Hriday stepped out of the bathroom, his presence as effortless as a late summer breeze. A soft, ivory cotton shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, its fabric clinging slightly to his damp skin. Paired with relaxed trousers, he looked like a man who carried no burdens—calm, untroubled. His still-wet hair curled slightly at the forehead, glistening under the golden haze of the bedside lamp.
He walked towards her with measured ease.
"Sweetheart, let's sleep—"
"Saksham came a few minutes ago," Gauri interrupted, her tone casual yet unmistakably firm. "He said you need to go to Treaser."
"For what?" Hriday asked, lifting a brow with curiosity.
"For the bachelor party," she replied while moving about the room, her fingers smoothing the bedsheets with absent-minded precision, as though trying to iron out the wrinkles in her own thoughts.
Hriday crossed the room in a few strides and enveloped her from behind. His arms encircled her waist gently, anchoring her to the moment.
"Sweetheart..."
he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to the curve of her neck.
A shiver danced down Gauri's spine. She closed her eyes.
"Hmm..." she responded, her voice caught somewhere between surrender and contemplation.
He watched her carefully, the soft glow of the lamp painting her cheek in amber hues.
"Should I go?" he asked, his voice almost too quiet to hear.
She turned slightly, her eyes searching his face, startled by the question. He had never asked like this before.
"Why are you asking me?"
she murmured, her tone tinged with both confusion and something deeper—something tender.
Hriday offered a small smile.
"Because I wanted to. Because you always ask me before you do anything. I thought maybe... I should too."
"You can go," she said quietly. "I don't have a problem."
"Are you sure? I might be late... and I might end up drunk."
Gauri smiled at that—a knowing, soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She turned fully.
"And why are you telling me this, hmm?" she teased, voice barely above a breath.
"Because if I do get drunk,"
Hriday whispered with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I'll probably kiss you so much... you'll taste the alcohol on my lips."
Gauri's heart skipped. She blushed but held her gaze. "I don't care," she murmured, her pulse loud in her ears.
Hriday laughed then, the sound low and warm, melting away the tension that lingered in the air.
"I won't get drunk," he promised suddenly, as if sealing a vow.
The declaration made her look at him again, surprised.
"But..." he added, voice dipping lower, eyes glinting with mischief, "...I'll need something from you first."
Gauri blinked. "What?"
"Those glossy lips of yours," he said, grinning like a boy with a secret.
Her eyes widened. "Seriously, Hriday? Ummm—Mmmph—"
Her protest was silenced by the press of his lips against hers—soft, claiming, inevitable.
The Bachelor Party
The night unfolded like ink across silk—quiet, velvety, eternal. On the rooftop of Treaser, city lights twinkled like a scattered constellation. Hriday sat in a secluded corner, nursing a drink, his gaze lost somewhere among the stars.
Mayank ambled over, glass in hand, and collapsed onto the couch beside him.
"You look like your soul stayed home," Mayank muttered, half-smiling.
"Nothing," Hriday said, the lie frail on his tongue.
Mayank didn't push. He took a sip and said instead, "Don't overthink it. I know work's been overwhelming, but starting tomorrow, I'll handle the project. Mr. Jones called today—sent early congratulations for the wedding."
"It's not work," Hriday confessed after a moment. "It's... Gauri. Ever since they found out we're married, they've all changed. They treat her like a stranger—like she doesn't belong."
Mayank exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting to the sky.
"You kept the marriage secret, Hriday. It's only been a few days since they found out. Give them time. You can't expect the wound to heal overnight."
"I didn't mean to hid—"
"You don't have to explain. I know Gauri tried. But people... they need their own time, their own way to forgive."
"I am waiting, for that day."
Hriday's voice broke slightly.
Mayank was quiet. Sometimes, silence was the only language that didn't lie.
The next day, the mandap stood adorned in gold and crimson, the air filled with scent of marigolds and sandalwood. The bride and groom—Mayank and Isha—sat side by side, sacred fire flickering between them.
Hriday and Gauri stood nearby, watching from the fringes.
When the moment for the gatbandhan came, Maithili and Mansi signaled for Kesar to step forward. But Mayank turned toward Gauri.
"Gauri, I want you to tie the gatbandhan."
She hesitated. "But I—"
"Sweetheart, go," Hriday said softly, though Gauri could feel the icy glares from Maithili and Mansi piercing her back.
Kesar beamed. "Yes, Bhabhi! You should do it."
Mayank's voice was gentle. "It would mean a lot to me."
Gauri stepped forward, her hands trembling slightly as she tied the sacred knot with reverence. She whispered a prayer under her breath.
"Now that you are husband and wife, take blessings from the elders," the panditji announced.
The couple bowed, touching the feet of their elders.
Later that evening, the family gathered at Mayank's house for post-wedding rituals.
Kesar sidled up to Isha, smirking.
"Time for your suhagraat, Bhabhi!" she teased.
Isha blushed furiously.
"Oh-ho! Blushing like a tomato won't help you tonight. Here—my gift for you," Kesar said dramatically, handing her a box wrapped in shimmer and ribbon.
"What is it?" Isha asked, hesitantly.
"Something every bride needs for her wedding night," Kesar giggled, winking.
Nearby, Gauri stood awkwardly. Isha wasn't close to her. She remained silent.
Kesar grabbed Gauri's hand. "Come on, Gauri Bhabhi, let's go."
Hriday lounged comfortably on a couch, sipping coffee. Saksham glanced at Mayank.
"Mayank Bhai, shouldn't you be with your wife by now?"
