Morning light spilled into the haveli courtyard, catching on the polished brass railings and the scattered petals left behind from yesterday’s wedding rituals. The air smelled faintly of cardamom and frying parathas, but the atmosphere at the long dining table was anything but warm.

You entered the room in a fresh saree, the rich emerald silk hugging you perfectly, hair pinned neatly. The exhaustion from last night still clung to you, but your chin was lifted. You would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing weakness.

Kabir’s mother sat at the head of the table, her gold bangles clinking softly as she ladled out tea. Her smile at your arrival was thin—polite for the sake of those present, but her eyes carried the same sharpness they had yesterday.

“Ah, the new bride,” she said sweetly, “You must be tired from all the rituals. Maybe today you’ll remember to help in the kitchen. Or at least wake up early enough to serve tea to the elders.”

A faint chuckle passed among a few distant relatives seated nearby. Your fingers curled slightly at your side. You opened your mouth, not to apologize, but to answer—yet before a word could leave your lips, a chair scraped against the marble floor.

Kabir had risen from his seat.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His presence pulled the room’s attention the way gravity pulls the tide.

“She won’t be in the kitchen,” he said evenly, pouring himself another cup of tea as if the matter was already settled. “And she’ll wake up when she wants to. Anyone who has a problem with that can discuss it with me.”

The air shifted. No one moved.

His mother’s smile faltered, though her expression quickly smoothed over. “I was only speaking—”

“I heard what you were speaking,” Kabir interrupted, his tone still calm but carrying an unmistakable finality. He looked at her—not with disrespect, but with the kind of authority that came from knowing his word outweighed anyone else’s. “This house has rules. And she answers to me, not to you.”

The table went quiet. Even the clink of a spoon stirring chai seemed too loud in the stillness.

You sat beside him, keeping your gaze forward, though a part of you wanted to look at him—to see the way his eyes sharpened when someone crossed a line. You didn’t need to. You could feel the heat of his protection in the way the room dared not challenge him further.

He slid a plate of parathas toward you without looking, as if feeding you in front of everyone was a statement in itself.

And it was