
Instead, I reach into my pocket and slide a contract across the table. A business proposal. Cold, logical. *My* language.
"Two years," I say. "A marriage on paper. You'll want for nothing. After that, we divorce. Quietly."
She scans the document, her brow furrowing. "And your grandmother?"
"We'll tell her it didn't work out."
Silence. Then—
"No."
I freeze. "What?"
She pushes the paper back. "I don't lie to family, Mr. Oberoi. If I do this, it's real. Or not at all."
Her audacity is infuriating. Thrilling.
"You're a fool," I snap.
She smiles. "Maybe. But I keep my promises."
Grandmother chooses that moment to return, her eyes bright with hope. "Well?"
Suhani looks at me, challenge burning in her gaze.
*Damn her.*
"We'll need a wedding date," I say through gritted teeth.
Suhani's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "How about tomorrow?"
I don't sleep.
The contract sits on my desk, unsigned. *Two years.* A blink of time for a man like me. But Grandmother's words coil around my throat: *"She's not a transaction, Aditya. She's a person."*
As if I don't know that.
At dawn, I find myself in the family temple—a marble shrine tucked in the mansion's east wing. Incense smoke curls around my father's portrait. His eyes, sharp and disapproving, follow me. *Weakness killed him,* they seem to say. *Love is a weakness.*
"You're up early."
Grandmother stands in the doorway, draped in a silk shawl. Her gaze flicks to the untouched contract. "You're still resisting."
"You gave me no choice."
She steps closer, her perfume mingling with the sandalwood air. "You always have a choice, beta. You chose *her*."
"I chose *you*," I snap.
Her smile is sad. "Suhani will surprise you. She's stronger than you think."
"Strength won't pay the bills. Or clean up the mess when this fails."
She touches my arm, her fingers frail but firm. "Give her a chance. Give *yourself* one."
The door closes behind her. I crush the contract in my fist.
Ma cries when I tell her.
"You can't do this," she pleads, clutching my hands. Her knuckles are swollen, her wedding band loose. "We'll manage. We always do."
I kiss her forehead. "The Oberois will pay for your treatments. For Raj's school. This is how I keep my promise, Ma."
My brother, Raj, glares from the corner. At sixteen, he's all rage and guilt. "Sell yourself to some rich bastard? That's your solution?"
"Raj—"
"No! I'll quit school. Get a job. You don't have to martyr yourself!"
I grab his shoulders. "You'll *finish* school. Become something better. That's the promise."
He shakes me off, slamming the door. The sound cracks through me.
Dadi's photo watches from the altar. *"Sometimes the hardest promises are the ones that save us,"* she'd say.
I hope she's right.
The wedding is a farce.
No guests. No garlands. Just a priest, Grandmother, and the hollow echo of mantras in the Oberoi temple.
Suhani arrives in a cream saree—borrowed, I assume. No bridal red, no gold. Her hair is braided with jasmine, her wrists bare.
She kneels beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. Static. Annoying.
The priest ties our hands with a silk cloth. Her skin is warm. Calloused.
"Repeat after me," he says.
She does, her voice steady. Mine grates like a blade on stone.
*I'm binding myself to a stranger.*
*For Grandmother.*
*For control.*
But when the priest declares us married, Suhani turns to me. Her eyes glisten—not with tears, but defiance.
"Your move, Mr. Oberoi," she whispers.
His house is a fortress.
Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, art that probably costs more than Mumbai slums. A maid leads me to "my room"—a gilded cage with a bed big enough to drown in.
"Mr. Oberoi's suite is down the hall," she says, avoiding my gaze.
Of course.
I unpack my single suitcase: two sarees, Ma's old photo, Dadi's chipped teacup. The room swallows them whole.
A knock. Aditya leans against the doorframe, tie gone, sleeves rolled up. His eyes are midnight storms.
"Rules," he says.
I cross my arms. "Let me guess. Don't touch you. Don't speak to you. Don't exist?"
"Don't enter my office. Don't ask about my business. Don't *ever* disturb me after 9 PM."
