CHAPTER 53
ANIKA
The house smells of turmeric, sandalwood, and roses.
It’s warm in that nostalgic way—like the mix of rituals, laughter, and too many bodies in one space.
The courtyard is covered in marigolds, and yellow drapes flutter in the breeze.
Women are gathered near the haldi thaal, and some kids are running around smearing each other’s faces with turmeric like it’s Holi.
Kids running in a wedding is so typical. I shake my head.
I wipe a smudge off my cheek and sigh. There’s already haldi on the hem of my yellow kurti, which wasn’t supposed to happen for another half hour, but Shivani bhabhi decided to ‘start the fun early,’ and now here I am—half yellow and trying to find a clean corner to stand in.
Maa catches my eye and smiles gently from across the courtyard, busy talking to some of the other aunties.
She looks happy. Truly happy. Finally, and even though my stomach flips with nerves every now and then, I feel this warmth in my chest—this quiet certainty that maybe…
maybe this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
“Looking for me?” A deep voice murmurs behind me, and I almost jump.
I turn, and there he is. Aarav. In a cream kurta, sleeves rolled to his elbows, haldi already streaked across his jaw from someone’s overexcited palm.
His hair’s slightly ruffled, like he ran his hand through it too many times, and there's this boyish smugness in his eyes that makes it hard to roll mine.
I fold my arms. “Why would I be looking for you?”
He steps closer, eyes warm and teasing. “Because I’m irresistible and about to become your husband. Again.”
I try to glare. I really do. But my cheeks betray me with a blush. “You already are.”
He tilts his head. “Exactly. So you should be looking for me.”
I shake my head and look away, trying to hide the smile creeping up my face.
His presence always does that to me—pulls me out of my head and plants me right into the moment.
He doesn’t touch me—too many people around—but his gaze lingers, just enough to make me feel like I’m the only one standing here in this crowd of dozens.
I can hear his cousins laughing in the background; someone calls for Aarav, but he doesn’t move.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Unknown number.
I hesitate for a second before picking up. “Hello?” Silence. “Hello?” I repeat, a bit sharper. Nothing. Just faint static, maybe wind. I frown and hang up. Weird. My chest tightens a little, but I shake it off. Probably a wrong number.
When I glance up, Aarav is watching me, a slight crease between his brows. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Just… a prank call or something.”
His jaw tightens slightly like he doesn’t fully buy it, but he doesn’t push. “Come,” he says instead, voice lighter. “Before Bhabhi dumps the haldi bowl on my head,” he sighs, “she’s overly excited, and I am hiding from her because I can’t say no to her.” I chuckle.
I follow him toward the seating area, where a low wooden stool has been placed in the center.
Mumma and Badi Maa are already waiting with haldi bowls in hand, smiling fondly at us.
Aditi hoots and whistles, and Shivani bhabhi starts clapping, forcing Rudraksh bhaiya to join, who does as he is told even though it's visible he doesn’t want to.
Aarav sits, and as tradition goes, I’m not supposed to be part of this part of the ritual, but his eyes don’t leave mine even once as, one by one, people smear haldi on him.
When he winces slightly as someone pulls his ear while applying it, I bite back a laugh.
He sees. And winks. God, this man. He’s a walking distraction. Even with haldi dripping from his hairline and a smear of yellow on his nose, he manages to look like he belongs in some ridiculous wedding magazine shoot.
I sit on the side, trying not to stare like a teenager, but every now and then, his eyes find mine and stay there just a beat too long.
Like he’s saying something he can’t voice in this crowd.
When the main rituals are done, and the elders are distracted with snacks and mithai distribution, he manages to slip away toward me, pretending to be looking for water.
I catch him pretending to search for something on the table beside me.
“You’re not very subtle,” I whisper without turning.
“I’m not trying to be,” he whispers back. His hand brushes mine, too brief to be anything scandalous but long enough to send a spark straight up my arm.
“I missed you,” he says softly, and my chest tightens. Because even though we saw each other yesterday, this… this feels new. More hours.
“We just met an hour ago,” I reply, fighting my smile.
“Still,” he murmurs, leaning in just slightly, “you’re in my blood, Anika. Time doesn’t really apply to that.”
I turn to look at him, and for a second, I forget there are people around. I forget the turmeric-streaked madness of this day, the prank call from earlier, and even the ache in my feet from running around all morning.
It’s just him. This boy who I once loved, then hated, then married under the weirdest circumstances, and now… now I can't imagine anything more right than becoming his wife all over again. For real this time.
He leans closer. “Don’t tell anyone, but I saved some haldi just for you.”
My brows rise. “You what?”
He grins, eyes gleaming with mischief. “This,” he whispers, “is how I mark what’s mine.”
Before I can react—before I can even move—he leans in and rubs his cheek, streaked with turmeric, against the back of my hand.
My breath catches. His stubble grazes my skin, the light scrape of it sending a shiver down my spine, and all I can do is freeze, eyes locked with his.
The turmeric smudges instantly onto me. Warm.
Earthy. And far too intimate for a moment that’s happening in broad daylight.
He doesn’t look away. Neither do I. I can’t.
His voice drops lower, the sound curling into my skin like the sun slipping past the clouds.
“Now we’re even,” he says, his cheek still resting lightly against my hand. “You’re a little bit yellow, and I’m a little bit yours.”
And damn him—he knows exactly what that line does to me.
I swallow hard, torn between shoving him away and dragging him closer.
Instead, I just whisper, “You’re going to get us caught.”
He leans back, but his smile lingers. That slow, devastating one that turns my heart into melted sugar.
“Worth it,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to my turmeric-stained hand, “for that look on your face.”
And then he walks away like he didn’t just set my whole soul on fire, slipping back into the crowd with the same easy confidence he carries everywhere.
I stare at my hand, golden and warm. This man. This maddening, ridiculous, utterly perfect man. I’m in so much trouble. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.