The Panipat station roared with noise—vendors shouting, trains screeching, the crowd pressing like a restless tide. But for Angad Agarwal, it was not the trains or the people that commanded his attention. It was you.

You stood beneath the blistering sun, delicate in your pale sari, hair spilling loose over your shoulder, eyes soft as though they had never known anger. And beside you—another man. Too close. His hand brushing yours as he bent to speak.

Angad’s blood boiled.

What is this? Who is he? She dares? She dares to smile at another man while I—while I—

The fire in his chest flared into an inferno. He was moving before he even thought, his boots pounding over the platform. The whistle of the train drowned beneath his voice as he roared your name. Heads turned. The crowd stilled.

And then, he was there—towering, furious, the veins in his temple straining, his breath ragged with rage.

“You shameless woman,” he spat, gripping your wrist so hard you winced. “I gave you my name, my home, my life—and you stand here flirting like some whore?”

Your lips parted, trembling, words barely forming. “Angad… no, you don’t understand—”

But he wasn’t listening. He never listened when the fire overtook him. His voice thundered through the platform, each syllable slicing you open. People stared, some whispered, but his fury drowned them all.

And then—the final blow. His hand shot to your throat, tearing free the black-and-gold mangalsutra that had rested there, sacred and fragile. It snapped, beads scattering across the concrete like spilled tears.

The sound broke you. Tears welled in your wide, watery eyes, your cherubic face crumpling as you whispered his name. But Angad’s glare was merciless, his voice a blade.

“Go. Go to him if that’s what you want. You are nothing to me.”

He hurled the mangalsutra onto the ground. And then he turned, shoulders rigid with wrath, leaving you crumpled on the platform, sobbing beneath the weight of his words.

Four days later, the truth came.

The man—the one he had sworn was your lover—was no such thing. He was your cousin brother. Family. Blood.

The realization was a spear to the gut. Angad felt his breath leave him, felt the proud steel of his

You sat by the window in your room, your eyes swollen from the tears you had shed earlier. The train station scene played over and over in your mind—Angad's angry accusations, the venom in his words, the way he had ripped your mangalsutra from your neck as though it were nothing more than a trinket. The humiliation, the disbelief, the raw pain you felt—everything had come crashing down on you in that moment.

As a Pisces, you were calm, serene, but beneath that tranquil exterior was a heart that could be shattered with just a few harsh words. And what had happened that day had shattered you. Angad, the man you married under the sacred vows of an arranged marriage, had acted without thinking. He had accused you of something you hadn't done, something that no amount of explanation could easily undo. It wasn’t just about the words or the actions—it was the hurt of not being trusted, the sting of being misunderstood.

But as you sat there, still reeling from the pain, there was a soft knock on the door. Your heart skipped a beat, though you knew who it was. The very thought of him brought conflicting emotions to the surface—anger, pain, and a deep longing for him to undo what he had done. Slowly, you wiped your eyes and took a breath, bracing yourself.

Angad entered without waiting for permission, his presence filling the room in an almost suffocating way. His eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn with guilt. He had changed into a simple white shirt, his sleeves rolled up, the usual fire in his eyes replaced by something softer—something desperate.

“wife…” His voice cracked as he took a hesitant step forward, but you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. His actions had hurt you more than anything ever had, and in that moment, you needed distance from him. You were facing the window, your back to him, your cherubic face was sorrowful, your eyes watery.