"I will be," Mayank replied, then added, "But first—we need to talk about the award function in London next week. Since I'm going on my honeymoon... you and Gauri need to attend in my place."
Hriday nodded. "Okay."
Saksham grinned and handed Mayank a box. "My gift for tonight."
Mayank raised an eyebrow. He was about to open it when Saksham stopped him.
"Wait! Open it when you're alone."
Mayank frowned. "What is it?"
"Something you'll definitely need tonight," Saksham replied, smirking.
Hriday and Mayank exchanged a look—and then it clicked.
"Is it what I think it is?!"
Mayank asked.
"What else could this idiot have thought of?"
Hriday groaned.
They both laughed, shaking their heads.
The mansion was wrapped in a hush, the morning light filtering softly through long curtains as Hriday stepped out of his room. He moved through the hall with a faint furrow in his brow—Gauri's room was empty. Her bed untouched. Her books still lay open, as though she'd been pulled away mid-thought.
A quiet frown formed on his face.
"Where did she go this early...?"
Then, a distant clatter.
Metal against ceramic. A soft, humming voice. His steps instinctively followed the sound.
The kitchen. A place rarely touched by the family themselves. Yet there she was.
Gauri stood barefoot on the cool marble tiles, her back to him. She was dressed in a light blue kurti, hair tied up carelessly, a few strands falling to her cheeks as steam curled around her like mist. Her hands moved deftly pouring chai into two cups, stirring gently, lost in the simplicity of the task.
She didn't notice him until he spoke.
"Gauri."
She turned, startled, but quickly recovered with a soft smile. "You're up."
Hriday stepped inside, leaning slightly against the doorframe. "What are you doing in here?"
"Just... making coffee," she replied, turning her gaze back to the counter. "Felt like it."
"You could've asked someone from the staff."
"I know." She slid a cup toward him. "But I wanted to. For you."
He approached slowly, picked up the cup, the warm ceramic grounding him. Her voice was calm, but something in her eyes—something distant—unsettled him.
"You didn't sleep much last night, did you?" he asked, reading the fatigue in her expression.
She hesitated for the briefest moment before replying. "Not really. Too much on my mind."
"Is it something I should know about?" he asked gently, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"No," she said quickly. Too quickly.
Then she softened her tone. "It's just... wedding stress, maybe. Too many people, too many emotions. It gets overwhelming sometimes."
Hriday studied her face, searching for something more—but Gauri had already turned back to the counter, pretending to adjust the sugar container.
He stepped closer. "Gauri. You'd tell me if something happened, wouldn't you?"
She looked up and offered him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course. You don't need to worry. I'm fine."
There was a pause.
Not long, but long enough for him to feel the weight of what wasn't said.
He wanted to ask again. Press her. But something held him back—maybe it was the quiet plea in her smile. Maybe it was the way her shoulders were drawn too straight, too tense for someone claiming to be fine.
Instead, he gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"Alright," he murmured. "But if you're carrying anything heavy... I want to carry it with you."
Her gaze dropped for a moment.
"I know," she whispered.
And though the tea was warm between their palms, the silence that lingered between them held the sting of something unspoken.
The morning sun spilled across the dining room, casting sharp, clean light onto the long mahogany table set for four. The silverware gleamed, napkins folded with meticulous precision, and a delicate aroma of cardamom and fresh ghee hung in the air—comforting, homey.
Hriday walked in with a leather file in hand, dressed in a crisp shirt and watch gleaming at his wrist. But his gaze flickered briefly toward the empty chair at the end of the table.
Gauri's chair.
She wasn't there.
He remembered her words from just a few minutes earlier, soft and measured as she stood at the threshold of her room.
"I don't feel too well. I think I'll just stay in and rest today."
She had smiled faintly, her hand brushing against the doorframe like she needed support.
He hadn't pushed. She looked tired. Pale. Maybe it really was nothing.
"Okay, sweetheart. Call me if you need anything," he'd said gently.
Now, as he slid into his own seat, his mother Maithili sat across from him, composed as always, her eyes lowered, a perfect picture of poise. Shikhar, his father, was skimming the day's newspaper, adjusting his glasses occasionally. At the head of the table sat Dadaji—Harshvardhan—silent, regal, his cane resting by the chair, a calm authority emanating from him.
"Where's Gauri?" Shikhar asked casually, flipping a page.
"She said she's not feeling well. I told her to rest," Hriday replied, carefully keeping his tone neutral.
Maithili didn't comment. Not even a glance. She continued buttering her toast in deliberate silence.
Dadaji gave a soft grunt, barely audible, as he reached for his tea. The table fell into a quiet rhythm of clinking cutlery and occasional spoonfuls of upma, the air heavy with unspoken words.
Hriday tasted the meal—warm, balanced, and unmistakably made by Gauri. He could tell. She always added a hint of ginger to the sambhar, just the way he liked.
He looked up, a quiet ache creeping into his chest.
She had cooked. Despite feeling unwell. Despite not showing up. Despite everything.
That small act of care sat heavier than any confrontation could have.
"Food is good today," Shikhar said, nonchalantly.
Maithili simply nodded. "The staff must've learned from her."
Hriday's jaw tightened at that. He didn't reply.
He finished his breakfast in silence, the sounds of the table fading into a blur. Across from him, Maithili never once met his eyes. And upstairs, he imagined Gauri curled under a blanket, quiet, alone.
He stood up once done. "I'll head to office. Let me know if anything's needed."
Dadaji gave a nod. Shikhar glanced up from his paper with a brief "Take care."
Maithili didn't say a word.
