Chapter 27
For three days, Abhinav made an honest effort to behave like a reasonable human being.
It failed.
He had called. No answer.
He had messaged. “When can I see you?”
Silence.
He had sent a time. A place.
Nothing.
Two more messages.
Nothing again.
The woman had, quite deliberately, decided that the basic rules of human communication did not apply to her. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it in a Haveli that now functioned like a very well-decorated surveillance system.
He had tried to work. It had refused to cooperate.
Because the real problem was that he had claimed her. Not in a physical sense. In a deep, irreversible sense when a feeling settles inside you and becomes a fact.
And once that happened, distance stopped making sense.
She was already his in every sense that mattered to him. Being asked to maintain space felt absurd. Like being told to breathe less because other people were present.
He ran companies across continents.
Yet he could not function in the same Haveli as Meera Chauhan without losing all efficiency.
He needed her close. Within reach. In his arms long enough to make her listen. To make her stop disappearing into polite smiles and unanswered messages. To remind her that she had said yes to him and not to a set of traditions designed to test his sanity.
Now he stood at the window. Below, in the courtyard, she sat with their mothers and a circle of aunties, discussing menu options as if her life had not turned inside out three days ago.
She looked… calm.
That, more than anything else, was the problem.
His jaw tightened. He turned away from the window.
Enough.
He sat at his desk, picked up his phone, and stared at it for a long moment.
Then he typed.
“Hidden courtyard. Three in the morning. I will be there tonight. I will be there tomorrow night. I will be there every night until you come, Meera. If you want to test that, don’t come tonight.”
He read it once. Thought of softening it. Dropped the idea.
He sent it and placed the phone down.
Waited.
Nothing.
Of course.
He returned to the window. The aunties had moved on to flowers. Meera laughed at something her mother mentioned, head tilted, completely at ease.
That night, he went to bed at eleven and set an alarm for two thirty.
He lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering how his life had reached a point where he was being ignored inside his own ancestral home.
The reply came at eleven forty-seven.
One word.
“Yes.”
He read it. Again. Turned the phone face down and closed his eyes.
For the first time in three nights, he slept. Like a man who had just regained access to oxygen.
Morning One
At two forty-five, she sat at the edge of her bed and removed her anklets, placing them on the dressing table.
At this hour, that soft chime through the Haveli would not sound delicate. It would sound haunted. The Haveli did not need stories of a wandering bridal ghost.
She slipped into her slippers, wrapped her dupatta around her shoulders, and stepped out.
The corridors seemed to watch as she reached the hidden doorway. Her palm pressed to the stone.
It gave.
She stepped through.
His hand caught her waist before her second step.
She gasped. His arm closed around her, pulling her against him, turning her to the wall in one smooth motion.
Cold stone at her back. Heat in front of her.
One hand at her waist. The other braced beside her.
She looked up.
He was already watching her.
The same intensity, now stripped of distance and interruption. Jaw set. Eyes dark.
A man who had waited. A man who had been ignored.
“You did not answer my calls.”
Low. Controlled.
“There were people everywhere…”
“You did not reply to my messages.”
“I was…”
“Busy?” His brow rose. “Remarkable. You appeared very available for discussions about coriander leaves.”
She bit the inside of her cheek and lowered her eyes to his kurta, trying very hard not to smile.
His hand left the wall and came to her jaw, tilting her face back up. “Look at me.”
She did.
Regretted it immediately.
He was too close, too intense. Her pulse lost rhythm.
“Every morning here,” he continued. “You will come.”
His thumb brushed along her jaw.
“That is very…”
“Yes.” Completely unbothered. “It is.”
“You cannot just…”
“You avoided me for three days.”
“I did not…”
“Meera.”
That tone did it. She giggled.
His expression did not change. “You find this funny.”
“A little.”
“Good.” His hand tightened at her waist, drawing her closer. “Enjoy it. I am not.”
His eyes darkened.
“You are mine.” He said it simply. “And I am not conducting our relationship across courtyards while a committee debates floral arrangements.”
“That is arrogant.”
“Mm.”
“I did not agree to be summoned.”
“You agreed to marry me.”
“That is not the same.”
“It is.” His eyes dropped briefly to her lips. “Do you understand me?”
She held his gaze.
“Meera…” His voice lowered as he leaned closer, breath warm near her ear. “Do you understand me?”
Her breath caught. “Hukum.”
The word slipped out, soft, unguarded.
