Between Us

1 - Dhruv

The gym was silent except for the rhythmic sound of breath and the low thud of a weighted rope hitting the rubber floor. At 6:03 a.m., no one else was in the private fitness room on the 1st floor of the Deshmukh Villa — exactly how Dhruv liked it.

He didn't train for aesthetics. That was just a by-product. His body was discipline, carved into form by years of early mornings, controlled rage, and the deep need to stay two steps ahead of everyone who underestimated him.

6'1", broad-shouldered, cut like he could've been a national-level athlete if he cared enough to play for anything other than power.

Veins lined his forearms, his skin bronze under the glow of the overhead lights.

His black joggers sat low on his hips, sweat darkening the waistband.

His back, as he rotated into a clean press, flexed and rippled — and just as the shirt lifted slightly, the edge of the ink came into view.

A Trishul.

Etched sharply across the center of his back, the tattoo rose like a shadowed spine from between his shoulder blades. Black and bold. Divine and brutal. It suited him — a symbol of control, destruction, and quiet fury.

He dropped the barbell, rolled his wrists out, and reached for his towel. His hair, jet-black and slightly tousled, stuck to his forehead. He wasn't the type to fix it. His jaw was dusted in faint stubble, eyes sharp and unreadable — a kind of quiet threat most people didn't dare try to understand.

He wasn't intimidating because he spoke.

He was intimidating because he didn't need to.

Dhruv Deshmukh didn't yell. He didn't explain. He executed.

He picked up his phone, checking the time. 6:28 a.m. Ten minutes until the first call. The screen blinked — a message from his assistant.

??: "Pandit ji confirmed. Wedding fixed — Feb 3rd. Should I confirm the decorators?"

He stared at the message for a second longer than necessary.

Wedding.

It still felt abstract. Arranged. Controlled. Like a business merger dressed in marigolds and silk.

He wasn't the kind of man who dreamed about love, or cared for it. But this was clean. Efficient. She came from a good family, respected, well-mannered, no scandals. Interior designer. Educated. Quiet.

Respect. Stability. Power.

Love, he didn't promise. Mostly because he didn't believe in it.

He typed back:

??: Confirm. Keep it minimal.

He locked the phone and stood, grabbing his water. The skyline outside the glass walls of the gym bled slowly into morning. Dubai didn't sleep, and neither did ambition. Everything in Dhruv's world was sleek, brutal, and deliberate — including him.

His father had handed him the company's expansion wing five years ago, expecting him to either drown or dominate. He'd chosen the latter. Now at 26, he was already more feared in the boardroom than most men twice his age.

And in fifteen days, he'd have a wife.

He didn't know what kind of woman Vaani Joshi was beyond what her profile said.

But she hadn't asked him for anything. No calls. No drama. No expectations.

He respected that.

People always wanted something from him. So when someone didn't — they stood out.

His phone buzzed again. This time from his Mom.

??: "Also, Joshi family has invited us over tomorrow night for dinner. Her mother insisted."

He wiped sweat from his brow, expression unreadable. Then, simply:

??: Noted.

He turned back toward the mirror.

Dhruv didn't believe in fate.

But he believed in order. And control.

If this marriage was happening, it would happen on his terms. Neat. Controlled. Boundaried.

No mess.

No chaos.

No vulnerability.

And definitely no love.

He adjusted his posture, pulled his shirt back over the tattoo, and headed to the shower.

The water hit his skin like ritual.

Steam curled around the shower walls, beading on his shoulders as he stood motionless under the rainfall head. Dhruv didn't think much during these moments. His brain, wired for clarity and calculation, preferred silence over reflection.

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, down the curve of his spine where the Trishul ink sat — solid, sharp, permanent.

Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed in his usual: black trousers, a crisp charcoal half-sleeve shirt that fit too well to be accidental, and a matte-black watch. His cologne was subtle — sandalwood and smoke — understated but unmistakable.

By 7:14 a.m., Dhruv descended the open staircase of their Dubai villa, his steps quiet against the marble.

The main living room was sunlit and sprawling — tall glass windows lining the east wall, soft beige upholstery wrapped around a modern low table, and gold accents scattered in just the right places. His mother's touch. His father's money. His precision.

His parents were already seated at the table. His father, Mahesh Deshmukh, had a newspaper folded beside his coffee — not out of necessity, just habit. Retired from daily operations, Mahesh still hovered like a shadow behind every major business decision. A man of weight. Of legacy.

His mother, Jaya, smiled as Dhruv approached, her hands wrapped around her cup of masala tea, bracelets softly clinking.

"You're early today," she said, always noting, always warm.

"Didn't sleep much," Dhruv replied, picking up a protein bar from the bowl on the counter.

His father grunted from behind his cup. "Mind full of quarterly reports or your wedding?"

Dhruv didn't react. "Reports."

Jaya sighed, not annoyed — amused. "You know, Dhruv, the wedding is just two weeks away. At least pretend to act involved."