As Hriday walked out, something in him tugged—faint but persistent. A whisper of discomfort. Gauri was hiding something.
But for now, he silenced the thought.
She said she wasn't feeling well.
And he had chosen to believe her.
The soft click of the main door echoed faintly through the marble corridors of the mansion.
He had left.
Gauri stood by the window of her room, still dressed in the pale peach kurti from earlier, her arms wrapped around herself as though holding her body together. The morning sunlight painted warm gold across the floor, but it did little to chase the cold from her bones.
She watched Hriday's car pull away from the driveway, disappearing beyond the front gates.
Only then did she let the smile fall from her face. Her shoulders slumped. A long, trembling breath escaped her lips. She had lied to him. She hated doing it—but what else could she say?
"Your mother came to my room last night. She said I'm not allowed to be your wife. That I shouldn't even call her 'Mom.' That I'm not welcome."
She couldn't say that. Not to Hriday. Not after everything he was already trying to shoulder. He had enough weight on his back.
So she took this one quietly. Folded it away inside her like the corners of a letter never sent.
The breakfast she'd made was still on the tray by the door—she hadn't eaten. She didn't have the appetite. Only the urge to do something—anything—that would make her feel useful. Present.
Still real.
She sat on the edge of her bed, hands in her lap, fingers loosely knotted. The silence in the room wasn't peaceful. It was the kind that hummed in your ears and reminded you just how alone you were.
The clock ticked on.
She glanced at the floor, at the books she hadn't touched since last night. Her study materials. Her dreams. The life she had been building before she fell into this whirlwind—this marriage, this secret, this family who didn't want her.
She wasn't angry. That would've been easier.
She just felt... displaced.
She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
How long can I do this?
The afternoon light slanted through the window blinds, painting shifting lines on the floor of Gauri's room. She sat curled on the edge of her bed, a shawl draped around her shoulders. The house was silent, save for the occasional distant clink of utensils or the hum of the washing machine downstairs.
Her phone sat in her hand, the screen glowing faintly with Hriday's contact open.
She stared at it.
Typed slowly.
"Have you eaten lunch?"
She paused.
Backspaced.
Typed again.
"Missing you."
Then deleted that too.
Her thumb hovered over the keypad, her chest heavy with hesitation.
What if he's busy?
What if he sees it hours later and just replies with a 'yes' or 'ok'?
What if I just leave him alone? He has enough to worry about.
She sighed and set the phone aside.
The reality was simple—Hriday hadn't messaged since he left. No "reached safely," no "are you okay," not even a brief emoji like he usually sent when he was tied up in meetings.
Gauri shook her head gently, trying not to let the silence gnaw at her.
She told herself it wasn't personal. He was at work. Running a company. Handling deadlines.
But today, of all days, she wished he had checked in—just once.
A knock at the door startled her.
It was a house help, looking a little nervous. "Gauri, Madam said no need to prepare the food, the chef already did."
Gauri blinked. "I—what?"
"She said you're not well, so no need to come to the dining area. Should I bring something up for you?"
Gauri's chest constricted.
"No," she said softly. "Thank you. I'm not hungry."
The maid nodded and left.
Gauri closed the door gently and leaned against it, eyes closed.
Even my illness is being used to keep me away.
She returned to her bed, glanced at her phone one last time, and turned it face-down.
And for the rest of the afternoon, she sat in that silence, trying not to hope that his name would light up the screen.
The reception hall was bathed in soft golden lights, crystal chandeliers sparkling above as laughter and classical music wove through the air. Elegant arrangements of white roses and orchids lined the walkways, and guests in silk and shimmer moved like they were part of a carefully rehearsed play.
The Shekhawat family entered together, radiating poise and prestige.
Shikhar walked beside Maithili, his hand lightly resting on her back, as Dadaji—Harshvardhan—followed with slow, regal steps, nodding politely at familiar faces.
Hriday walked behind them, adjusting the sleeve of his navy-blue suit. And though his face wore the polite smile of the occasion, his eyes flicked across the crowd—searching.
Gauri followed a few steps behind, wrapped in a deep maroon saree with delicate zardozi work glinting at the hem. She had tied her hair in a soft bun, subtle sindoor glimmering at her parting.
She walked quietly. With grace.
But not beside Hriday. Not quite.
As they reached the center of the reception, family friends swarmed around, and flashes from cameras began popping. Congratulatory hugs, smiles for the guests, glasses of juice passed around.
And then Maithili's gaze found her.
Sanjana Ranawat.
Draped in an opulent sapphire saree, diamonds glittering at her ears, and her lips curled in that practiced smile that never quite reached her eyes.
"Sanjana!" Maithili approached, her expression softening into politeness.
"Maithili," Sanjana purred, embracing her lightly. "Oh, my goodness. What a night. Mayank and Isha look divine."
"They do," Maithili said with a soft nod, glancing briefly at the stage where the couple greeted guests.
Sanjana's gaze, however, had already shifted—to Gauri.
She clicked her tongue softly.
"She's really starting to make herself comfortable, isn't she?"
Maithili remained silent.
Sanjana leaned in, lowering her voice. "I mean, I know Hriday's stubborn. But you still haven't told the staff about the marriage, have you? That's wise. No need to let that girl start thinking she's actually a Shekhawat ."
Still, Maithili said nothing. Her expression remained unreadable.
Sanjana chuckled softly, taking the silence as agreement.
"She's pretty, sure. Sweet, maybe. But those types? Always too quick to believe they belong. And by the time you notice, they've already made a place for themselves—unearned."
Maithili's fingers stiffened on the clutch in her hand.
But again—no reply.
No protest.
