Chapter 23
IRA
The morning light, usually a gentle friend, felt like a harsh spotlight on my tangled sheets and even more tangled emotions.
The physical ache was nothing compared to the gnawing emptiness left by Prashant's absence.
He hadn't come back, a glaring reminder of the chasm between us.
Guilt sat heavy in my gut, a familiar companion these days.
I'd twisted his life into knots, making him abandon his marriage, all while I clung to Aryan like a security blanket.
Three years. That's how long it had been since Prashant had offered me everything, a tiny diamond ring clutched in his eager hand.
His face, so hopeful then, flashed before my eyes.
He hadn't known I was about to crush that hope, reject his love, choose my "stupid brain" over my heart.
I'd made mistakes, big, messy ones, and now the boomerang of pain was slamming back into me.
He was breaking my heart, just as I had broken his.
How long would he treat me like dirt? The thought stung, but beneath the pain, a fierce resolve hardened.
I wouldn't give up. Not now, not ever. I would turn his hatred back into love.
"Sleeping beauty woke up," a high-pitched voice chirped, jolting me from my painful reverie.
I snapped my eyes open, a flicker of hope, then dread, when I saw two identical faces framed in the doorway.
Priya and Pari, Prashant's twin sisters.
He'd told me about them, poured out his heart about his family during our "friends with benefits" phase.
His father's death, his mother's depression, the grinding poverty, how their house was sold for a heart transplant that never worked.
I knew his story, but that didn't mean he knew mine.
Or rather, he knew my version of the story.
"Hello, good morning," I managed, pasting on a smile that felt brittle. The twins didn't miss a beat. They simply rolled their eyes in perfect sync, a practiced movement that spoke volumes.
"Rich brats don't know manners, they are so ill-mannered," one of them declared, her voice dripping with disdain. It was Priya, I guessed, the slightly bolder one. Pari just nodded, her expression equally dismissive.
My smile faltered. The words were a slap in my face, but I swallowed them. I should get used to it since I barged into their lives forcefully. I'd been the outsider, the other woman, the one who broke their brother's heart. And now, I was just the "rich brat."
"I just woke up," I said, feeling defensive, yet utterly helpless. "I wasn't expecting anyone."
Pari stepped forward, her arms crossed, a mirror image of her sister. "Of course not. You're too busy sleeping in your fancy bed while Bhai is probably working himself to death trying to forget you."
"Prashant needs his space," I countered, trying to sound calm, but my voice wavered. "He'll come around."
Priya snorted. "Come around? He cancelled his wedding for you! You think he's going to just forget that?" Her eyes, dark and sharp, bore me. "He talks about you, you know. Not in a good way. He says he regrets everything."
A cold dread seeped into my bones. I knew he was angry, but to hear it articulated, to hear it from his sisters, felt like a fresh wound. "I know I made mistakes," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "But I love him. I always have." I just lied without wincing.
Pari let out a cynical laugh. "Love? Is that why you kept Aryan on the side? Is that your version of love, Ms. Rich Brat?"
The accusation hung heavy in the air. I flinched. They knew. Of course they knew. Prashant would have told them everything, every painful detail. There was no escaping the truth here.
"I... it was complicated," I tried, but even to my own ears, it sounded weak, pathetic.
Priya leaned against the doorframe, a smirk playing on her lips. "Complicated? Breaking someone's heart, messing up their life, and then expecting them to just take you back? That's not complicated, that's just selfish."
The words hit their mark. I felt a hot flush creep up my neck. It was true. I had been terribly, and unforgivably selfish. But I was trying to change. I had to change myself.
"I'm trying to make things right," I pleaded, my voice cracking. "I'm not giving up on him. I'll do whatever it takes."
Pari scoffed. "Oh, really? What are you going to do? Buy him back with your daddy's money? Throw another party?" Her tone was laced with bitter resentment, the kind only poverty and hardship could breed towards perceived privilege.
I pushed myself up, wincing slightly. I needed to sit up, to face them, even if it meant feeling every ache. "No," I said, my voice gaining a surprising strength. "I'm going to show him. I'm going to prove to him that I'm worth it. That what we had, what we can have, is real."
Priya and Pari exchanged a look, a silent communication passing between them. It wasn't one of agreement, but perhaps, of mild intrigue or maybe just morbid curiosity.
"Good luck with that," Priya finally said, her voice still laced with skepticism. "Bhai's pretty stubborn when he wants to be. And right now, he wants to be rid of you."
"Hurry up, get ready, our guests are waiting to see our new and selfish bride." Priya said, throwing a paper bag my way. "Wear the saree and please don't embarrass us in front of our village people. You have done enough damage since yesterday."
They turned to leave, their footsteps light and dismissive.
I watched them go, my heart sinking, then rising with a fresh wave of determination.