"And if I break a rule?"
He steps closer, his cologne a wall of ice. "You won't like the consequences."
I hold his stare. "You don't scare me."
A muscle twitches in his jaw. "You're in my world now. It's time you learned fear."
He leaves.
I sink onto the bed, trembling.
But I don't cry.
She's in the garden at midnight.
I watch from the balcony as she paces barefoot, muttering to the roses. Moonlight turns her into a ghost—a beautiful, stubborn ghost.
"Can't sleep?" she calls, sensing me.
I don't answer.
She plucks a rose, thorn and all. "They're dying. Too much pesticide, not enough care."
"They're fine."
"You don't see it." She looks up, her face raw with honesty. "But you will."
I retreat inside.
Her voice follows. "Goodnight, Aditya."
*Damn her.*
The clock reads 5:03 AM. I've been awake since her voice slithered under my door. *"Goodnight, Aditya."* As if we're characters in some sentimental drama.
I descend to the dining room, where the staff has laid out chai and toast—thinly buttered, no jam. My usual. But today, the table holds a cluttered tray of *poha*, sliced mango, and a vase of roses. *Her* doing.
She walks in, hair damp from a shower, wearing one of the sarees I had delivered to her room. Midnight blue. It clashes with her stubbornness.
"You rearranged the menu," I say, not looking up from the financial Times.
"The cook said you only eat toast. That's… sad." She pours chai into a cup, the clink of porcelain grating on my nerves.
"Stick to your room. Not the kitchen."
She slides the mango toward me. "Try it. It's sweeter than your temper."
I glare. She smiles.
The maid, Leela, hovers in the doorway, stifling a laugh. *Traitor.*
He eats the mango.
Not that he'd admit it. But I see the subtle shift—the tightness in his jaw softening as the fruit touches his tongue. Victory, small and sweet.
Later, I find the garden. The roses sag, their petals edged with brown. The gardener shrugs when I ask for shears. "Mr. Oberoi likes them as they are."
*As they are—dying?*
I trim the dead blooms myself, thorns biting my palms. Soil stains my saree, but the air smells alive again.
A shadow falls over me. Aditya stands there, tie knotted like a noose, eyes narrowed.
"You're ruining the landscaping."
"You're ruining the roses." I snap a brittle stem. "They need light. Air. Not just… *existence*."
He steps closer, his polished shoes crushing a fallen petal. "Stay out of my way, Suhani."
"Or what? You'll add another rule?"
His gaze flicks to my dirty hands. For a heartbeat, something flickers—curiosity? Disgust? He leaves without a word.
But that night, a new pair of gardening gloves appears outside my door.
The merger contract mocks me.
*Varma Industries: 12% profit margin. Acquisition terms: favorable.*
But the numbers blur. All I see is her in the garden, hair wild, defiant. *She's a distraction.*
Grandmother calls. "How is she?"
"Alive," I mutter.
"Good. Invite her to the gala next week."
"No."
"Aditya—"
"She doesn't belong there."
Silence. Then, softly: "Neither did you, once."
The line goes dead.
Raj calls, his voice cracking. "Ma's worse. The hospital says they need a deposit."
I clutch the phone, staring at the mansion's gilded walls. "I'll fix it."
Aditya's office door is ajar. He's at his desk, glasses perched low, fingers drumming a restless rhythm.
"I need an advance," I say.
He doesn't look up. "Read the contract. Allowances are disbursed monthly."
"This isn't for me. It's for my mother."
His pen pauses. "Your financial burdens aren't my concern."
The words sting, but I step inside. "You married me. That makes them yours."
He removes his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How much?"
"Two lakh."
He barks a laugh. "Bold."
"It's a drop in your ocean."
He scribbles a check, flings it at me. "Don't make this a habit."
The paper flutters to the floor. I leave it there.
"You'll have to hand it to me properly," I say. "Or are you afraid to touch what you've bought?"
His chair scrapes back. He looms over me, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his grey eyes. "Careful, Mrs. Oberoi."