Just stillness.
"She's a phase, Maithili. Just wait. Hriday will realize it too. Eventually."
Maithili's eyes flicked toward Gauri.
She was across the room, helping Isha with her heavy dupatta, adjusting the folds with quiet focus, unaware of the glances, the whispers, the daggers laced in sugar.
"She's not dressed like a guest tonight," Sanjana added, sipping her drink. "Almost like she belongs."
Maithili finally looked at her friend—not with anger, but with something colder. Something unreadable.
Then, still silent, she turned away.
Not in agreement.
Not in defense.
Just withdrawal.
And that silence, sharper than words, left Sanjana blinking as Maithili walked toward the stage—expression composed, thoughts unreadable.
Behind them, the music swelled. The cameras flashed again.
And the storm, as always, stayed invisible to those who weren't looking close enough.
The reception was in full swing.
Laughter mingled with the hum of clinking glasses, and the photographer's flash bathed the couple on stage in white bursts of light. From the outside, it looked perfect—smiling guests, shimmering decor, the scent of roses heavy in the air.
Hriday stood near the edge of the crowd, sipping from a glass of sparkling water, nodding absently as a business associate rambled about a potential collaboration.
But his eyes weren't on the speaker.
They were on her.
Gauri.
She stood by the floral archway near the stage, dressed beautifully—effortlessly graceful—but there was something different about her tonight.
She wasn't smiling as much.
She wasn't laughing the way she usually did when Kesar joked.
She wasn't drifting toward him, the way she always had before, as if drawn by some invisible string.
Instead, she stood quietly at the edge of every conversation, answering politely, offering help, but never quite stepping in. Never quite belonging.
She looked... tired.
Not physically. Emotionally.
And Hriday felt a pang in his chest he couldn't explain.
"You're not listening," the man beside him said with a chuckle, snapping Hriday out of his thoughts.
"Apologies," Hriday said smoothly, flashing a practiced smile. "Just thinking about something. Excuse me for a moment."
He weaved through the guests and stopped when he reached Gauri. She was adjusting the bangles on her wrist, her gaze distant.
"Sweetheart," he said gently.
She looked up, surprised—then smiled quickly, like flipping a switch. "Hmm?"
"You've barely eaten. Everything okay?"
"I'm fine," she said, the smile holding. "Just a little tired. Long day."
"You've been quiet," he said, eyes narrowing slightly. "Too quiet."
She looked away.
"It's nothing."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Is it because you stayed home today? Something happened, didn't it?"
"No." She shook her head too fast. "You were busy. I didn't want to bother you. That's all."
Hriday paused.
Then he gently reached for her hand, lowering his head slightly. "When did we become people who bother each other, Gauri?"
She flinched—not visibly, but enough for him to feel it through her stillness.
"I'm okay, Hriday. Really," she said, her voice soft but distant.
He knew that tone.
She was shutting herself down so he wouldn't worry. Smiling so he wouldn't ask. Standing still so she wouldn't break.
He glanced across the room—his mother speaking to Sanjana, her lips tight, her eyes deliberately not on them.
And suddenly, everything tasted bitter.
Hriday gently squeezed her hand. "Let's leave early, after the cake cutting. Just the two of us. We'll go for a drive, yeah?"
Gauri hesitated. Then nodded, barely.
"Okay."
But even as she agreed, Hriday could feel it—the wall. Small, quiet, and growing.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure if he knew how to break it down.
The city lights blurred past as Hriday's car glided through the quiet streets, the hum of tires against asphalt the only sound besides soft music playing on the radio. Outside, the night was cool, a gentle breeze teasing at the edges of the slightly rolled-down window.
Hriday glanced over at Gauri, seated beside him, wrapped in the soft shawl she'd brought along. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the seat, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the windshield.
"Feel like some ice cream?" he asked suddenly, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
Gauri blinked, surprised by the shift from heavy silence. "Ice cream? Now?"
"Yeah. There's a place down the road that serves the best chocolate chip cookie dough. You remember, right?" He nudged her gently. "Your favorite."
She hesitated, then nodded, the faintest smile breaking through. "Okay."
Minutes later, they pulled up outside a small, warmly lit shop. The bell chimed softly as they entered, the scent of freshly baked waffle cones and creamy vanilla filling the air.
Hriday ordered two scoops each of their favorites, handing one cone to Gauri. She accepted it with a shy "Thank you," fingers brushing his for a heartbeat.
Outside again, the city stretched quiet around them.
Hriday stole a bite from his cone, then leaned back in his seat, watching her. "You know, you've been acting like a mystery novel I'm too stubborn to put down."
Gauri raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in her eyes. "Am I that hard to read?"
"Harder," he said with a grin. "Like, the kind of book where every time I think I'm getting to the ending, there's a plot twist."
She chuckled, the sound soft and a little surprised at herself.
"See? That's the Gauri I know," he teased. "Not the one who disappears when the crowd gets loud."
She bit her lip, looking away. "I'm just tired, Hriday."
"Uh-huh. Tired of what, exactly?"
Gauri's fingers tightened slightly around the cone. She sighed, a fragile breath, but the truth stayed locked behind her lips.
"Nothing," she said finally. "I'm fine. Really."
Hriday reached over, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
"You know you can tell me anything, right? You don't have to carry all this alone."
"I know," she whispered. "I just don't want to spoil the night."
He smiled softly.
"You're not spoiling anything. I'm here. We're in this together."
The opulent drawing room of the Shekhawat mansion basked in the soft, drowsy glow of the setting sun. Heavy brocade curtains hung half-drawn, casting long golden streaks across the intricately patterned carpet and the dark gleam of antique teak.