"I am involved," he replied evenly, tearing open the wrapper. "I've made sure the Joshi family won't have to spend a single rupee than they are comfortable to. Bookings are handled. Logistics are clean. That's more than most grooms do."

His mother raised a brow. "That's the corporate version of involvement."

Dhruv's jaw ticked. "It's the responsible version."

Jaya put her cup down gently. "You're not wrong. But it wouldn't hurt to be... present."

"I'll be there," he said, calm but final.

Mahesh snorted lightly. "Your mother wanted a Bollywood-style baraat. I said no horses indoors."

Dhruv's lips quirked for a second. "Thankfully."

Jaya leaned back in her chair, watching her son with that soft, searching expression she always wore when she was trying not to mother him too hard. "You know," she said, tilting her head, "I really do think Vaani is the right one."

Dhruv looked at her then — eyes steady, unreadable.

"You've said that before."

"And I'll say it again," she smiled. "Because she wasn't on any wedding app yet. I met her mother by chance at that art gallery opening. We got to talking, I saw pictures. I met her quietly first. She didn't know who I was. And she was... gracious. Simple. Smart. Not trying too hard."

"She's an interior designer, right?" Dhruv asked, more as confirmation than curiosity.

Jaya nodded. "She works with an international firm. Doing well for herself. Lives with her parents. Chirpy, talkative and full of life! I liked that."

Dhruv nodded once. He had heard this story before — the "chance meeting," the spark of approval. But he didn't interrupt her.

Sometimes people needed to say things more than once. And he respected that.

"I trust your decision," he said.

Jaya smiled, a little emotional. "You'll like her, Dhruv. Not in the dramatic way. But in the way that stays."

He didn't say anything to that.

Because he wasn't looking for drama. Or even liking.

Just peace. Balance. Someone who didn't ask more than he was willing to give.

He took a sip of his masala chai, gaze fixed on the skyline outside.

Fifteen days.

Then the quiet would no longer be his alone.

His mother was watching him again.

The way she did when she was about to bring up something he had no patience for but couldn't outright dismiss — because she was his mother, and she had that maternal immunity he hadn't found a way to argue against.

"You know," she began, her tone deceptively casual, "most grooms at least meet the girl before marrying her."

Dhruv didn't look up from his phone. "We've met, and we've spoken."

Jaya scoffed. "You met when we had our meeting, where you two just spoke like you were hiring each other, only about your jobs you spoke!

And then you met at your engagement, where you two hadn't spoken a word to each other except "Hi, how are you?

", and spoken? You mean that one call your father and I had to practically arrange through the priest, where you asked her about the seating layout like it was a boardroom event? "

"It was a practical question," he replied without missing a beat.

"I'm sure it was. But Dhruv, you're marrying her. Not hiring her."

He finally looked up.

Cool. Composed. That unwavering calm in his gaze that made people either deeply respect him or deeply uncomfortable.

"I'll see her tomorrow. Isn't that what the dinner's for?"

Jaya rolled her eyes like only a mother could. "You'll see her with her entire family watching. That's not meeting, Dhruv, that's performance."

"She's not a stranger," he said mildly, finishing the last of his chai. "I've seen her photo. I've met her. I've communicated with her."

"One photo," she snapped. "One cropped, formal, small-smile biodata image."

He arched a brow. "It did the job."

She glared. "And that locked Instagram profile with one visible profile picture and no mutuals? That doesn't count."

Dhruv smirked slightly, the faintest twitch of a dimple barely surfacing. "You looked her up?"

Jaya sniffed. "Of course I did. I'm your mother, not a monk. And from her profile glimpse, she's surprisingly low-key for her generation. It matches your vibe too, Dhruv."

"That's a good thing, right?"

"Yes, Dhruv," she deadpanned. "But that doesn't mean you don't even try. At least send her a follow request. Or a message. Something."

He leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly. "We're getting married, Ma. If she wanted to talk, she could've reached out too."

Jaya's eyes softened, less frustrated now, more curious. "What if she's waiting for you to take the first step?"

Dhruv went quiet.

Not because he was suddenly flooded with guilt. But because he'd never thought of it that way.

He didn't believe in chasing things. His world didn't require it. Deals were closed because he made the terms. Relationships — the word was foreign to him. He'd never been in one, and every other form of any relationship he'd been in, friends or family, was always transactional. Honest. Clean.

But this girl... this woman he was marrying... had remained remarkably silent.

No overenthusiastic texts. No intrusive questions. No random calls at odd hours to "get to know each other."

It wasn't just silence.

It was restraint.

And he found that strangely... grounding.

"I'll see her tomorrow," he repeated, but softer this time. "That should be enough."

Jaya watched him for a moment longer. "It's a pity," she said with a sigh.

"She was out of Dubai for work during that one week when you were back from your Europe tour.

That was such a narrow window. Her firm sent her to Qatar for a client walkthrough, and you were back-to-back with investor pitches. "

"I know," Dhruv said. He remembered.

