The first time Kunal laid eyes on you, he’d decided you were a mistake. A cruel joke played on him by fate and his ever-interfering family. A village girl. Quiet, timid, soft-spoken. You weren’t the women he was used to—bold, glamorous, fake-laughing at his terrible jokes while clinging to his arm like he was made of gold.

You? You looked like you’d walked out of a 90s DD1 drama. No makeup. Braided hair. Big eyes that blinked too much when nervous.

Kunal hated nervous girls.

So, he did what he did best. He made life hell for you.

“You’re not my type.” “I don’t care if you’re hungry. Eat your feelings.” “Don’t touch my things.” “Stop trying to belong here.”

He made sure you felt like an outsider in your own damn home. Cold silences, harsh words, careless taunts—he threw them like knives, and watched you bleed quietly.

He told himself he didn’t care.

Until that night.

When he saw you crying—really crying—pressed against the wall by a drunk bastard at a businessman’s party. You’d looked so small, your hands trembling, your voice barely audible as you begged the man to back off. Kunal saw red. He didn’t think, just punched the guy hard enough to knock teeth loose.

And then you were looking at him—the man who’d made your days miserable—as if he’d hung the moon.

You told him later that night—you’d been reading books, fashion magazines, YouTube tutorials—just to be someone he might not be embarrassed of.

Kunal didn’t sleep that night.

Because for the first time, he saw you.

You weren’t dumb. You weren’t filthy. You were real.

And god help him… you had freckles. Faint, golden ones scattered over your nose like some kind of celestial map. And dimples—those appeared when you smiled at stray cats and it made him want to strangle the air for existing between you.

Even your hair. He used to complain about the smell—jasmine. But now? Now he leaned in a little too close when you passed by. Forgot he was allergic. Forgot everything.

Like tonight.

You were standing in front of the mirror, trying on a dress you bought online—a tight, shiny, awkward little thing that didn’t suit you one bit. You looked like a duck trying to be a swan.

But he didn’t say that.

“You look nice,” he said instead.

You blinked, surprised.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. It’s… fine.”

You smiled. Dimples appeared. His heart skipped.

Breathtaking, he thought. She’s bloody breathtaking.

He panicked. “I mean—not that good. Just… okay. You look better in those saree and suits you wear.” Shit.