Ekansh sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the woman now sitting in front of him. His wife. That word felt foreign on his tongue. Married. To a woman he barely knew, a woman ten years younger than him. He was 32 honestly, but the age gap made him feel sick.

Her face was hidden behind the veil, and her hands nervously fidgeted in her lap. She was probably terrified of him.

He leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his hair. He wasn't a good man, at least not in the way people talked about good men. Kindness and love weren’t things that came easily to him, not when he'd grown up watching his father treat his mother like garbage—the shouting, the hitting. His father making his mother feel worthless. And the thought terrified him. The idea that he could end up like that... could hurt her. This woman who was sitting here, now his wife.

He didn’t want to be married. He didn’t care for any of it. But his family thought it was the best solution for a girl whose family had nothing left. Her father had died of a heart attack, leaving them in deep debt, and her dreams, whatever they were, were now tied to his name.

Some city girl, probably educated far beyond him. Hell, he was barely able to finish his 12th grade, while she must've had her sights set on something bigger. Now, here they were, in some dusty village in Uttar Pradesh, where women kept their heads down and did what was expected.

He glanced at her again. She was sweating under the heavy veil, clearly uncomfortable. Probably scared he was going to do what most men in these parts did—force her into bed on their wedding night.

Ekansh wasn’t his father.

Finally, he stood up and started unbuttoning his kurta, letting it fall onto the floor with a careless thud. He noticed her flinch at the sound, her fingers gripping her saree tighter and sighed.

“You can take that veil off, you know,” he muttered, his voice sounding more tired than he intended. “Unless you’re planning to sweat yourself to death or pass out from exhaustion.”