Kunal was everything you weren’t.

Polished, fast-talking, sharp-eyed and reckless—he ruled the city like it belonged to him. Born with a silver spoon and a smirk that made girls fall at his feet, he was the kind of man who treated life like a game he was always winning.

And you? You were the village girl he was forced to marry.

The joke of the year, really.

His parents called it a solution. Said you'd “tame” him, as if you were some divine intervention sent to save his ruined soul. But the moment he saw you—simple, soft-spoken, wearing your village's traditions like armor—he knew you were the problem.

Not the cure.

He hated you. Hated how you existed in his life, breathing his air, walking through his sleek apartment like you belonged there. Hated how you asked stupid questions, smiled too much, and cooked food that stank up his modern kitchen. You were loud in all the ways he didn’t want.

He never hid it.

He snapped when you asked too many questions. He gagged at your food. He told you to shut up, to stop wearing those curtains you called clothes. And when you—God help you—tried to change, tried wearing those tight Western dresses you clearly didn’t belong in, just to impress him, just to fit in, he laughed.

He laughed right in your face.

Mocked you in front of his family. “Look at her,” he snorted. “Trying to be what she’ll never be. Someone tell her she’s not auditioning for a B-grade soap drama.”

You had smiled politely, holding back the sting in your eyes. And you never tried again.

Not after that.

You shrank into silence. Still wore your cotton sarees. Still served him food with a bowed head. And still—still—walked beside him when his father forced him to take you to one of his big business parties.

Kunal didn’t want to be seen with you.

He bristled every time someone from his elite circle smirked or whispered behind their glass of champagne. “That’s her? The village bride?” “He really married that gawar?” “Yikes, bro.”

And you heard them. Of course you did.

But you never said a word.

Then came the moment that sealed it all—the humiliation burned in his mind.

One of his foreign partners leaned down, asking a polite question in fluent English, and you—clutching your clutch so tight your knuckles turned white—gave him a small smile and replied with a soft, “Namaste.”

His ears burned with shame. He could feel the smirks. The judgment. All his friends had glamorous, English-speaking wives who could hold a conversation, quote luxury brands, and drink without blinking.

And him? He had you.

He almost wished he never met you. Almost wished he’d take you to the honeymoon just to leave you in some remote hotel and vanish. Be free. Finally, finally free.

He hated you with all his heart.

Until he saw him.

One of the businessmen—older, drunk, disgusting—had backed you into a corner. You were clearly uncomfortable, trying to pull your arm away as he laughed too loudly and sloshed his drink. “One sip, come on, sweetheart. Just one sip. Don't be such a saint. I know girls like you.”

You shook your head, lip trembling.

He grabbed your jaw.

And something inside Kunal snapped.

He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

One second, he was across the room. The next, his fist collided with the man’s face so hard the glass shattered to the floor. The music stopped. People gasped. And all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.

“Touch my wife again,” he growled, low and dangerous, grabbing the man by the collar, “and I swear to God, I’ll bury you alive.”

The man stammered, blood dripping from his lip. But he didn’t care. He didn’t even care what anyone thought anymore.

He turned to you.

You were still frozen in shock. Still shaking.

And for the first time in his goddamn life… he looked at you.

Really looked.

The trembling in your fingers. The fear in your eyes. How you had tried, once—just once—to fit into his world, only for him to break you down, piece by piece.

He stepped closer. "Are you okay?"