•| SIXTEEN •|
The mansion looked unusually alive that night — glowing chandeliers lit up every corridor, servants hurried up and down the marble staircases with trays of flowers and fabrics, decorators were measuring walls for drapes, and the faint sound of shehnai practice echoed from the lawn where the mandap was being set up.
It felt less like a home and more like a wedding venue already in motion.
Krish stood near the grand living hall entrance, his hands shoved inside his pockets, watching the chaos unfold with a tight jaw.
He exhaled sharply before walking toward his mother, who was busy instructing the staff while checking a long preparation list in her hand.
“Mom… isn’t it too early for all this?” he asked, his voice low but strained, glancing around at the excessive arrangements.
Mrs. Mehra didn’t even look up at first.
“Early? What early?” she muttered, adjusting a flower garland before turning to the decorator again. “No, no — I want fresh mogra here, not roses. It’s my son’s wedding.”
Krish ran a hand through his hair, patience thinning.
“Mom,” he called again, louder this time.
She finally turned toward him, slightly annoyed at being interrupted.
“Yes, Krish?”
He gestured vaguely around the mansion.
“All this… at night? The wedding is day after tomorrow. You’re acting like it’s tomorrow morning.”
She folded the list and looked at him with a calm but firm expression.
“Krish, you are going to do this marriage, right?” she asked.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second — and that was enough.
Her eyes softened, but her tone remained steady.
“So what does it matter if preparations start early or late?” she continued. “I have waited years to see this house decorated for your wedding… let me do this in peace.”
Her words weren’t loud — but they carried weight.
Before he could respond, she turned away again, already calling out instructions to the caterer.
“Make sure the sweets are prepared fresh that morning. And call the pandit ji once — I want to reconfirm the muhurat.”
Krish just stood there.
Silent.
Dumbfounded.
Like his presence — his thoughts — didn’t even matter in the storm of decisions being made around him.
A humorless scoff escaped his lips.
He clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling inside his chest, thick and suffocating.
Running a hand over his face, he muttered under his breath, “No one even asked if I’m ready…”
He cursed under his breath.
“Shit.”
Anger — at himself, at the situation, at everything — surged abruptly.
Without thinking, he kicked the edge of the nearby table.
The metal leg scraped harshly against the marble floor with a loud screech, making a servant flinch.
But he didn’t care.
He grabbed his car keys from the console in one sharp motion.
“Sir, dinner is ready—” a staff member tried to inform.
“I’m not hungry,” he cut coldly, already striding toward the exit.
Within seconds, the mansion doors slammed shut behind him.
The cold night air hit his face as he walked to his car parked in the driveway, chest rising and falling heavier than usual.
He got inside, gripped the steering wheel tightly — knuckles whitening.
For a moment, he just sat there.
Breathing.
Thinking.
Then he started the engine.
The car roared to life, headlights cutting through the dark driveway as he sped out of the mansion gates without looking back — leaving behind the lights, the noise, the wedding preparations…
…and the reality he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.
Your sleep was deep — the kind that comes only when your mind is too exhausted from overthinking. One arm was tucked under your pillow, your hair sprawled messily across the bedsheet, lips slightly parted as you breathed softly in the quiet darkness of your room.
The night outside was still.
Too still.
Until—
Your phone started ringing.
You stirred slightly but didn’t wake.
It stopped.
Then rang again.
And again.
And again.
The continuous vibration against the wooden side table finally broke through your sleep. You groaned in irritation, eyes still closed as your hand blindly searched for the phone.
You were alone in the house — your parents had left earlier that evening to visit your hospitalized aunt in the neighboring city, saying they might stay overnight depending on her condition.
You had insisted you’d be fine alone… but now, being woken up in the middle of the night, you regretted that confidence.
The ringing didn’t stop.
“Ughhh…” you whined, finally grabbing the phone and bringing it to your ear without even checking the caller ID.
“Who is this…” you mumbled sleepily, voice thick with drowsiness and irritation.
On the other side, there was a second of hesitation before a male voice spoke — polite but nervous.
“Ma’am… this number was on speed dial.”
Your brows furrowed slightly.
“Yeah, just tell… why did you call me?” you said, still half-asleep, rubbing your eye with the back of your hand.
“Actually ma’am…” the man paused, as if choosing his words carefully, “Mr. Mehra is too drunk. Please take him. It’s already getting late and we can’t let him drive in this state.”
The moment you heard his name—
Sleep vanished.
Your eyes snapped open instantly, heart skipping a beat.
You sat upright on the bed.
“W-what? Krish?” you asked, now fully awake, voice laced with sudden concern. “Is he alright? Did something happen? Did he get hurt?”
“No ma’am, he’s physically fine,” the man replied quickly. “But he’s extremely drunk… he’s not listening to anyone. He keeps asking us not to call his family. This was the only number on speed dial.”
You bit your lower lip anxiously, swinging your legs off the bed.
“O-okay… okay,” you breathed, trying to steady your voice. “Please tell me the address.”
He immediately gave you the name and location of the lounge bar along with nearby landmarks.
You quickly put the call on speaker, scrambling out of bed while searching for your slippers.
“I’m coming… please don’t let him drive,” you said hurriedly.
“Don’t worry ma’am, we’ve taken his car keys already,” the man assured. “But please come soon… he’s getting restless.”
“I’ll be there,” you replied, cutting the call.
For a second you just stood there in your room — heart racing, mind still foggy from sleep but already flooded with worry.
You glanced down at yourself.
Pajamas.
Loose T-shirt.
Messy hair.
“No time,” you muttered to yourself.
Grabbing your phone and house keys, you hurriedly tied your hair into a loose bun, slipped your feet into sandals, and rushed out of the house without even changing.
The night air outside was cool, brushing against your skin as you locked the door behind you.
Your heart thudded loudly in your chest — a mix of irritation, anxiety, and something else you refused to name.
“Stupid Uncle…” you mumbled under your breath while hailing a cab. “Why does he drink so much…”
But even as you complained—
You were already on your way to him.