PROPOSAL
I rubbed my face tiredly as the shrill sound of his alarm shattered the quiet of the early morning, pulling me out of sleep far too suddenly.
I groaned softly and rolled across the bed for a second, trying to ignore it, hoping somehow it would stop on its own, but of course, it only grew louder and more annoying.
With half-open eyes and absolutely no patience, I finally pushed myself up and sat on the bed, my hair a complete mess and my mind still somewhere between sleep and reality.
His phone was lying on the floor, flashing aggressively while the alarm screamed like it had personal issues with peace.
I frowned immediately.
How could someone set such a violent alarm and still sleep through it like a dead person?
I slowly climbed off the bed and crouched down beside him on the floor, reaching over to grab the phone and turn the alarm off before the neighbors decided to file a complaint against us.
Silence.
Finally.
I let out a relieved breath and turned to look at him.
He was still sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the chaos his phone had created, looking far too calm for someone who had ruined my sleep.
I narrowed my eyes at him.
His hair had fallen over his forehead, his face looking softer in sleep, less guarded, less serious.
And annoyingly...more handsome.
I sighed dramatically to myself.
Even unconscious, this man was troublesome.
I stood up quietly and walked toward the windows, and opening them as the early morning sunlight slipped into the room, soft and golden, touching everything gently and making the house feel warmer than it had the night before.
The fresh morning air brushed against my face, and for a moment I just stood there, breathing it in, letting the peaceful silence settle around me.
I walked out of the room and stepped outside, still half sleepy, my feet carrying me automatically toward the little corner where I had planted my daughter, expecting the usual sight of green leaves and my daily unnecessary emotional attachment.
But the moment I looked—
I froze.
My eyes widened so fast it almost hurt.
“What the fuck—”
I stared at it for a full second like my brain had stopped working.
And then I turned and ran.
I rushed back inside like the house was on fire, almost slipping on the way, and stormed straight into the room where Adithya was still sleeping peacefully on the floor like a man with no responsibilities in life.
I dropped to the floor beside him and started shaking him violently.
“Adithya! Wake up!” I shouted, panic and excitement completely mixed together.
He only groaned in response, half asleep.
Without even opening his eyes properly, he grabbed the pillow beside him and threw it directly at my face.
I slowly stood up, offended beyond words, and with full emotional damage, I kicked him with my leg.
“Wake up, you emotionally constipated man! This is important!”
He pressed his palm against his ear with a groan, clearly trying to block both my voice and my existence at the same time, while I stood there glaring at him.
Since shouting was clearly not working, I placed a hand dramatically over my chest and started fake coughing.
That worked instantly.
He sat up so fast it was almost funny, all traces of sleep disappearing from his face as panic replaced it.
“Are you okay?” he asked immediately, his voice sharp with concern as he looked at me properly.
I blinked at him innocently.
“Absolutely okay,” I said with complete shamelessness.
He stared.
I smiled proudly.
“Manipulative woman,” he muttered.
“Learned from the best,” I replied without missing a beat.
Before he could argue further, I grabbed his hand tightly and pulled, forcing him to stand up despite his very visible suffering.
“Come quickly,” I said, practically dragging him now.
“Viyana, if this is about the cat learning politics again, I am going back to sleep—”
“It is not about little Sinclair,” I snapped.
He sighed like a tired man being dragged toward disaster before sunrise, but he followed anyway, his hand still in mine, his hair messy, his face still carrying sleep, and somehow looking annoyingly cute for someone I wanted to fight.
I pulled him all the way outside toward the corner.
Toward Princess Rose.
I stopped dramatically, pointing at it like I had discovered a miracle.
“Look.”
His eyes widened the moment he looked at it, and then a quiet chuckle escaped him as he turned to look at me, amusement and something softer shining in his expression.
Right there—at the very tip of the plant—
Princess Rose had finally bloomed.
A small, beautiful pinkish lrose, still fresh with the softness of morning, standing proudly like she had been waiting for the perfect moment to prove me right.
I let out a loud gasp like I had personally achieved something historic and jumped in pure victory, pointing at it dramatically as if the entire world needed to witness my success.
“Look at that!” I shouted. “Look at our daughter! She did it!”
Adithya folded his arms and looked at me like I had completely lost my mind.
“Our daughter?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said proudly. “We raised her. We watered her. I emotionally supported her. You were just there for side character energy.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head as he stepped closer to the plant.
