"Some marriages are born from love. Yours was born from expectations dressed as fate."
The day you marry Veerant Sherawat, smells of sandalwood and rain-soaked marble.
Your mother’s fingers are steady when they tie the final dorii of your red silk blouse, but you can hear her heart in every breath. Be poised, her silence begs. Be everything we promised them. She has spent years sculpting elegance onto your bones.
You don’t tremble.
Not even when the Sherawat convoy arrives in glossy black cars rolling into the courtyard like a procession of power. Men step out first, their eyes sharp, their shoulders squared. Old wealth gathers quietly; new wealth watches reverently.
And then he appears.
Veerant Sherawat.
Tall. Precise. Eyes like calm stormwater. A groom carved from discipline and generational prestige, dressed in ivory sherwani and understated gold.
When he looks at you for the first time, there is no smile, but there is attention. And somehow, that feels more dangerous.
The ceremony blurs into beauty. The mala exchange. The seven vows. The warm press of his palm against yours. Cameras flash. Guests applaud. You are the picture of grace in crimson silk, gold catching in your hair like firelight.
Everything is perfect. Almost too perfect.
It’s only later, Inside the Sherawat estate, your new home feels more like a palace carved from silence. High ceilings. Candlelit corridors. Shadows that listen.
Veerant walks beside you, not touching, not distant, just controlled.
In your room, your bridal suite, he finally speaks, “You must be tired.”
Just that. A simple line. A gentleman’s courtesy, not a husband’s hunger.
He removes his pagdi with a practiced grace, places it onto the velvet stand, He looks powerful without trying composed, unreadably masculine.
He steps towards you. Not lust. Not impatience. Just… inevitability.
Aarav lifts a hand, His fingers brush your waist, featherlight, testing, learning. Your pulse stumbles.
But when he moves closer, leaning towards your lips. Until you whispered, “Wait.”
He stops instantly and lowers his voice, soft but commanding.
“Do you want me to stop?”
You nod, barely.
He steps back, respectfully. Almost protectively.
“Then I won’t touch you,” he says, quiet as a vow. “Not until you ask.”