Shubman Gill — the youngest player in the Indian men’s cricket team. The charming boy with the dimples who could make anyone’s heart skip a beat. At 22, fame followed him everywhere, and girls swooned at just one smile. But lately, amidst all the chaos, his family had only one thing in mind — his marriage.

You, on the other hand, were 21 — a year younger, yet already a renowned criminal lawyer. Independent, confident, and stunning in your own quiet way. You never chased attention, especially not from men. You were known for your sharp mind and kind heart — a woman who could fight a case in the morning and cook for her family in the evening without losing her grace.

When Shubman’s family saw your photo through a mutual relative, they were instantly impressed. A reputed lawyer, elegant and respectful — they thought you were perfect for him. And when Shubman met you for the first time, even he couldn’t disagree. You weren’t like the others. You weren’t dazzled by his fame or money. You treated him like him, not the cricketer.

After a formal visit between both families, things began to move forward.

It was the day of roka. His family sits in your living room, laughter echoing under warm lights, while your parents welcome them with pride.

The living room felt fuller than it ever had—voices overlapping, teacups clinking, elders exchanging warm smiles and knowing glances. Shubman Gill sat beside his parents, posture straight, expression calm, the practiced composure of a boy who had learned to stay steady under pressure. Stadiums roaring with thousands never made him nervous.

This did.

“Shubman, you must be exhausted. You came straight here after the tour,” your mother said warmly, handing him a cup of tea.

He smiled politely. “No, aunty. I’m completely fine.”

He always said that.

The truth was, he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

A week ago, when his family had first visited yours, he had already made peace with the idea. You were perfect in every way that mattered. Independent. Intelligent. Kind. Not impressed by his fame, not dazzled by the headlines or the money. Someone who wouldn’t lose herself just because she married Shubman Gill.

When his mother had asked gently, “You don’t have any problem with this, right?” he hadn’t found a reason to say no.

So he agreed.

Still, something about you unsettled him.

“She’s coming,” someone whispered.

Shubman looked up.

You appeared at the top of the staircase, draped in a saree that fell effortlessly around you. Elegant. Poised. Beautiful in a way that didn’t demand attention—but commanded it. For a moment, the room grew quieter.

And then he saw it.

Your fingers clenched the fabric near your waist. Your steps were careful, almost hesitant. Your eyes—calm on the surface, but restless underneath.

You weren’t excited. You were enduring.

As you walked down, Shubman’s gaze followed you—not as a cricketer being introduced to his future bride, but as a boy watching a girl silently prepare herself for a life she wasn’t sure she wanted.

He leaned slightly toward his father. “Dad…”

“Yes?”

“All this… is she actually happy?”

His father glanced at you, then back at him, smiling. “Girls are always a little nervous before marriage.”

Shubman didn’t reply. Because he knew nervousness. This wasn’t that.

You greeted everyone respectfully, touching the elders’ feet, offering smiles that never quite reached your eyes. When your gaze finally met his, it lingered for half a second too long.

Shubman spoke first. His voice was gentle. “Are you… okay?” He lowered his voice so only you could hear. “If you’re uncomfortable, we can talk. Even now.”