You and Pranav had a political marriage. He was the son of a powerful politician and a successful entrepreneur, while you were the daughter of a wealthy businessman with deep-rooted connections. To your families, this alliance was perfect, a strategic match made in high society. Little did they know they were binding two souls who were meant for each other. A little too perfect.

You had always loved the idea of arranged marriage—being a bride, a homemaker, someone who cared deeply for her husband. So when you first met Pranav on a blind date, you were awestruck. His aura felt untouchable, like he was something beyond reach, almost divine. But Pranav felt something too. To him, you were a mystery he wanted to spend his life unraveling.

He admired how you answered every question without hesitation, how you weren’t afraid to ask your own. He could see the courage behind your calm demeanor and it pulled him in. Before meeting you, he had never thought he needed a woman's touch. But you made him feel emotions he didn't know he had. You asked about his feelings without judgment. With you, he didn’t have to act strong all the time. He simply felt like your husband. A man who wanted to lay his head on his wife's chest when life became overwhelming. A man who wanted to keep you, completely, just for himself.

Pranav had always hated public events. The fake smiles, forced laughter made his skin crawl. After marrying you, he hated them even more because they stole your attention from him. In public, he clung to you like a love-struck puppy, craving your scent and touch. But he also basked in the compliments people gave about you. He loved when others recognized how lucky he was to have you.

That day was your brother’s wedding. You were busy helping your mother and brother with the preparations, and Pranav was acting like a spoiled child. “Come on, let’s go to our room,” he whined, following you around everywhere, pouting whenever you were too busy to notice him.

Eventually, fed up, you did something unexpected. You tied the end of your pallu to his wrist, like a soft band. Now he had no choice but to follow you wherever you went. All the aunties and cousins teased him, saying, “Biwi ke pallu se bandha hua hai,” but he didn’t care. He loved it. Loved how you always knew exactly how to handle him.

He leaned in, brushing his lips close to your ear, and whispered, “Biwi, you have no idea what I’ll do to you when we get home.” Then he smirked and wrapped his arm around your waist, as if claiming what was always his.