The title feels like a slap. I bend, pick up the check, and walk out.
But not before I see his fist clench.
She's crying.
I hear it through the wall—muffled, angry sobs. The sound claws at me. *Weakness,* I tell myself. *Ignore it.*
Yet I find myself at her door, hand raised to knock.
Pathetic.
I retreat to the study, pour a drink, and bury myself in numbers.
But the numbers have her eyes now.
The gloves fit perfectly.
I wear them to the garden at dawn, pruning the roses until my arms ache. Aditya watches from his balcony, silent.
When I finish, one bud has bloomed—crimson, defiant.
I pluck it, leave it on his desk.
No note.
He'll know.
The rose on my desk is a rebellion.
Its crimson petals mock the sterile order of my office. I should toss it. Instead, I place it in a crystal vase—*temporarily*—and try to focus on the merger documents. But its scent lingers, jasmine and defiance, like *her*.
Grandmother's assistant interrupts. "The gala final guest list, sir. Mrs. Oberoi insisted your… *wife* attend."
The word *wife* curdles in the air. "Tell her no."
"She said to remind you: 'A vow in public binds louder than one in private.'"
I crumple the list. "Fine. Send a stylist. Make Suhani presentable."
"She asked to choose her own outfit, sir."
Of course she did.
The stylist arrives with racks of sequins and silk. "Mr. Oberoi's credit card is ready," she chirps.
I shut the door. "I'll wear my own clothes."
Ma's only saree—a deep green with gold thread—is folded in my suitcase. Dadi wore it at her wedding. *"True beauty doesn't need price tags,"* she'd say.
But when I slip it on, the mirror shows a stranger. A woman caught between worlds.
Aditya's knock is impatient. "We're late."
He freezes when he sees me. His gaze lingers a beat too long on the saree, the frayed edge peeking beneath the pallu.
"You'll embarrass yourself," he says coldly.
"Then it's my embarrassment to wear."
His jaw tightens. "Let's go."
The gala is a circus of greed.
Politicians and socialites orbit me, their laughter sharp as shrapnel. Suhani stays close, her hand stiff on my arm.
"Aditya! Who's this?" Rohan Varma leers, champagne sloshing in his glass.
"My wife," I grind out.
Rohan's smirk widens. "A charity project, eh? How… *noble*."
Suhani's grip tightens. "Actually, I'm his lesson in humility. He's failing spectacularly."
The crowd titters. Rohan's face reddens.
I steer her away. "Was that necessary?"
"You left me no lines to read. So I improvised."
Her eyes spark, and for a moment, I forget to hate her.
He abandons me by the balcony.
The moon hangs low, the city's heartbeat distant. A woman in diamonds sidles up. "You're the new Oberoi bride? How… quaint."
"Quaint beats hollow," I say, smiling sweetly.
Her mouth opens, but a voice cuts through. "There you are."
Aditya grips my waist, pulling me close. His touch burns. "Time to go."
The crowd whispers as we leave.
In the car, he yanks off his tie. "You humiliated me."
"You humiliated yourself."
Silence. Then—
"That saree," he mutters. "It's… not terrible."
I laugh. "Was that a compliment?"
"Don't push it."
But the corner of his mouth twitches.
She falls asleep on the drive home, head lolling against the window. Moonlight softens her edges, and suddenly, she's not the thorn in my side—just a woman, exhausted.
I carry her inside, her weight slight against my chest.
Grandmother waits in the foyer, eyes gleaming. "Told you she'd surprise you."
I lay Suhani on her bed, her saree pooling like emerald shadows.
The rose from my desk sits on her nightstand. *How?*
She stirs, murmuring, "Aditya…"
I flee before the word sinks deeper.
I wake to roses.
A dozen crimson blooms crowd my room, thorns and all. No note.
But I know.
Downstairs, Aditya's voice barks through the house. "Who ordered these?"
The gardener stammers. "Y-you did, sir. Last night."
Silence. Then, a door slams.
I press a smile into my chai.
*He's learning.*