It changed everything.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers settling there, firm, possessive. He leaned closer, closing the last inch between them. “Say that again.”
Her pulse stumbled. “Hukum.”
That was all it took.
His mouth found hers.
Her fingers caught his kurta, tightening as everything inside her unraveled. He did not rush. He was deliberate, patient in a way that felt far more dangerous.
Her breath changed, caught between control and surrender. He paused just enough to let her breathe, then deepened it, slow, consuming.
When he pulled back, his mouth moved from the corner of her jaw to the hollow of her throat, unhurried, teasing, tasting.
Her head tipped back against the stone, eyes closing.
“Stop…” his voice hitched against her throat, “calling me…”
A breath.
“That.”
His teeth grazed her throat.
“It does things I do not have patience for.”
Her grip tightened on his kurta.
“And I am already walking on a thin ice here.”
That was not a warning. That was a fact.
Her thoughts slipped away. There was only him. Too close. Too real. Pulling everything out of order.
A bird called overhead. The first sign of morning.
They paused.
His forehead came to rest against hers, thumb tracing a slow line at her waist. Her fingers stayed curled in his kurta.
She opened her eyes.
His eyes were dark. Still slightly annoyed. Which, for some reason, made her want to laugh again.
Reluctantly, he let her go.
She stepped back. Breathed. Straightened her dupatta. Smoothed her hair, gathering herself piece by piece.
He watched her. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Three.”
“Three?”
“Meera.”
Her lips curved. “Ji, Hukum.”
He glared.
Before he could reach for her, she turned and ran, the first light rising along the eastern wall.
She did not look back.
In her room, she set her dupatta aside. Picked up the anklets. Fastened them around her ankles, her hands not entirely steady.
She lay down, but sleep did not come.
Three o’clock was already waiting.
Morning Two
He waited on the stone platform, legs stretched, eyes fixed on the doorway.
She walked toward him. Before she could sit, his hand closed around her wrist and drew her forward.
Onto his lap.
A startled sound escaped her. His arm came around her waist, keeping her there, settling her against him as if this was the only position that made sense. “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Anything… Something from yesterday.”
She thought for a moment. “Naina measured my waist four times. The number kept changing.”
His chest moved against her in a suppressed laugh.
“The fourth time,” she continued, “she looked at the tape as if it had personally betrayed her.”
He laughed properly then, head tipping back.
She felt it settle deep inside her.
“And you?” she asked softly. “Yesterday?”
“A two-hour call about London.” His hand moved over her waist. “Spent most of it thinking about this.”
She tilted her head. “This courtyard?”
“About you.”
The simplicity of it pulled her eyes away. She looked up at the sky, light growing stronger.
His attention moved over her neckline. “Naina showed me the wedding sketch.”
Her head turned at once. “She showed you?”
“I asked,” he shrugged, amused. “I have opinions.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“Deep red,” he went on, ignoring her protest. “With gold.”
His hand brushed her shoulder, as if placing the fabric there. “She’s right about that.”
His fingers moved just above her collarbone. “The neckline should be lower than what she planned.”
Her breath caught.
His hand slid to her arm.
“The sleeves…” his fingers paused above her elbow, warm against her skin, “…end here.”
He traced the line down, stopping just below where her bangles would rest. His touch lingered. “So this stays visible.”
His hand turned, palm against hers, thumb moving across the centre of her palm.
“Here,” he murmured, voice softer now. “My name.”
Her fingers curled against his without thought.
“And the skirt,” he continued softly, “should move when you walk.”
His hand returned to her waist, drawing her closer.
“Because when you walk, everyone will look at you.”
His eyes stayed on her.
“I want them to know, at once, that they are looking at someone who is mine.”
Her lips parted. Words refused to form.
“Also,” he added, almost light, though his hold did not loosen, “your hair stays down.”
She turned away, pressing her face into her hands, her shoulders trembling.
He drew her back against him, satisfied, his mouth brushing her temple.
“My opinion counts,” he murmured. “Because Meera Chauhan, you are going to be my wife.”
Morning Three
“Tell me about your school,” she asked softly.
He was quiet for a moment.
She lay against him, her head over his heart, his arms around her. The courtyard had begun to feel like their own little world.
“Boarding school. From class six. Raghav was my roommate. He ate my biscuits and denied it for three weeks.”
She looked up, smiling. “Did he?”
“I had proof. He still denies it.”
Her fingers traced patterns along his sleeve.