Maithili sat gracefully at the edge of a rosewood chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, yet her mind was alert, bristling beneath the calm surface.
From the study, Shikhar emerged, his shirt cuffs undone, his steps deliberate. The air between them felt weighted—tense, expectant.
"Maithili," he said, his voice measured, brittle at the edges. "We need to talk about Sanjana."
Maithili turned to face him, her expression unreadable but poised. "What about her?"
Shikhar let out a sharp breath. "I want her out of our house. Out of our affairs. She's meddling again—undermining Gauri, planting doubts, making a spectacle of every conversation."
"She's trying to help," Maithili said coolly. "She only speaks the truth when no one else has the courage to."
"She speaks poison," Shikhar snapped. "Every time she opens her mouth, she twists the knife. She's been doing this for years, and you refuse to see it."
"She speaks her mind, and that threatens people who prefer silence," Maithili replied, voice rising slightly. "She cares about this family—more than Gauri ever has."
Shikhar's eyes narrowed. "You're blind to her manipulations. She flatters you, yes—but she does it to gain influence. And you give her more room every time Gauri stumbles."
Maithili stood now, her frame stiff with defiance. "Gauri is not innocent. She hides behind that quiet exterior, but she's been sowing tension with every smile, every calculated word. Sanjana sees it. I see it."
"Sanjana sees what she wants to see. She's not here to support us, Maithili. She's here to pull strings."
"She's been more loyal than half the people who live under this roof!" Maithili shot back, her voice trembling with emotion.
"She's toxic," Shikhar said flatly. "And if you can't see it, then maybe you're too close to her to judge clearly."
A silence fell. Long, heavy.
Maithili's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
The only sound in the room was the slow ticking of the brass clock on the mantle—each tick like a breath held too long.
The office buzzed with its usual rhythm—phones ringing in distant corners, the muted clack of keyboards, and the soft murmur of morning greetings.
Gauri stepped inside, poised and composed as ever. She made her way past the reception when a voice called out to her, light-hearted and warm.
"Hi, Gauri!"
She turned to see Rahul, head of the mechanical department, rising slightly from his desk.
"Good morning, Gauri," he added, this time with a courteous nod, his tone gentler, more measured.
"Good morning, Rahul," she replied, offering a polite smile.
Rahul reached into his drawer and pulled out a small envelope, its edges crisp and recently sealed.
"You've been so busy lately, I didn't get the chance to give you this." He handed it to her with a smile. "Here."
Gauri accepted it, her brows knitting in curiosity. As she opened the envelope and unfolded the card, her expression shifted—mild surprise giving way to a delighted smile.
"Your engagement?" she asked.
Rahul gave a sheepish grin. "Yes. Finally."
"Congratulations!" she said warmly. "It's beautiful."
"You have to come," he said firmly. "It wouldn't be right without you there."
"I'll be there," Gauri promised, slipping the card gently into her purse.
"Great," Rahul said, his smile widening. "Then I'll see you at the celebration."
They parted with a nod, each turning back to their work.
Later that day...
The sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in warm streaks of gold and rose. Gauri sat in Hriday's sleek black car, her gaze drifting to the passing cityscape. They were on their way home, the hum of the engine providing a soft backdrop to the silence between them.
Hriday, one hand on the wheel, glanced down as she reached into her purse for her water bottle. A flash of cream-colored cardstock caught his eye.
"What's that?" he asked casually, though his voice held a thread of curiosity—just a little too sharp, too quick.
Gauri glanced at the card. "Oh. Rahul's engagement invitation. He gave it to me this morning."
There was a beat of silence.
"Rahul?" Hriday asked, his tone still even, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "As in Rahul from mechanical?"
"Yes," Gauri said, carefully casual. "He said he meant to give it earlier but didn't get the chance."
Hriday's jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly. "Interesting. I didn't know you and Rahul were so close."
"We're not," she said, picking up on the subtle shift in his demeanor. "It's a professional gesture. He invited quite a few people from the office."
Still staring at the road, Hriday let out a quiet breath.
Gauri turned slightly to face him, her voice steady. "He was just inviting me!"
There was a pause. The tension between them was thin and taut—like a string pulled tight but not yet breaking.
Hriday gave a low, humorless chuckle. "He was smiling a bit too much for someone about to get married."
Gauri smiled faintly, shaking her head. "You're reading too much into it."
"Maybe I am," Hriday murmured. "Or maybe I don't like the idea of someone in my own company trying to get a little too friendly. They don't know whose wife you are sweetheart."
"Hriday," she said softly.
His eyes flicked toward her for a moment—dark, searching—before returning to the road.
"I just wanted to see your reaction. "he said finally.
She reached over, her fingers brushing gently against his. A quiet reassurance.
"Then that's enough."
And for now, it was.
The next day,
The community hall was modest—walls adorned with streamers and fresh marigold garlands, strings of fairy lights casting a warm glow over the crowd. The aroma of homemade sweets and spiced snacks mingled with the faint scent of rose water sprinkled earlier on the floor. Laughter and casual chatter filled the air, punctuated by clinking glasses of juice and the occasional scrape of chairs being dragged closer to makeshift photo corners.
It was a quintessential middle-class celebration—intimate, sincere, and brimming with people dressed in their Sunday best, from uncles in slightly oversized blazers to aunties wearing bright sarees and bangles that jingled as they passed around sweets.
