_____5______

Aaravika
____________

"

No way... it can't be him," I thought, staring at the man towering across the room. Yesterday, this same guy had waltzed into a coffee shop, shattered my AirPods, and left without so much as a "sorry" like the rules of basic decency didn't apply to him. And now? My dad wanted me to marry him for ten months. Ten. Freaking. Months. A marriage of convenience, he called it. Convenient for whom? Because for me, it felt like signing up for a daily boxing match with fate.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, the second slap from the universe came swiftly-he wasn't just a random, mannerless jerk. Oh no. He was Vayran Singh Chandravansh, heir to a legacy darker than my under-eye circles during finals week. Mafia royalty.

My heart pounded so loud I was surprised no one else heard it. I was going to be legally shackled to a man who looked like he could burn down cities just for interrupting his breakfast. He caught my horrified expression across the room, his cold, dark eyes narrowing before a slow, devilish smirk spread across his face.

I internally screamed. Was he reading my mind? Probably. His smirk said something along the lines of, Welcome to my kingdom of chaos, wife.

As if this circus wasn't ridiculous enough, he decided to grab a cup of coffee. It slipped. Splash. All over his black shirt.

I blinked. Karma was working overtime today.

He didn't even react. Just stood there like spilling coffee was a daily ritual. Meanwhile, my dad, ever the concerned diplomat, gave me The Look. You know, the one that says, You broke it, you fix it.

"Usse maafi maango (Apologize to him)," Dad ordered, his tone brooking no argument.

"Sorry," I mumbled under my breath, wishing for the ground to swallow me whole.

Vayran paused, one brow arching in what I could only describe as smug amusement. His gaze flicked over me, and then he went right back to dabbing his shirt like a man whose ego was completely unscathed.

I escaped before I could commit a crime. "Shruti! Parth!" I whisper-yelled, joining them in a corner where they were very obviously enjoying my misery.

Shruti smirked. "Nervous ho gayi? (Got nervous?)"

Parth, ever the little devil, grinned. "Di, woh hai toh full Bollywood hero types. (Sis, he's full-on Bollywood hero material.)"

I groaned. "Guys. That's the same guy who broke my AirPods yesterday!"

Shruti's jaw dropped. "Wait... yeh wahi hai?! (This is him?!)"

"Yes! Wahi!" I whisper-yelled, crossing my arms as I tried (and failed) not to glance at him. He was already watching me with that unreadable mafia overlord stare. "This is going to be an epic disaster."

Parth tilted his head. "Disaster kyun? Mujhe toh woh cool lagta hai. (Why a disaster? He seems cool to me.)"

"Parth, he's not cool. He's a walking red flag factory with a six-foot-three height bonus!"

Shruti cackled. "Tu toh gayi. Pehla impression hi killer tha. (You're done for. That first impression was killer.)"

I glared at her. "Killer? He broke my AirPods, Shruti! Kya woh bhi maine thanks bol kar maaf karna hai? (Should I thank him for that too?)"

Before I could escape further humiliation, my bua decided it was her moment to shine. "Aaravika beta, tum usse guest room dikhao na. (Aaravika dear, why don't you show him the guest room?)"

I froze mid-step. "Um, Bua, I think the servant-"

"No, beta!" she gushed, practically glowing with fake enthusiasm. "Tum toh honewali patni ho! Tumhe hi karna chahiye. (You're his future wife! It's your duty.)

My soul left my body.

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