•| TWENTY TWO |•
The entire drive passed in an almost suffocating silence, the kind that pressed against your ears and made you hyperaware of every tiny sound inside the car—the faint hum of the engine, the soft rustle of your bridal dupatta when you shifted slightly, and most prominently, Kiaan’s little snores as he slept peacefully in Krish’s arms, completely unaware of the tension sitting between the two adults.
You kept your gaze fixed outside the window, watching the city lights blur past while your mind replayed the events of the day again and again, yet not once did Krish look at you or attempt to speak, his jaw set tight and his eyes focused straight ahead as if you weren’t even there, and before you could gather the courage to say anything, the car had already rolled through the massive iron gates of his mansion.
The vehicle came to a halt under the grand porch lights, and Krish was the first to step out, carefully adjusting the still-sleeping Kiaan against his shoulder before walking inside without sparing you even a single glance, his footsteps quick, distant, detached—leaving you behind.
You slowly pushed the car door open and stepped out, the heavy weight of your lehenga and the heavier weight in your chest making every movement feel slower.
when Mrs. Mehra approached you with a gentle, understanding smile, her eyes warm with a softness that felt almost motherly, “Samira, sorry for his rude behavior… but he’s very soft from inside,” she cooed reassuringly, placing a comforting hand over yours as if trying to ease the awkwardness you were feeling; you forced a small, polite nod, not trusting your voice to hold anything more than that, “Yes…” you replied simply, then gathering yourself, you turned and walked into the mansion—into a house that was now supposed to be your home.
Mrs. Mehra gently walked you down the long, marble-floored corridor, the soft echo of your anklets filling the otherwise quiet hallway until she finally stopped in front of a large double door, pushing it open with a warm smile, “It’s yours and Krish’s room,” she said, her tone light yet carrying a weight that made your heart skip, and before stepping inside you hesitated, your brows knitting together slightly as another thought struck you, “What about Kiaan?” you asked, your voice soft but laced with genuine concern.
she turned back to you with an affectionate expression, clearly pleased by the way you were already thinking about her grandson, “He has his own room… but sometimes he sleeps with Krish,” she explained, and you slowly nodded, absorbing the dynamic of this new family you had just stepped into.
“I’ll get going then, you go freshen up, okay?” she added, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze before leaving you alone in the room, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that made the silence feel louder.
As soon as she left, you let out a long, shaky breath you didn’t even realize you had been holding, your shoulders dropping as the exhaustion of the entire wedding day came crashing down on you all at once; the room was huge—far bigger than any space you had ever called your own—with a grand king-size bed in the center, soft golden lights, and neatly arranged décor that screamed luxury, yet instead of excitement you felt overwhelmed, small even, as if you didn’t quite belong there yet.
slowly you walked toward the bed and plopped down on it, the mattress dipping under your weight while your heavy lehenga spread around you like a pool of red silk, “No Samira… it’s not the time to rest, come on get up you lazy ass,” you whispered to yourself, lightly slapping your own cheek in an attempt to gather energy before forcing yourself to stand again.
You moved toward the mirror and began removing your veil, carefully lifting it off your head, followed by your earrings, necklace, bangles—each piece clinking softly as you placed it on the dresser, your shoulders visibly relaxing with every accessory you removed, as if you were shedding layers of the day itself; after what felt like ages, only the lehenga remained, the most complicated piece of all, and you turned slightly, trying to reach the string at the back, your fingers stretching, fumbling, barely brushing the knot.
you tried again… and again… twisting your arm awkwardly, standing on your toes, even turning your back to the mirror to see better—but your hands still couldn’t properly reach the string; frustration slowly bubbled inside you as you huffed under your breath, your hair falling forward while you struggled, the heavy fabric refusing to loosen no matter how much you tried, leaving you stuck in the middle of the grand room— helplessly wrestling with the stubborn knot at your back.
“Ahh I hate this type of dress… should I call mom to help? No, she must be tired… ahh,” you whined to yourself, your voice wobbling between frustration and exhaustion as your fingers once again failed to reach the stubborn string at the back of your blouse.
The knot felt like it was mocking you, sitting perfectly out of reach no matter how much you twisted or stretched, and soon your irritation began melting into helplessness—your eyes stinging as you let out a small, dramatic fake cry, though deep down it wasn’t just about the dress…
you were missing your parents terribly, the weight of leaving your home hitting you now when you were alone in an unfamiliar room wearing unfamiliar responsibilities.
Meanwhile, the door suddenly clicked open without a knock, and Krish walked in, loosening his cufflinks, clearly not expecting a scene—only to freeze mid-step when he saw you standing near the mirror, teary-eyed, struggling with your outfit; his brows furrowed slightly, confusion flashing across his face before he spoke in a calm, almost flat tone, “Why are you crying?”
You immediately turned toward him, your eyes glossy, lips parted in complaint, “M-my string…” you said, pointing helplessly behind your back like a child reporting a crime, and for a second he just stared at you—processing—before an amused scoff escaped his lips, “It’s always your string…
that trial room accident and now this. I think you have enmity with strings,” he muttered, shaking his head as if you were the most illogical creature alive; you rolled your eyes hard at his nonsense, annoyance overtaking embarrassment, “You know what, Mr. Mehra, you’re sick,” you shot back under your breath.
He paused.
Slowly, dramatically, he turned his head toward you, eyes narrowing, “What did you say?” he asked, voice dropping a notch as he walked closer, and before you could react, his hand wrapped around your arm—not painfully, but firm enough to pull you toward him.
Your breath hitched slightly at the sudden proximity yet your stubbornness didn’t waver, “You are sick,” you mumbled again, though softer this time as your courage shrank under his intense gaze.
His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking near his temple as he stepped even closer, leaving barely any space between your bodies.
Your back instinctively moved away… step by step… until you felt the edge of the bed behind your legs—but before you could stop, your lehenga tangled around your feet, “Ahh—” you gasped, losing balance, your hands flying forward to grab the nearest support—which happened to be his collar.
Unfortunately, instead of saving you, it dragged him down with you.
You fell onto the bed.
And he landed hovering above you.
For a moment, time froze.
Your hair sprawled across the mattress, your breath shallow, his hands braced on either side of you to keep from crushing your weight—yet the sudden fall had pushed him dangerously close, so close that his face ended up buried unintentionally in the crook of your neck.
The warmth of his breath against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, your fingers tightening around his collar unconsciously while his own body went rigid as if electrocuted by the contact.
And just then—
The door swung open.
“Samira, change into this—oh my god—I-I’m so sorry, continue continue I’ll leave!” Mrs. Mehra’s horrified yet awkward voice echoed before she immediately shut the door again, leaving behind a silence so loud it made your ears ring.
Your entire face burned crimson.
You couldn’t even breathe properly out of sheer embarrassment, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs as you stared anywhere but at him; Krish, equally stunned, slowly lifted his face from your neck, realization crashing onto him all at once as he quickly pushed himself up, creating distance, running a hand awkwardly through his hair.
“S-sorry,” he muttered, voice uncharacteristically low before turning away and walking straight into the bathroom, leaving you lying there on the bed—flushed, breathless, and painfully aware that your wedding night had just become ten times more complicated… and embarrassing.