The rose was beautiful.
Not perfect.
Not grand.
Just small, soft, and alive.
Because I remembered the day I had first held that dried-up plant in my hand, stubbornly believing it would bloom one day while he probably thought I was wasting my time.
And now— here it was.
Blooming quietly in the morning light.
I looked at Adithya, unable to hide the smile spreading across my face.
“I told you,” I said, raising my chin proudly. “I have magic in my hands.”
He looked at me for a moment, then at the rose again, and something in his smile changed.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“So now,” I said, crossing my arms with full authority and pointing dramatically at the newly bloomed rose like it was legal evidence, “kneel in front of me and propose to me.”
He looked at me for one long second.
Without saying a word, he turned around and started walking away as if abandoning the entire conversation was a perfectly reasonable solution.
Before he could escape, I quickly reached forward and grabbed his arm, holding onto him like I was arresting a criminal.
“You cannot walk away from such an important life event,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “Our daughter just bloomed. This is symbolic.”
He turned to look at me, clearly exhausted by my existence.
“I regret encouraging this.”
“Too late,” I said proudly. “Now kneel.”
He looked down at me, trying very hard not to smile.
“And if I refuse?”
I stepped closer, lowering my voice like I was delivering a serious threat.
“I still have a licensed gun.”
He blinked once.
“There it is,” he said. “Back to violence.”
“Romance and violence go hand in hand.”
“That sounds legally concerning.”
I tightened my hold on his arm.
“Adithya.”
He looked at me.
“Hmm?”
“Kneel down.”
“I won’t,” he said, grinning like he had just made the smartest decision of his life.
I stared at him for one second.
Then I smiled at him sweetly.
The kind of smile that should have warned him to start running immediately.
His expression changed.
“Viyana—” he started.
Too late.
I grabbed his other hand too, in one quick movement and twisted it behind his back.
He let out an offended sound.
“What kind of love story is this?” he complained.
“The realistic kind,” I replied proudly.
He sighed dramatically like a man accepting his tragic fate.
“This is not romance. This is kidnapping with extra steps.”
I leaned closer to his ear and whispered like a villain in a low-budget movie.
“Say yes.”
He chuckled again, and I hated how calm he still was.
Even while being held hostage.
This man had no fear.
I loosened my grip just a little and stepped around so I could look at him properly, still holding his wrist, my bangles softly clinking between us.
“Adithya,” I whined.
“You promised me that if the rose bloomed, you would kneel in front of me and propose to me,” I said, crossing my arms.
His eyes widened immediately as if I had just accused him of a serious crime.
“Liar,” he said without hesitation. “I only said I would kneel in front of you. I never promised I would propose.”
“Same thing,” I muttered under my breath.
“It is absolutely not the same thing.”
I pointed at the rose still blooming proudly on the plant.
“Since apparently you cannot afford me a diamond ring, I am being very understanding and generous. I will allow you to propose with this rose.”
He folded his arms and gave me a look.
“I have some savings,” he said calmly. “I can actually afford a diamond ring for you.”
I blinked and looked at him with sudden interest.
“Wow,” I said, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. “So you are secretly rich?”
He tried not to smile.
“Rich enough to buy what you ask for.”
I stepped closer immediately like a businesswoman entering negotiations.
“I want a Gucci perfume and—”
Before I could continue my shameless shopping list, he placed his palm over my mouth.
I glared at him through his hand like an angry cat.
“Those are not necessities, madam.”
I dramatically pulled his hand away from my face and fixed my dignity.
“I am not asking for a diamond ring,” I said with fake seriousness. “I am asking for emotional commitment. Please focus.”
“Just propose to me with this rose,” I said again, softer this time, but still stubborn enough to make it clear I was not leaving this conversation alive without victory.
He walked past me without another word and carefully plucked the rose from the plant, holding it between his fingers like it was evidence of all the terrible decisions that had brought him to this exact moment.
When he turned back to look at me, he scrunched his nose in pure suffering, like a man being forced into emotional labor against his will.
I had absolutely no sympathy.
He started walking toward me slowly, the rose in his hand, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling too much.
“I regret everything,” he muttered under his breath.
“Be romantic,” I said immediately, fixing my posture and trying to look like a woman deserving of a cinematic proposal instead of someone wearing an oversized shirt and yesterday’s chaos.
He stopped right in front of me and stared.
“Romantic?” he repeated.
