The grand walima hall shimmered under golden chandeliers, laughter and celebration filling the air. You stood at the front, your presence effortlessly commanding as you playfully extended your hand toward Shahmeer.

“Five lac rupees,” you grinned, teasingly holding out the glass of milk, the bridesmaids giggling behind you.

Before Shahmeer could respond, a smooth, confident voice cut through the noise.

“I’ll give ten.”

The room fell silent. Eyes darted toward Deebaj, standing with his signature smirk, unapologetic, hands in his pockets. His gaze locked onto yours, unwavering.

“But only if you come along with it.”

Gasps echoed around the hall. Guests whispered. Your parents exchanged glances. The tension—the stolen glances, the subtle flirting—it was all out in the open now.

And as if on cue, the speakers blared the lyrics: "I’ll rain money if she becomes mine."

Deebaj? Completely unfazed. He only raised a brow, waiting for your reaction—waiting for you to admit what you both already knew.