Gauri stepped inside, wearing a soft peach salwar kameez that shimmered subtly under the lights. She had taken care to keep it simple—just enough to look presentable without drawing too much attention. As she entered, a few familiar faces from the office waved at her. She responded with a smile, easing into the room, her eyes scanning for Rahul.
She spotted him near the dais, dressed in a navy blue sherwani, standing beside a demure young woman in a silver and pink lehenga—Kajal, the receptionist from Hriday's company. Gauri blinked once, surprised. She hadn't realized Kajal was Rahul's fiancée.
But before she could process that thought fully, her steps froze.
Across the room, near the refreshment counter, stood Hriday.
Dressed in a crisp white shirt and charcoal trousers, he looked as polished as he always did—but it wasn't his attire that stunned her. It was his presence. That morning, he had left in a rush, adjusting his cufflinks as he told her about a string of client meetings lined up through the day. Not once had he mentioned attending the engagement.
And yet, here he was, standing with a glass of juice in hand, casually speaking to a group of Rahul's relatives as though his being there made perfect sense.
Gauri's brows furrowed slightly, her breath catching in her chest for a brief moment.
He looked up then—as if sensing her gaze.
Their eyes met across the room.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then Hriday smiled—polite, unreadable—and gave her a small nod, as if this meeting was entirely expected.
Gauri, recovering quickly, returned the gesture. But her mind raced.
Why hadn't he mentioned this? Did he know Kajal and Rahul were engaged? And if he did, why keep it from her?
She approached the dais slowly, exchanging greetings with other colleagues along the way.
Rahul beamed when he saw her.
"Gauri! You came. Thank you so much."
She smiled, pushing aside the questions swirling in her head. "Of course. Congratulations again. Kajal looks lovely."
Rahul blushed slightly, looking toward his fiancée. "I'm a lucky man."
The formal ceremony was about to begin. People were gathering closer to the stage, phones poised for photos. Gauri stepped aside, her eyes involuntarily drifting back toward Hriday.
He was now talking to Kajal's father—smiling, engaged in conversation, entirely comfortable.
The ceremony carried on with garlands exchanged and applause echoing across the modest hall. Gauri moved quietly through the crowd, weaving between groups of chatting relatives and office colleagues. Her eyes remained fixed on Hriday, who stood near a table laden with snacks, completely at ease—too at ease.
She approached him slowly, pausing only when she was close enough for their conversation to be private but not suspicious.
"You said you had client meetings," she murmured, her tone even but edged with cool disbelief.
Hriday turned to her, his expression unchanging—calm, unruffled, as if this moment had been waiting for them both.
"I did," he replied, voice low. "But then I realized I couldn't stay away from you for even a minute."
Gauri's eyes narrowed slightly. "You left before I did this morning. You watched me get ready—said nothing. Not a word about the party, or the fact that you'd show up."
He leaned in, his smile softening into something private—something meant only for her. "And miss the chance to admire you from a distance? To see your reaction when you saw me here, standing right where you least expected?"
She folded her arms, partly to conceal the fact that her heart had skipped a beat. "You could've just told me."
"But where's the fun in that?" Hriday stepped closer, his voice low, warm. "And when you look this beautiful... do you really think I'd let the rest of the world admire you all day without being here to claim the first look?"
Gauri felt her breath hitch, her gaze flitting down for the briefest moment before meeting his again. "You're impossible."
"I'm in love," he said, gently. "And I've never been very good at staying away from the woman I married."
Before she could respond, a soft clink interrupted them—the sound of someone dropping a spoon nearby.
They both turned slightly.
A few feet away stood Vivek, Hriday's assistant, frozen in place, his face an open portrait of confusion.
"I... I'm sorry," Vivek stammered, glancing between them. " Sorry sir, i think i misheard did you say... wife?"
Gauri blinked.
Hriday, without missing a beat, gave a small smile. "Yes, Vivek. Gauri is my wife."
Vivek's mouth parted slightly, as though searching for words that wouldn't come.
"All this time I thought—" he paused, flushed with embarrassment. "I had no idea, sir."
Hriday chuckled softly. "Well, now you do. Just between us, though—I prefer to keep my personal life out of boardroom gossip."
Vivek nodded rapidly. "Of course, sir. Absolutely. Not a word."
And just like that, he backed away, clearly rattled but respectful.
Gauri turned to Hriday, lifting an amused brow. "You make Vivek scared with your tone."
Hriday tilted his head. "No Sweetheart when did I ever scare him. I Have the sweet and soft voice."
She shook her head, smiling despite herself. "You really are impossible."
"and this impossible man is yours," he said simply.
Gauri felt herself relax. In the crowd she was feeling a bit tense but as Hriday is here now Gauri's mood is okay.
Later that evening...
The roads grew quieter as they left the bustle of the engagement party behind. Streetlights blurred into streaks through the car window as Hriday took an unexpected turn, steering the vehicle away from the main highway and up into the hills on the city's edge.
Gauri glanced sideways. "Where are we going?"
Hriday gave her a slight smile, eyes on the winding road ahead. "Just somewhere I can steal a moment alone with my wife—without the glitter, the people, the stares."
She didn't protest. The cool night breeze began to filter in through the slightly lowered window, carrying the faint scent of eucalyptus and distant earth. The climb grew steeper, but Hriday drove with familiar ease.
Finally, he pulled over near a secluded clearing—just below a rocky ledge where the trees thinned out. Beyond the rise, Chandigarh stretched into the distance, the city lights shimmering like scattered gold dust beneath the inky sky.
Gauri stepped out slowly, hugging her close as the breeze kissed her skin. She said softly. "It's still so quiet up here... like the world stops for a minute."