That one week in June when everything could've been wrapped up with a ten-minute coffee. Instead, the schedules clashed like they were characters in a badly timed film script. She'd left the city just two days before he landed. By the time she returned, he was back on a flight out.

1.5 months passed.

Now the wedding was fifteen days away.

"You could still call her," Jaya offered gently. "I think she's the kind of girl who'd like that. Not for drama. Just to make things less... formal."

Dhruv ran a hand through his damp hair. The thought of cold-calling someone he hadn't connected with even socially felt... off. Not because he was above it. But because he didn't know what he'd even say.

He wasn't a talker. He wasn't charming (Or so he thought).

And from what little he'd heard of Vaani — neither was she.

"We'll talk tomorrow," he said again.

His mother studied his face for a long second, then relented, reaching for a grape.

"I just don't want you to feel like you missed something before it began."

Dhruv nodded faintly, the words sticking longer than he expected.

Missed something before it began.

He wasn't sure what that "something" was supposed to be. Love? Connection? Warmth?

Those things had never really shown up in his life without consequence.

He stood, rolling his shoulders, setting his mug down. "Text me the guest list. I'll handle the Joshi family's car arrangements."

His mother smiled — not entirely satisfied, but accepting.

Mahesh glanced up again. "Just don't treat your wedding like a quarterly review, hmm?"

"I'll try," Dhruv replied, eyes unreadable.

And with that, he headed toward his office upstairs — sharp, still, unshaken.

~·~

The bass thudded low under his shoes, the kind of rhythm you could feel in your chest more than your ears. Dim lighting washed the private booth in a warm amber glow, and the crowd outside pulsed with a kind of chaos Dhruv Deshmukh had never truly belonged to.

He didn't drink to escape. Didn't party to be seen.

He was here because Aarav — his oldest friend from school — insisted that the "last few days of bachelorhood" deserved at least one night out. And Dhruv, in all his cold, calculated restraint, had agreed... for exactly one drink.

Now, leaning back in a sleek corner booth of one of Dubai's most exclusive lounges, Dhruv sat with a glass of whiskey in one hand, suit jacket slung beside him, sleeves rolled up, the top two buttons of his charcoal shirt undone just enough to draw glances.

But none of it was intentional.

It never was.

That was the thing about Dhruv — he didn't try to attract attention.

Attention simply rearranged itself to accommodate him.

He sipped slowly, eyes scanning the room — not out of curiosity, but habit. Observing exits. Noting security placement. Watching patterns in movement. His phone rested on the table, screen lit for a moment with a muted message from his assistant.

Aarav dropped into the booth beside him, grinning and slightly buzzed. "You've got the most bachelor-in-a-marriage face I've ever seen, man. At least pretend you're alive."

Dhruv raised an eyebrow. "I am alive. Just not performing."

Before Aarav could reply, a woman walked up to their table — sleek black dress, bold red lipstick, confidence radiating off her like perfume. She leaned against the edge of the table with a practiced smile and eyes that skipped right past Aarav to Dhruv.

"Didn't mean to interrupt," she said smoothly, "but you've got a serious main-character energy going on."

Dhruv glanced at her — slow, unreadable. Not rude. Not welcoming.

She took it as permission to continue.

"I've been watching you ignore half the club for the past thirty minutes," she added, sipping from her drink with firty eyes. "That's either confidence or disinterest. Which is it? Want a distraction?"

Aarav choked back a laugh and leaned away, deciding to observe instead of intervene.

Dhruv set his glass down gently, and without so much as shifting his posture, he raised his left hand — the glint of the simple platinum band on his ring finger catching the light.

"I'm taken," he said, tone even, almost polite.

The girl's smile didn't falter. "That doesn't tell me whether you're happy about it."

He looked at her then. Fully. Calmly.

A pause.

Aarav raised a brow but didn't interfere.

Dhruv's fingers flexed once on the rim of his glass before he looked her in the eye, unreadable. "Thrilled or not," he said, voice dropping a few degrees, "I'm engaged. And I don't cross lines."

The girl smiled again — playful, maybe a little challenged. "That serious, huh?"

"It's not about serious," Dhruv answered calmly. "It's about respect."

The girl's smile faltered — not insulted, just thrown off by how measured it was. No dramatic rejection. No flirtatious ambiguity. Just clean, clear distance.

She gave a lazy shrug and turned back toward the bar.

Aarav let out a short laugh once she was gone. "You're going to make a weirdly solid husband, man."

Dhruv didn't answer right away. He finished his drink and leaned back in his seat, letting the music slide back into his ears.

"I wasn't raised to play with people's futures," he finally said. "Even if mine's a little... undefined right now."

Kunal raised his glass. "To arranged marriages, then."

Dhruv lifted his own. "To clean decisions. Even if the feelings come later."

The night went on.

Dhruv didn't leave early.

He laughed at Aarav's jokes. Played a round of poker in the VIP room. Even let himself get pulled onto the edge of the dance floor for a few minutes — just long enough to remind the world that he could move if he wanted to.

He was still young. Still fire beneath stone.

??