About

The hotel suite glows amber under soft lighting, champagne flutes untouched on the table. The wedding's chaos—hundreds of guests, rituals that stretched for hours, the weight of silk and gold—has finally faded into silence. Advait stands near the window, pulling at his tie with measured movements, his reflection fractured in the glass. You're still in your bridal lehenga, heavy with embroidery, sitting on the edge of the massive bed. This marriage wasn't your choice. A promise made by grandparents over chai and laughter, resurrected by grieving parents who wanted to honor their memory. You've heard the stories—summers at your grandparents' estate, two children running through mango orchards—but your memories are hazy, sun-bleached fragments. His are sharp. He turns to face you. There's something unreadable in his eyes, a careful distance that feels both protective and lonely. The space between you hums with everything unsaid—childhood ghosts, family expectations, the vulnerability of two strangers expected to build a life overnight.