Hriday joined her, sliding his hands into his pockets. "That's why I brought you here. Some places don't need to change. They just need to remind us who we are beneath everything else."
They stood side by side in silence for a moment, looking down at the city that had become both a stage and witness to their intertwined lives—careers, secrets, expectations.
And in that stillness, surrounded by stars and silence, Gauri leaned her head on his shoulder, letting the city watch their quiet surrender.
The next few days slipped by in a blur of rushing moments and quiet sacrifices.
Gauri rose before dawn, her hands steady as she prepared meals for the family—aromas of cumin, turmeric, and fresh coriander filling the kitchen with the promise of nourishment. She carried her responsibilities gracefully: tending to the household, attending the office, and carving out precious hours to study late into the night.
Yet, beneath the surface, a silent ache persisted.
Maithili, her mother-in-law, never once touched the food Gauri painstakingly cooked. Her refusals were quiet but unmistakable—forks left untouched, plates pushed aside with the faintest crease of displeasure. Gauri noticed, but chose silence over confrontation, swallowing the sting with quiet dignity.
One evening, as the sun dipped low behind the city skyline, Hriday arrived home earlier than usual. The house was calm, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine from the garden outside.
He made his way straight to Gauri's room, curiosity pulling him forward.
The door creaked open gently, revealing a scene that made his heart tighten.
Gauri sat slumped over her study table, her head resting on scattered notes and textbooks. Strands of hair had fallen across her face, softening her tired features in the dim light.
Without hesitation, Hriday stepped forward, brushing the hair away with the gentlest touch. His fingers lingered for a moment, tracing the curve of her cheek before he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.
She stirred slightly but remained asleep, the exhaustion of her days finally claiming her.
"She's working so hard," he murmured softly, voice full of awe and concern.
In that quiet moment, Hriday vowed silently to be her strength—if only she would let him.
Maithili sat in the dimly lit drawing room, her fingers twisting the edge of her saree nervously. The walls around her, heavy with portraits of ancestors and the weight of tradition, seemed to close in tighter with every passing day.
Her mind was a tempest of frustration and sadness.
She had raised Hriday with care and hope—wanted him to be a son who honored the family, who followed the paths laid down by generations before him. And yet, here he was, her own flesh and blood, hiding the most important part of his life from her and the rest of the family.
The secret marriage between Hriday and Gauri felt like a quiet betrayal.
It wasn't merely the deception that stung—it was the deliberate exclusion, the way they shut her out of something so sacred. How could they, she wondered, hold back a truth that should have united them all?
Her heart ached in a way she barely allowed herself to acknowledge.
She watched Gauri—silent, hardworking, always accommodating—but the refusal to share the marriage felt like a wedge driven deeper between them.
Why can't they be honest? Maithili's voice was barely a whisper to the empty room. Is their love so fragile it can't face the family? Or do they not respect us enough to include us?
This was not the way she had envisioned the harmony of the Shekhawat household.
Her disappointment seeped into every interaction, manifesting in her refusal to eat the meals Gauri prepared, a silent protest more than anything else.
But beneath that stubbornness lay a well of loneliness—her longing for connection with her son, and the daughter-in-law she wished she could embrace, if only they would let her in.
Maithili's eyes glistened as she sat back, the heavy silence pressing down on her like a weight she couldn't shake.
The quiet hum of the ceiling fan mingled with the soft ticking of the clock in their bedroom. Outside, the night wrapped the city in velvet darkness, sprinkled with the distant twinkle of streetlights.
Hriday sat beside Gauri on the bed, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of her wrist. The warmth of his touch was familiar, inviting.
"Sweetheart..." His voice was low, a gentle coaxing that carried the weight of days spent apart, of moments stolen in silence. "Why don't you come closer?"
She turned to face him, eyes flickering with a mix of tenderness and hesitation.
"I'm just... not feeling well tonight," she whispered, her voice soft but firm.
Hriday's brow furrowed in concern, but before he could press further, Gauri glanced away, the truth buried beneath her composed exterior.
The strict words of her mother-in-law echoed in her mind—the solemn command from the panditji, passed down with unwavering seriousness: no intimacy until the auspicious period was over.
Maithili's voice rang clear in her memory: "You must obey the ritual, Gauri. No closeness until the time is right. Our family's honor depends on it."
Gauri swallowed, the invisible chains of tradition tightening around her heart.
Hriday reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I understand if you're tired, but I miss you. I miss us."
She met his gaze then, vulnerability shining through the quiet strength she carried.
"I miss you too, Hriday," she breathed. "More than you know."
He nodded slowly, restraint softening his features. "We'll wait. For as long as you need."
Her fingers curled around his, a silent promise in the stillness between them.
Bound by duty, yet connected by love, they lay side by side, hearts beating in quiet harmony under the watchful eyes of tradition.
After Gauri's soft refusal, Hriday lay awake long into the night, staring at the ceiling above. The shadows shifted gently in the moonlight, but his mind churned restlessly.
He traced the outline of Gauri's face in his memory—her quiet strength, the way her eyes had held both love and sorrow.
It's just for a while, he reminded himself, repeating the words like a mantra.
Yet, the waiting gnawed at him. The space between them felt heavier tonight, stretched taut by rules written long before either of them were born.
He knew Gauri must be tired. Hriday respected that. But he wished the boundaries could bend a little, for Gauri's sake, for their shared happiness.
Still, his love for her ran deeper than impatience.
He resolved to be her strength—to wait, protect, and cherish her until the time was right.
Because sometimes, love wasn't about closeness or passion. Sometimes, it was about quiet patience. And Hriday was willing to wait forever for her.
