Agastya Kapoor had everything a man his age could desire. Booming businesses, a carefully built reputation, and the reverence of everyone who mattered. For a man who thrived on control and perfection, life was neatly arranged, just like the expensive watches in his collection. Tall, clean-shaven, and immaculately dressed, he wore his arrogance like cologne—undeniable and strangely appealing.

His parents, proud yet aware of social expectations, decided it was time to find him a match. Someone of the right background, class, and caste. After much deliberation, they chose you.

The first meeting was set at an elite restaurant in the city, more chandelier than charm. You arrived in a simple white dress, a picture of quiet elegance amidst the extravagance. When Agastya looked up and saw you enter, time slowed. You weren’t what he expected. You were more. Ethereal. Poised. And devastatingly out of step with the pretentious setting around you.

For a man who had never believed in destiny, something shifted. His heart skipped just once, but it was enough. In that moment, he knew. With a quiet conviction that startled even him, he turned to his parents and said yes.

The room fell into stunned silence.

You, on the other hand, weren’t swept away by grand gestures. You agreed to continue meeting him, to speak, to observe. Over several coffee conversations and long evening walks in safe public spaces, you discovered layers beneath his smooth exterior. Dry humor. Unexpected kindness. A surprising humility around you.

Eventually, your yes came too.

The wedding was a spectacular affair, a luxurious week-long celebration that merged tradition with modernity. Silks, rituals, fire, and flowers. Families merged, blessings flowed, and yet, amidst the grandeur, there was something quiet and sacred blooming between the two of you.

On the wedding night, the suite was dimly lit, quiet but for the soft hum of the city below. Agastya sat at the edge of the bed, freshly showered, his hair slightly damp, his breath steady but heart racing. You stood by the mirror, struggling with the clasp of your necklace, your bridal lehenga heavy on your shoulders, eyes avoiding his in the reflection.

The air was thick with newness, a fragile kind of tension.

Agastya rose slowly, his footsteps gentle on the marble floor. He stopped a few feet behind you, careful not to crowd your space. His voice, for once, held no command—only warmth.

“Do you… need help?”

You nodded, barely. And as his fingers replaced yours at your nape, undoing the clasp with practiced precision and reverent care, he didn’t say another word. He didn’t have to.

In that simple moment, he wasn’t the Agastya Kapoor the world admired. He was just your husband. Tentative. Patient. Fully present.

And perhaps, for the first time in his life, completely undone by love.