02.

𝐀𝐥𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚

There he stood—right in front of me.

Not with loathing in his eyes, but with concern.

Seeing him hover over me as I sat on the ground, I quickly pulled my legs in and stood up. I tilted my head up to meet his gaze—he was taller, as always.

“Enough drama? Or do you want to put on more of a show?” he asked, his voice rough.

Freaking bastard.

“I won’t marry you, Yuvraj!” I snapped.

And he smiled.

He smiled.

He had the audacity to curl those lips like this was some joke?

“Aise hi chalogi ya utha ke le chalun?”

That smile of his—so infuriatingly calm. He loves pissing me off.

“What part of no do you not understand?” I shot back, my voice louder this time. “You’ve lost your mind, Yuvraj. This isn’t how marriages work!”

“The same no I kept yelling when you left me there to die in that hell,” he growled, stepping closer. His voice was sharp, eyes now burning with rage.

His hands gripped my arms.

Tight.

---

Flashback: 3 years ago

“Aliya!! What’s going on here?! What the hell is he saying?!”

Yuvraj screamed, his voice shaky. Vulnerable.

He was on the ground—dirt covering his skin, shirt ripped, wounds all over.

His hands tied behind his back. His legs bound.

Everyone looked at me—expecting fear, panic, something.

But they found nothing.

I turned.

And I walked away.

---

Present

“So you’re here because your ego’s bruised? Because I left you?” I snapped, knowing I had no argument, just empty provocations.

He exhaled sharply and grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward his car.

“I didn’t betray you,” I shouted. “You did!”

He shoved the car door open and pinned me between the car and his arms, both hands resting on either side of me.

Caged again.

“Did I?”

His voice was low now, venomous.

“You were so damn smart, Aliya. You made me feel guilty for something I never even did. And I believed it.” He paused, eyes locking onto mine.

“Do you know how I cried, thinking I ruined everything?” His voice cracked for a second. Just a second. “And then I found out the truth. That it was you all along.” He leaned in closer.

“So? What do you have to say now?”

I swallowed, silent.

He saw it—the color draining from my face.

And he smirked again.

“Speechless now, love?”

“Okay, so what?” I spat, my pride dragging me back.

“I didn’t love you, Yuvraj. Why can’t you just move on? Weren’t three years enough?”

He opened the door of the car and made me sit. It's not like I didn't try to open the gate but he locked it. Sitting on the driver's seat, he started the car.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The red sindoor and mangalsutra.

Yes, I'm almost married to him.

The priest announces it's time for the pheras—seven rounds around the holy fire, taking vows for each other.

I lift my legs to stand up, but after running around so much, and with the heaviness of the lehenga, it’s pretty hard. Seeing me struggle, he lifts me up in his arms—bridal style.

"Zyada filmy nahi ho rahe tum?" I say. I don't want to admit it, but it feels... calm here. I feel calm here. Who would believe me if I said I was at peace during my 'forced' marriage?

My arms wrap around his neck—I mean, I can’t take risks wearing such a heavy lehenga. What if he drops me?

"Zyada ho gaya na?" he asks, turning his face slightly toward me while Pandit ji recites the mantras I can't even pretend to understand. I’ve only ever seen weddings in movies.

"Haan," I reply.

To which this sweet idiot says, "Tumhara weight. Woh zyada ho gaya hai."

This guy. He lives to irritate me. Like—does he even know how to be serious? No, he doesn’t. I still remember how many times we got scolded in college because of this guy laughing at the most serious moments.

"You fuc—" Before I can curse him, he cuts me off.

"Oye! Pati ko mandap mein gaali dogi!?"

"Gali khane waali harkate hi kyun kar rahe ho, dear pati?" I stretch the pati part, just to tease him.

He slowly tries to make me stand on my feet.

"Oye dear pati, neeche kyun utar rahe ho?" I ask. I mean, I feel good up here. My legs are already killing me. It's better if I don’t use them. I’m not that heavy, am I?

"Saat phere ho gaye, dear patni."

Oh.

Still—dude—my legs are paining. I don’t want to walk.

He finally sets me down, but I keep my grip firm on his shoulder.

To stand properly... or you could say—

I just made him my human stand.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

"Drama is yet to begin, dear patni ji," he says in a teasing tone.

We’re both sitting in his car right now, going... wait, I don't even know where.

"What drama?" I ask.

Well, I do love drama and kalesh, but only when it’s happening to other people.

"Ghar pe hoga na abhi drama aur kalesh," he replies, putting his hands behind his head, sitting like he owns the world.

"Acha—WTF? Yuvraj!? Gaadi modho! Driver bhaiya, gaadi modho! Humein nahi jaana inke ghar!"

What does he even mean!? His family is huge. I mean, at least according to me. He lives in a joint family, in a freaking mansion.

And when I say huge, I mean it—his grandfather, his parents, his tauji-taiji, his two elder brothers.

How do I know?

Well... who doesn’t? The Chauhan family is always in the news.

"Aap baat mat suniye iski, gaadi chalayie aap bas," he says, and presses some button, making a divider rise between us and the driver.

"Mujhe nahi milna tumhari family se!" I protest, frowning hard.

"Kya 'nahi milna'? Itne saalon se yahi baat sun sun ke pak gaya hoon main. Ab toh milna hi padega," he says, leaning toward me, his thumb gently brushing my forehead.

Trying to smooth the frown.

Stupid husband.

"Zabardasti le jaoge kya? Aise thodi na hota hai! Nahi milna toh nahi milna!"

"Nayi navelli dulhan ki tarah mat sharmao, tumhare sasural wale hain. Milna toh padega. Starting mein thoda kalesh hoga, par acche log hain. Baad mein maan jaayenge," he says, leaning in even more.

I swear, if this was a movie, violins would’ve started playing right now. Annoying ones

At first, it was just the heavy lehenga and all this jewelry killing me—but now he is leaning in, making me more nervous than ever.

"Main nayi navelli dulhan hi hoon, buddhu! Aur agar zabardasti le jaoge toh... toh main—"

I poke my finger into his chest to push him back.

"Toh tum?" he says, catching my wrist and pulling me slightly closer.

This chipku man.

But what do I even say to convince him? I’m freaking out.

I mean, how can I just meet my sasural wale like this? What would I say?

Hello, namaste. Main aapke laadle bete ki dharam patni hoon. Haan, ye mujhe bhaga ke shaadi karke laaye hain.

Yeah... no. I can’t say that.

"Kya soch rahi ho, dear patni? Warna batao, tum kya karogi?" he asks, noticing my blank stare.

"I’ll faint. Haan, behosh ho jaungi! Fir khud sambhalna apni family ko," I say, dead serious.

He looks like he’s about to laugh—I know that face—but my serious tone stops him. He starts frowning instead. Serious mode: on.

"Aww, so sweet of you. Ho jaana behosh. Okie?" he replies with a fake soft tone, teasing me.

To irritate me further, he grabs my wrist again—my bangles clink—and he places a soft kiss on them.

"Chipku," I mutter, yanking my hand back.

To which he grins, tilting his head just a bit, "No, I'm biwipaglu only." I roll my eyes, but my lips betray me with a tiny smile.

The car stopped with a sudden jolt. I looked out the windo

w— And there it was, standing tall like a villain in a climax scene: The Chauhan Mansion. My battlefield.

The real drama? Ab shuru hoga. Time to behosh hona aliya.

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