Married for Revenge

Prologue

Meera

Bangalore

Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I stare at the blank laptop screen, biting my lip.

I know the email is there. I saw the notification on my phone, but I still cannot bring myself to open it.

I must have turned the laptop on and off at least a dozen times in the last half hour, caught in this ridiculous tug-of-war between hoping it’s the news I’ve been waiting for and dreading that it isn’t.

My gaze flicks to the AC on the wall opposite my bed.

The temperature is set low, yet the cool air does nothing to stop the sweat gathering on my forehead.

Sweat that has nothing to do with the afternoon heat spilling through the pale pink curtains and everything to do with the nerves twisting inside me.

I know it’s just an email. One answer. But what makes my heart pound against my ribs is the fact that my whole life is hanging on those words.

My index finger hovers over the power button before I finally turn on the laptop.

The notification pops up immediately: The Indian Institute of Journalism and Media Studies.

And my heart jumps. Again.

My dream. One that I’ve carried since I was fifteen, the day I saw a young woman on television, fearlessly confronting a corrupt politician whose son was involved in the murder of a schoolgirl.

I was completely in awe of how she brought justice to the girl’s family.

The police did their job, yes… but it was through her voice that the truth reached the public, and that public support had made all the difference.

And that’s when I thought, ‘This is what I want. To be a journalist. A voice that raises awareness and makes a difference.’

Smiling, I think of my parents, who understood how important it was for me to follow my heart, and have supported my dreams in their own caring ways ever since. They still do.

My dad, Pratap Sinha, with his quiet wisdom and steady guidance, has a way of making every challenge feel manageable.

No matter how busy he is, he always finds time to sit with me and talk through my plans.

And my mom, Savita Sinha, with her endless warmth and the little sticky-note messages of encouragement she leaves around my room, makes me never want to give up.

Together, they remind me, again and again, that I’m capable of far more than I ever allow myself to believe. Even now, I can almost hear Dad’s voice from this morning as he left for work.

“Don’t stress too much, beta.” He smiled at me from the doorway and adjusted his glasses, looking every bit the bank manager he is in his pressed shirt and perfectly straight tie.

“You’re the best, and the good news will come to you,” he continued in that calm, practical tone he uses when he’s trying to hide that he’s just as nervous as I’m.

“I know you’ll get in, and we’ll celebrate that tonight, princess,” Mom added from beside him with a gentle smile on her face.

She was dressed in a simple pastel salwar for her grocery shopping, yet even in her simple attire, I couldn’t stop being in awe—she looked every bit the perfect, graceful housewife.

With their words still echoing in my mind, I cross my fingers and summon the courage to open the email. But before I can even click on it, my phone rings through the silence, making me jump. I glance at it and can’t help but shake my head with a smile.

Samarth Khanna.

Of course it’s him. He had applied too, and by now, he must have received the mail, just like me.

I swipe to answer. “You have the worst timing, you know that?”

His laugh comes through instantly. “How could I not call? It’s the biggest day of your life!”

“You make it sound like I’m about to walk down the aisle.”

“Well, in a way, you are. Down the aisle of your dreams.”

I groan. “Stop teasing me, will you?”

He chuckles again. “Fine, fine. So, did you read it?”

“Not yet,” I admit, glancing at the screen. “It’s right there in front of me, but I just can’t bring myself to open it yet.”

“You’re killing me, Meera! What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know,” I say, flopping back onto my bed and staring at the ceiling. “Maybe for my heart to stop trying to jump out of my chest.”

“That’s just your nerves talking. You’ve got this. You’re the smartest person I know. If anyone deserves to get in, it’s you.”

I smile softly at his words. “You’re only saying that because you’re my friend. And the way you sound so awfully confident tells me you must have gotten through.”

“First, I did get through,” he says. “And second, which you’d better not forget, I don’t feed you lies. When I say you’re the best, I mean it. Now go open the damn mail and confirm that I have a partner in crime when I step into college.”

I can’t help but laugh, my nerves easing just a little. The thought of us, side by side, chasing the same dream, feels both thrilling and comforting all at once. Still, a fraction of my insecurity slips through.

“What if I don’t? You’ll just leave me behind?” I ask, half-teasing, half-terrified at the thought of not getting the admission.

“Never,” he says immediately. “We’ve been a team since first grade. You really think I’d start now, without you?”

My throat tightens a little. It’s true. Samarth and I have really been together forever.

Childhood neighbours, schoolmates, and partners in every ridiculous competition that ever existed.

He even sat with me when I cried over my first failed school article and listened patiently to my late-night rants about journalism ethics.

Ours is the kind of friendship where words aren’t always necessary, because somehow, you just know.

“I know you won’t,” I whisper, sitting up again. “Okay… stay on the call. I’m opening it.”

“Finally!”