“Yes,” I said proudly. “I deserve poetry. Tears. At least one dramatic pause.”
He looked at the sky like he was asking God for patience.
“Viyana, I am a nurse, not a poet.”
“Adapt.”
He let out a quiet laugh and shook his head.
Then, with the deepest sigh of his life, he slowly lowered himself onto one knee in front of me, holding the rose up like the world’s most unwilling prince.
My heart started beating so loudly that I was sure he could hear it, every beat crashing inside my chest as I stood there staring at him, unable to move, unable to even breathe properly.
This was supposed to be a joke.
Me forcing him into drama because our ridiculous rose had finally bloomed.
But now—he was really doing this.
The teasing smile I had been carrying all morning disappeared completely.
Because suddenly, this did not feel playful anymore.
It felt real.
I watched as he shifted slightly, and for a second I thought he was about to stand up again, maybe to escape, maybe to complain one last time about how insane I was.
But instead—he slowly placed his other leg on the ground too.
Not one knee.
Both knees.
He looked up at me from where he was still kneeling on both knees and let out a quiet chuckle, like even he could not believe his life had brought him back to this exact position again.
“It reminds me of the first day we met,” he said, holding the rose in his hand as he looked at me with that annoying little smile. “The day I was kneeling in front of you while you were holding a gun to my head.”
I immediately pointed a finger at him.
“Shut up.”
I refused to let that bitter, embarrassing memory ruin this beautiful morning.
He only laughed more.
“That day, I was honestly questioning every decision I had ever made in life.”
I crossed my arms and glared at him.
“That day, I forced you to kneel down,” I said with full dignity.
He raised one eyebrow.
“Even this time, you forced me.”
I narrowed my eyes dangerously.
He stayed there on his knees, still smiling, clearly enjoying my suffering far too much for someone who was supposed to be proposing.
Then he slowly stretched the rose in his hand toward me again, his expression softening.
“Miss Viyana Sinclair —” he began quietly.
“Mrs. Menon,” I corrected immediately without even giving him one second to continue.
He blinked.
“Wow,” he said, looking almost impressed.
I lifted my chin proudly.
He shook his head, laughing softly under his breath.
“No shame at all.”
“None. Continue.”
“Mrs. Menon,” he said, and just hearing that from him made my heart stumble, “you are the most exhausting, stubborn, dramatic, and emotionally manipulative woman I have ever met.”
I nodded proudly.
“As expected.”
“You threaten me with guns, force me into marriage, emotionally blackmail me before sunrise, and somehow still expect romance like you are some innocent heroine.”
“I am the heroine.”
“You are the villain.”
“I am a layered character.”
He laughed, shaking his head.
“But…” he said, and once again, his voice changed.
“You are also the person who walked into my life and refused to leave, even when I gave you every reason to. You made noise in places that had been silent for too long. You made me care when I was trying so hard not to feel anything.”
My throat tightened.
His eyes stayed on mine.
“You made this house feel like home. You made ordinary evenings feel important. And somewhere between fighting with you and falling for your chaos… I forgot what life looked like before you.”
He gave the smallest smile.
“So, unfortunately for me, I think I want you in every version of my future.”
“I would like to get harassed and threatened by you for the rest of my life,” he said, looking straight into my eyes.
I just stood there.
Staring at him.
My hands were trembling so badly that I had to press them together, and my stomach was fluttering with those stupid, dramatic butterflies that had apparently decided peace was no longer an option for me.
This man.
This absolutely impossible man.
How was I supposed to survive him?
Before I could say anything emotional and embarrassing, he suddenly winced and hissed under his breath.
“Take the rose,” he said, stretching it toward me again. “My knees are hurting.”
I blinked.
The romance shattered instantly.
Of course.
Of course this man would destroy his own proposal.
I let out a laugh through my tears and quickly took the rose from his hand while he stood up with the suffering expression of an old man who had just fought a war against his joints.
He brushed his knees dramatically.
I wiped my face and stepped closer to him, still smiling like an idiot.
“I would love to threaten you for the rest of your life, Mr. Justice Saviour,” I said softly, my voice still shaking with emotion and laughter.
He chuckled quietly, and before I could react, he gently took the rose back from my hand.
He stepped even closer and carefully tucked the rose behind my hair, his fingers brushing softly against my temple as he moved a few loose strands away from my face.
He leaned down and pressed his lips against my cheek.
“Thank you for staying, Mrs. Justice Saviour,”