KAVERI

The morning after felt strangely… normal. Or as normal as life could be when you woke up a married woman, in a gilded cage, with the man you despised sleeping beside you. The initial shock of finding Neil so close had faded with the dawn, replaced by a dull thrum of resignation.

He was gone when I finally woke, the bed perfectly made, as if my tumultuous presence had been an illusion. It was almost reassuring, this meticulous order he imposed on everything, even his sleeping habits. I layed on the bed few minutes staring at my own reflection in the ceiling mirror. Damn he has a ceiling fucking mirror?

After fighting myself I finally stood up and showered quickly, the cool water doing little to wash away the lingering anxiety about the day ahead. The reception. Another public performance. Another set of eyes, judging, scrutinizing, celebrating a union that felt like a carefully constructed lie.

I dressed in a Red saree, classic and Kaveri core. As I stepped out, the aroma of strong coffee and sizzling spices led me downstairs. Mrs. Khanna was already in the sunlit breakfast nook, overseeing a selection of fruits and baked goods. She looked fresh, radiant, as always.

"Kaveri, beta" she chirped, her smile genuine, warm. "Come, join me. Nimmi has made your favorite spinach and cheese omelet, I remember you mentioning it to Rajveer."

I managed a polite smile, surprised by her thoughtfulness. "Thank you, Maa."

She patted the chair beside her, and I settled in. The initial awkwardness of my first morning had mostly dissipated, replaced by a growing ease around Neil’s mother. She wasn’t the formidable matriarch I had feared; instead, she was surprisingly progressive, intelligent, and possessed a wicked sense of humor that felt oddly comforting.

"So," she began, a twinkle in her eye, "how was your first night in your new home? Did Neil manage to sweep you off your feet, even with that serious face of his?"

A blush crept up my neck, unbidden. The memory of Neil’s words, his proximity, the electric tension of our cold war in the bedroom, flooded my mind. I forced a laugh, a little too bright.

"Oh, Maa, you know Neil," I retorted, injecting a healthy dose of sarcasm into my voice. "He was entirely focused on his… nocturnal business strategies, I assure you. Sweeping me off my feet would require him to, you know, actually move."

Mrs. Khanna threw her head back and laughed, a rich, melodic sound that filled the room. "That's my Neil! Always the businessman. But tell me, did he at least offer you the bed? Or did he relegate you to the chaise lounge?" She winked.

My cheeks flushed deeper. How did she know? Was Neil that transparent? Or was it just a lucky guess, knowing his controlling nature? But she's his mother "He, uh, offered me the couch, Maa. Such a gentleman, isn't he? I felt utterly spoiled." My sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Ah, the modern romance," she mused, shaking her head playfully. "So much passion, so much... personal space. Well, don't worry, beta. Give him time. That man might be all business, but he has a good heart. And I've seen the way he looks at you, even when you're arguing. There’s something there, a spark that wasn't there with Kiara." Her eyes held a knowing glint, a silent understanding that went beyond words.

My jaw nearly dropped. Was she implying… that Neil actually looked at me? Not with disdain, but with some kind of interest? The idea was ludicrous. Yet, a tiny, unwelcome tremor went through me. I quickly pushed it aside. She was his mother, of course she’d try to spin it positively.

"Maa, please," I scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "The only spark between us is the one generated by mutually assured destruction. I think he views me as a particularly stubborn virus he’s forced to tolerate."

Mumma laughed again, her eyes twinkling. "You two are quite something. But I like it. A woman needs to have a sharp tongue to keep a Khanna man in line. And you, Kaveri, have the sharpest, just like me, you know." "I see, is that why papa ji still sings you romantic songs". "Exactly why" she replies and we both burst into laughter.

"Truly, I've always wanted a daughter, and you... you're everything I hoped for, and more. Strong, intelligent, and you don't take any nonsense. We’re going to get along just fine, I promise."

Her words were a balm, a genuine warmth that made the bitterness of my situation a fraction more bearable. In this absurd, forced marriage, Neil’s mother was an unexpected anchor, a cool, supportive presence I hadn't anticipated. It was an odd feeling, this ease with her, especially given the man she had raised.