I take a deep breath and click on the mail. The soft sound feels far too small for how loudly my heart is beating.

“Moment of truth,” I mutter, my eyes scanning the mail. For a second, all the words blur together. And then, I see it: ‘We are pleased to inform you, Miss Meera Sinha…’

“OH MY GOD!”

“Meera?”

“I GOT IN!” I squeal, leaping off the bed and bouncing with joy. “I actually got in!”

“I knew it!” he shouts on the other end. “I freaking knew it!”

“Yes! I got the email confirmation. It’s official!”

“I’m coming over. We’re celebrating this!”

I blink. “Now?”

“Yes, now! You think I’m going to let my best friend have her dream-come-true moment alone?”

I laugh, half-crying, half-grinning like an idiot. “Samarth, it’s literally nine in the morning.”

“So what? I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Get ready.”

The call ends before I can argue, leaving me staring at my phone, still smiling.

Shaking my head, I sit down on the edge of my bed and look back at the acceptance letter.

It feels unreal, like one of those dreams where everything lines up perfectly into place, and you’re terrified that waking up will ruin it.

I trace the college logo with my fingertip and think back to all the nights I stayed up, poring over news reports, analysing interviews, pretending I was already out there in the field.

Pulling in a breath, I tear my eyes away from the laptop and look around my room—the proof of how stubbornly I’ve held on to this dream.

The soft cream-beige walls are lined with framed photos and posters of journalists I admire.

A wooden study desk sits in the corner, its surface cluttered with half-read books, notes, and papers.

Above it, shelves overflow with trophies from school competitions.

Opposite it, a matching dresser holds a small lamp that casts a warm circle of light over carefully arranged keepsakes and mementoes.

I even recall the times people said journalism was too risky, too unstable, too… unfeminine. But none of it ever mattered, because being a voice that could reach people mattered the most.

Just then, my phone buzzes again.

Samarth: On my way. Don’t you dare say you still need time to get dressed.

I grin, typing back quickly.

Me: I am ready.

I lie and don’t tell him I’m still in my pyjamas. I don’t need to hear him tease me about being slower than a tortoise when it comes to getting ready. Instead, I move to my wardrobe, pull on a pair of jeans and a pullover sweatshirt, and brush my hair into a quick ponytail.

Once I’m dressed, I glance back at my laptop one last time.

“You’re really going to be a journalist,” I whisper to myself. “And not just any journalist, but the very best there is.

???

Twenty minutes later, I hear the familiar honk of his bike outside my gate. Grabbing my phone, I run downstairs and send my parents a quick message to let them know that I’m with Samarth and will be home before dinner. I know they won’t fuss about it.

My parents adore him as much as I do. Dad often calls him ‘mera beta,’ and Mom can’t stop praising him whenever he visits. And Samarth loves them just as much, seeing them as his own, especially since his parents live in London and he stays alone in his house, just a few blocks away from mine.

Closing the door behind me, I spot Samarth leaning against his bike, dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans.

At twenty, with his five-foot-ten frame, chocolate complexion, sharp jawline, and dark, mischievous, eyes, he has girls drooling over him wherever he goes.

Yet he’s never dated anyone, and I’ve never questioned it.

Just like him, I’ve never found anyone who truly caught my interest. Maybe we’re both waiting for the right person.

Or maybe we’re just too focused on our careers to get tangled in relationship drama.

“Took you long enough,” he taunts, a smug smile pulling at his lips.

“You said twenty minutes,” I fire back.

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s been twenty-two. You’re late.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re just a punctual freak.”

“I take that as a compliment.” He laughs as he swings onto his bike. “Now hop on. We’ve got celebrating to do.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, climbing on behind him

“You’ll see,” he replies as the engine roars to life, and he speeds down the streets of our neighbourhood.

A few minutes later, he stops at the same spot we always end up at when something big happens. The old lake. Our secret place since high school.

I jump off the bike and stretch my arms out, letting the cool breeze wash over me.

“So, how does it feel to know you’re officially on your way to becoming Meera Sinha, the journalist?” Samarth asks, standing beside me.

“Honestly? It hasn’t fully sunk in yet,” I admit. “But I do know that I’m going to be the best journalist in town.”

He nods. “I don’t doubt that.”

I look at him and see his face softened by that supportive smile I’ve seen a thousand times before. A constant in my life for as long as I can remember.

“You know, you’re not half bad at this encouraging thing.”

“Good thing,” he teases, ruffling my hair, “because you’re stuck with me for the rest of your life.”

“I know.” I slap his arm. “Just… you know, you’re also a pain in my ass most of the time.”

“And yet you love me.”

“Debatable.”

He chuckles and wraps his arms around me. “You’re still stuck with me.”

And just like that, standing under the bright sky, it feels like this is where my story truly begins.