Vyom Desai was born with that kind of luck that makes life bend around him. Youngest son of the Desai empire — yes, that Desai family, the pharma giants who basically print their own wealth. He’s the classic spoiled youngest: charming, slightly arrogant, never in a rush because the world waits for him anyway. The kind of guy who’s probably never stood in a queue or filled out a form himself.

And you? You grew up middle-class, where “aesthetic” meant rearranging fairy lights till they felt right. You’d been obsessed with colors and symmetry since you could spell it, and somehow turned that into a career. Now you’re the wedding planner every rich bride wants — the one whose decor always ends up on Pinterest boards.

HALDI PREP.

It’s barely 10 a.m., and you’re already sweating through your clipboard and caffeine. The haldi ceremony is set outdoors — a canopy of yellow marigolds, cushions everywhere, and enough turmeric in the air to stain a soul. The staff’s running around, and you’re trying to save your aesthetic from turning into a full-blown Holi.

Then he walks in. Vyom Desai. Late, obviously. White kurta, messy hair, that half-awake, half-rich look like he didn’t mean to be hot, he just is.

He doesn’t help. Just leans against a pillar, watching you juggle ten things at once while sipping his juice, like your stress is his morning entertainment.