Later that morning, after going through the motions of breakfast and assisting Mrs. Khanna with some minor household plans, I retreated to the privacy of my room. The same room I had shared with a phantom husband. I had taken two day leave from the hospital. I needed to call Mahira. Urgently.

My phone rang only once before her voice, bright and chaotic, filled the line. "Kaveri! My God! Are you alive? Did you escape? Did you punch him? Tell me everything!"

"Alive, unfortunately. Escaped, not so much. Punched him, not yet, but the day is young," I rattled off, collapsing onto the chaise lounge, the very one I'd spent a restless night on. "Mahira, you won't believe what a nightmare this is."

And then, it all spilled out. The utter absurdity of the wedding, the heavy lehenga, the suffocating rituals. The icy hostility in our room, the sarcasm that flowed like a river between us.

I recounted Neil’s dismissive comment, his assumption that I’d be on the floor, and my retaliatory move to the chaise lounge. I even, somewhat reluctantly, mentioned him finding me on the bed in the morning, glossing over the unexpected feeling of finding him gone.

Mahira listened, punctuating my rant with gasps and dramatic sighs. "Oh. My. God. Kaveri! This is better than any soap opera! So, you're telling me you hate his guts, but he's also… Neil Khanna? The man who makes every magazine cover look better just by existing?" She was barely containing her glee.

"Mahira, please," I groaned, rolling my eyes, though a tiny part of me knew exactly what she meant. "He's an arrogant, land-grabbing corporate shark who thinks he's God's gift to women. And humanity. Mostly humanity."

"Yeah, a corporate shark with a jawline that could cut glass and eyes that melt steel," Mahira countered, a playful note in her voice. "Come on, Mam, don't pretend you didn't notice. You're a doctor, you appreciate fine specimens, even if they're insufferable."

"He's insufferable! And manipulative! And don't even get me started on the land. He built his bloody corporate tower over my dream, Mahira! My hospital!" The anger flared, fresh and hot.

"Okay, okay, deep breaths," she soothed, though I could hear the smile in her voice. "I get it, you hate him. But tell me, after all that marital tension, did you at least get a good night's sleep on the chaise lounge?"

I sighed. "About that… I actually ended up on the bed sometime in the night. Don't ask me how. And then he was just... there, in the morning. Like some silently judging statue. And then I saw him in the mirror when I was putting on the sindoor..." I trailed off, the memory of that intense eye contact, the brief, unsettling intimacy of it, replaying in my mind.

"Ooh, sindoor and mirrors!" Mahira squealed. "That's straight out of a Bollywood movie! Did he look at you? Did he do anything?"

"He just looked," I admitted, a shiver going through me. "Like he was calculating the exact moment I'd break. The man is a robot, Mahira. A very well-dressed, irritatingly handsome robot."

"Irritatingly handsome, you say?" Mahira latched onto it. "So, there is a physical component to this hate, then?"

"It’s called recognizing objective attractiveness, Mahira. Like appreciating a perfectly sculpted villain. Doesn't mean I want to marry him. Oh wait." My voice was thick with sarcasm.

"Too late for that, darling," she sang. "Ansh is very much unlike him."

The mention of Ansh Mehta, her boyfriend made me scoff. "God, no. That man is an ecological disaster in human form. How you tolerate him, I'll never know. Is he still trying to impress you with his investment portfolio and telling you about his 'visionary' start-up ideas for artisanal kombucha?" My voice dripped with sarcasm.

Mahira laughed. "You know him too well. He actually tried to mansplain quantum physics to me last week. I just nodded and said, 'That's fascinating, Ansh, maybe you should write a book.' He actually looked pleased!"

"See?" I exclaimed. "The man is a menace. I'm telling you, Mahira, one day he's going to accidentally patent air and try to sell it back to us."

"Probably," she conceded, her laughter still bubbling. "But hey, at least he’s predictable. Unlike your new husband, the 'robot with the jawline that cuts glass.'"

We dissolved into giggles, a much-needed release of tension. Despite the absurdity of my situation, Mahira's unwavering friendship, her ability to make me laugh even through the pain, was invaluable. She quickly shifted back to her role as my steadfast confidante.

"Look, Kaveri," she said, her voice softening, "I know this is a nightmare. Your dreams, your hospital… it's all so unfair. But you are the strongest woman I know. You'll find a way. You always do. And who knows, maybe this forced marriage will turn into… something less horrible. Or at least, entertaining."

