A ripple of murmurs spread across the room. Even he finally lifted his gaze to meet hers, his expression unreadable.
The words hung in the air like a bomb waiting to explode.
Megha's nail dug into her palm. A partnership? With him?
Arjun's jaw tensed. This had to be a joke.
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Here I am, standing across from the person I hate the most—or at least, that's what I tell myself—with a ring in my hand, ready to get engaged to him.
How did I even get here? I don't know. Everything feels like a blur.
But what's that lub-dub sound I keep hearing? Where is it coming from? Oh. It's my heart, pounding at a hundred miles an hour. But why? I don't like him. I don't.
And yet, he's silent—not even looking at me, as if I don't exist. Meanwhile, my eyes keep drifting toward him, hoping—wishing—he'll look at me. Pathetic, right?
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Here I am, standing in the aisle, waiting for my bride, dressed in a golden sherwani. Beside me, my grandfather stands tall, adorned in an off-white but subtly elegant sherwani.
And then, there she is—slowly walking toward me in her maroon wedding dress, a delicate veil draped over her head, shielding her face from my sight. She holds her grandfather's arm, each step measured, graceful.
She looks like a goddess—a vision of divine beauty, slowly making her way toward me as if blessing me with her presence.
I can't take my eyes off her. Only God knows how much effort it takes to stop myself from closing the distance between us.
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"I hate you, Megha. I hate you! How could you do this to me? How could you? Didn't you know how much I loved you? Yet, you still did this to me. I wish I would never see your face again."