The soft ring of the phone broke the quiet stillness of the room. Hriday reached over the bedside table and picked it up, his voice calm but curious.
"Hello?"
"Hriday! Finally, you pick up," came the energetic voice of Mayank, his best friend, his tone bright despite the time difference.
Hriday smiled, recognizing the enthusiasm even through the phone. "Mayank! How's Bali? Honeymoon treating you well?"
Laughter bubbled through the speaker. "Better than I imagined. Isha's amazing, the beaches are incredible, and the weather—perfect. Wish you were here, man."
"I wish I was too," Hriday admitted, glancing over at Gauri who was now asleep peacefully. "But something tells me you're not calling just to brag about your honeymoon."
Mayank's voice turned serious for a moment. "Right. I called you remind you about the award function,"
Hriday's mind raced. Hriday ran a hand through his hair.
"I know this Mayank, Me and Gauri are going, the ticket just reached and you called."
"Oh.. that's great. Don't forget to send me a selfie from the red carpet!" Mayank chuckled before ending the call.
Hriday put down the phone, staring at the ceiling again.
The timing wasn't perfect—especially with Gauri's fragile state and the tensions simmering at home. But duty called, as always.
He leaned down and brushed a gentle kiss across Gauri's forehead.
"Looks like London is calling us" he whispered.
Hriday found Gauri in the kitchen, carefully chopping vegetables for dinner. The warm scent of spices filled the air—a comforting reminder of the life they were building together.
He hesitated for a moment before speaking, wanting to soften the sudden news.
"Gauri," he began gently.
"Hmm?" she murmured, still focused on cooking.
"We're going to London."
The unexpected announcement made Gauri pause and look up at him, her knife stilling mid-air.
"Why?" she asked, setting the spices into the sizzling oil. A thin wisp of smoke curled up from the pan, and Hriday coughed, the sharp scent stinging his throat.
Quickly, Gauri handed him a glass of water. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Hriday said, swallowing the water gratefully.
"So, we're going to attend an award show," he explained.
Gauri blinked, surprise flickering across her face. "What? What will I do there? I don't even have a passport."
Hriday smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry about that—I already arranged it. We leave tomorrow."
Unbeknownst to them, Maithili stood just outside the kitchen, her ears catching every word. She said nothing, but her expression was unreadable.
Maithili stood just beyond the kitchen doorway, her hands folded tightly across her chest. The scent of spices mingled with the tension thickening the air around her.
She listened silently as Hriday announced the sudden London trip, as Gauri's surprised voice echoed softly.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, the corners of her lips tightening into a thin line.
Always rushing off, she thought, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Leaving the family behind at the slightest call.
She knew the importance of such occasions, but her heart clenched at the thought of Hriday and Gauri jetting away without consulting the family first.
Her mind raced back to the fragile balance she tried to maintain—traditions, duties, and the whispers of the panditji's strict instructions.
How can they be so carefree?
Maithili stepped back quietly, retreating down the hallway.
Her disapproval was unspoken but heavy, like a shadow that stretched long over the family's future.
As Hriday left the kitchen to make some calls, Gauri wiped her hands on her apron and glanced toward the hallway where Maithili had quietly slipped away.
There was something in Maithili's posture—her stiff shoulders, the tight line of her mouth—that tugged at Gauri's heart.
She knew that look. It wasn't anger openly spoken, but a cold, silent judgment that weighed heavier than any harsh words.
Gauri's smile faltered, and she whispered softly to herself, "Mom isn't happy... but what can I do?"
Her mind swirled with worry. Would this trip stir more conflict? Would Maithili's disapproval grow into something harder to bear?
Still, Gauri squared her shoulders and resolved, I will do my best. For Hriday, and for this family.
With a deep breath, she turned back to the cooking, but the quiet tension lingered like a shadow in the room.
Later that evening, as Hriday packed his bags in the quiet of their room, Gauri hesitated by the door, her hands nervously twisting the edge of her dupatta.
"Hriday," she began softly, stepping inside.
He looked up, surprised by the seriousness in her eyes.
"I've been thinking..." she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to go to London with you."
Hriday paused, setting down his shirt. "Why? Is it the suddenness?"
"No," she shook her head gently. "It's not just that. I... I'm afraid. Of the trip, of being away from home, and of everything that might happen."
He crossed the room, taking her hands in his. "Gauri, I understand. It's a big change. But I want you there—with me."
She searched his eyes, feeling the warmth of his words but still weighed down by doubt.
"I want to support you, Hriday, but right now... I'm not ready."
Hriday's eyes softened as he looked at Gauri, a quiet strength in his voice.
"I'm going to London," he said, turning toward her with a gentle smile.
"And you're coming with me."
Before she could protest, he stepped closer, his tone firm but filled with affection.
"I don't want to hear 'no,' sweetheart. You've been carrying so much lately—you need a break. And honestly, I need you there with me."
He reached out, taking her hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly.
"We'll go you need a vacation so much..i know!"
Hriday didn't catch the tremor in Gauri's voice or the hesitation behind her words. His mind was already racing ahead—deciding, organizing, preparing.
Without a word, he began pulling clothes from the wardrobe, folding them with swift precision. Gauri watched quietly, her fears lingering like shadows at the edge of her thoughts.
That night, the house was unusually still, the air thick with unspoken tension.
Morning dawned bright and clear. The family gathered in the living room, the soft murmur of blessings filling the space.
Maithili's eyes lingered on Hriday, her displeasure masked behind a practiced calm.
Supporting an author gives you wings!!😉
Write a comment ...