"Here's hoping for 'less horrible'," I muttered, feeling a flicker of gratitude for her belief in me. "And if not, at least I’ll have enough material for a best-selling tragicomic novel."

The afternoon crawled by in a blur of forced politeness and quiet anxiety. My mother-in-law had been efficient, going over the guest list, discussing menu options, and showing me swatches of fabrics for various household arrangements. I tried to focus, to appear engaged, but my mind kept drifting to the evening. The reception. Another gauntlet.

By late afternoon, the house was a hive of activity.

I was in my room, the chosen ensemble for the reception laid out on the bed. A heavy, intricately embroidered saree in shades of cherry red and crimson, designed to shimmer under the ballroom lights. The blouse was a masterpiece of delicate beadwork, but also a feat of engineering, with a series of tiny, almost invisible hooks running down the middle of the back.

My hair was pulled back in an elegant updo, adorned with fresh jasmine. Now came the final, most infuriating step: the blouse.

I twisted, contorted, reached with clumsy fingers, trying to connect the minuscule hooks. My arms ached. My patience frayed. I could feel the delicate fabric stretching, pulling, threatening to tear. My back was a canvas of exposed skin, the curves and dips of my spine clearly visible in the dressing table mirror. My temper, already thin, began to fray. Damn these designers! Do they not understand basic human anatomy?

I let out a frustrated huff, my fingers fumbling blindly for the elusive last hook. My reflection in the mirror showed a woman struggling, a picture of exasperation, her bare back exposed. Just as I was about to give up and call for help, the door clicked open. My heart leaped into my throat. Neil.

I flinched, my body instinctively recoiling, a wave of mortification washing over me. I spun around, almost immediately as the door opened. My arms at my back, a futile attempt to cover my bare back. My cheeks burned, my lips curled into a forced smile like nothing happened. Of all the moments for him to walk in, it had to be this one. Caught in a state of undignified vulnerability, a raw nerve exposed.

He stood there, framed in the doorway, a vision in a perfectly tailored charcoal grey suit, looking impossibly calm, impossibly composed. His gaze, however, was unnervingly direct. As if he were trying to process what the heck just happened.

My breath hitched. I followed his gaze, he was looking at the mirror towards my backside. Fucking shit. In a hurry, I'd almost forgotten that there was a fucking mirror behind me and that he could notice my bare back more easily now.

I froze at my spot. He didn't say a word. He simply walked closer, his footsteps soft, deliberate, unnervingly calm. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum in the suffocating silence. What would he do? Mock me? Taunt me? Touch me? Of course not. Demand to know why I wasn’t ready?

He stopped right in front of me. So close I could feel the faint warmth radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his expensive cologne. My back tingled, every nerve ending screaming. I tensed, my muscles rigid. He put both of his hands on the table caging me beteween those muscular hands. He leaned closer towards me.

Then, his fingers, surprisingly gentle yet firm, reached out. They brushed against the delicate fabric of the blouse, found the first hook, then the second. I avoided his gaze and looked to my right side, any sort of eye contact could perhaps kill me from embarrassment given my situation. With a practiced ease that bespoke either immense patience or an unexpected knack for sartorial rescues, he secured them one by one.

The brief, fleeting touch of his skin on mine, through the thin fabric, sent an electric current, a jolt that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with a sudden, unsettling awareness. It was a physical contact that, despite its innocent context, felt impossibly intimate, charged with all the unspoken tension between us.

He finished, his presence a silent weight behind me for a moment longer. Then, just as silently, he stepped back. He didn't say a word. He didn't offer a smirk, a taunt, or even a glance of acknowledgment. He simply turned and walked out of the room, his footsteps receding down the hall, leaving me standing there, flushed, mortified, and utterly bewildered by his detached efficiency and the unsettling intimacy of the moment.

Neil, to me, seemed completely unbothered, as if it were a purely mechanical task, akin to tying his own shoelaces. But my skin still prickled, my heart still raced, and the unexpected touch lingered like a brand. This man was a walking puzzle, a silent, calculating force, and I had a terrifying feeling that our marriage was going to be a long, unpredictable unraveling.