They thought I was a "rich brat," a selfish manipulator.
And maybe, in the past, I had been. But I wouldn't be anymore.
I would fight for Prashant, for us, even if it meant facing down his angry sisters, his painful past, and my own crippling mistakes.
This wasn't just about winning him back; it was about winning myself back.
I closed my eyes, picturing Prashant's face, not angry, but smiling, the way he used to.
That was the Prashant I would fight for.
That was the love I would turn his hatred into.
It was going to be an uphill battle, possibly the hardest one of my life.
But for the first time in a long time, I felt a glimmer of hope.
_______
The crimson, heavy saree lay on the bed, an intimidating heap of fabric.
I stared at it, a knot tightening in my stomach.
"How am I supposed to wear this?" The thought echoed Priya's cruel words: Don't embarrass us in front of our village people.
The fear was a cold prickle. What if I did embarrass them?
Prashant would hate me even more. But then, why did I even care?
I was here for his help, though he still had no clue about my secret agenda.
My phone buzzed relentlessly - fifty-four missed calls, twenty-three unread texts. Mom knew where I was, knew it was my wedding day, but they had no idea I was already married.
I opened Dad's message. "At least tell us you're safe, Ira.
This behavior? Never expected it from you.
You're just great, giving us a damn surprise, aren't you, sweetheart?
I just pray to God that next birth I will never get a daughter like you.
You're just a shame on our family, a taint.
I wish I would have killed you the day I found out I was having a daughter.
" Each word was a stone, dropping heavy into my chest. "I'm disowning you!
From now on we have no relationship, Ira. "
I called, but his phone was off. Mom answered on the first ring. "Ira, are you okay?"
"Yes... yes, Mom." My lip trembled. "Dad... he texted me..."
"Calm down, I'm trying to talk to your father, but that bastard Amish Patel filled your father's head with dirt. He's not ready to listen to me..." Mom paused, her voice hushed. "Ira, listen, I really need to hang up. Your dad is coming. Please take care of yourself, sweetheart."
"Mom, please take care of your..." Before I could finish, she hung up. I collapsed onto the bed, hands clamped over my mouth, stifling a sob.
"You still not ready yet?" Prashant's voice, sharp and laced with irritation, cut through my despair.
I shot up, eyes wide, as he strode into the room.
He was in a long-sleeved burgundy shirt and light pants, his hair slicked back, a faint stubble on his jawline making him look older, more mature.
He looked physically striking, a handsome husband, but emotionally, he was a closed book.
I shook my head, glancing at the saree, a silent accusation on the bed. "I don't know how to wear a saree," I said, my fingers fiddling with a loose thread on my dress.
Prashant let out a heavy sigh, his gaze piercing. He held it for a few moments, then strode towards the bed, grabbing the saree. He unfolded it, examined it like a complex diagram, then pulled out his phone. His thumb scrolled, his eyes fixed on the screen, saree tutorials, no doubt.
After a few minutes, he had the fabric in hand, looking like a battle plan. "Stand up," he commanded, his voice as flat and unyielding as a school principal's. I instantly obeyed. "You need to remove your clothes..."
I bit my lower lip, a nervous nod escaping me.
Slowly, I peeled off my dress, then slipped into the red blouse.
My fingers fumbled, trying to reach the hooks at the back, but they were just out of reach.
Then, I felt Prashant's strong, masculine hand on my bare skin.
A sharp gasp escaped me as his fingers expertly fastened the hooks, his touch impersonal, almost clinical.
The air crackled with an unspoken tension, but his expression remained a mask of polite indifference.
"Now, the petticoat," he stated, his voice devoid of any warmth.
He held out a drawstring skirt, not looking at me as I took it.
I pulled it on, feeling clumsy and exposed.
"Alright, listen carefully." He picked up the saree again, his movements precise, almost mechanical.
"The key is the pleats. Get them right, and the rest is manageable.
" He started folding, his eyes on the fabric, not on me.
His fingers, surprisingly adept, created neat, even pleats.
He held them out, a silent instruction for me to tuck them into the petticoat.
His hands brushed mine as I took the fabric, a brief, fleeting contact that sent a shiver down my spine, though he seemed oblivious.
"Next, the pallu," he continued, his voice flat, like he was reciting from a manual.
He draped the decorated end over my shoulder, adjusting it with a practiced hand.
"Make sure it falls cleanly. No wrinkles.
" He stepped back, a critical eye scanning my reflection in the mirror.
He reached out, tugging at a fold near my waist, correcting it with a stern, impersonal touch.
"There. You're... ready." He didn't offer a compliment, no reassuring smile.
Just a cold assessment. He then turned, grabbing his phone, already scrolling, as if the entire interaction was just another chore checked off his list. I stood there, wrapped in the heavy, unfamiliar fabric, feeling more alone than ever I felt before.
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