Destined – A Marriage of Convenience Love Story: Chapter 7

This is part 8 of 8 in the book Destined: A Marriage of Convenience

Destined: A Marriage of Convenience

Destined: A Marriage of Convenience and not Love: Blurb
Destined – A Marriage of Convenience Love Story: Chapter 1
Destined – A Marriage of Convenience Love Story: Chapter 2
Destined – A Marriage of Convenience Love Story: Chapter 3
Destined – A Marriage of Convenience Love Story: Chapter 4
Destined – A Marriage of Convenience Love Story: Chapter 5
Destined – A Marriage of Convenience Love Story: Chapter 6
Destined – A Marriage of Convenience Love Story: Chapter 7

estined – A Marriage of Convenience Love Story: Panchgani Trip in Threat

7,131 words, 38 minutes read time.

A Marriage of Convenience Love Story Set in Kolkata

Destined: A Marriage of Convenience Love Story – Chapter 7
Off to Panchgani!

Don’t forget to read Chapter 6 of Destined: A Marriage of Convenience.

Destined – A Marriage of Convenience Love Story: Chapter 6

Destined – A Marriage of Convenience Love Story

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Mehek

I waited at the restaurant, my fingers resting lightly against the edge of the table, aware of the space around me in a way that made me sit a little straighter than usual.

This was a posh restaurant, not one I normally went to. In fact, I had never visited this place. When I reached, I called Abhoy, and he told me to sit inside.

His voice sounded a little on the edge, but then he was always grumpy.

The soft clinking of cutlery, low conversations, and the faint hum of music filled the air, but none of it felt like it belonged to me. I glanced down at my engagement ring, turning it slightly, watching how it caught the light.

Even now, it felt unreal. Engaged. The word still did not settle completely.

He had said he would pick me up. I had refused. I could travel alone.

I did not know how long I could hold on to that independence before it slipped away. He would take control if he needed to. I had seen enough to know that. And he also knew, far too well, how little of my life was truly in my control at home.

He walked in then, his steps quick, his expression slightly strained, as if he had been rushing.

“If only you had let me pick you. I wouldn’t be late.”

I frowned, leaning back slightly. “How do those two separate things connect?”

“I didn’t get parking,” he said, pulling out the chair across from me. “And if you were with me, you wouldn’t have to wait here alone. We would both be late.”

“I cannot stay long,” I said instead of following his logic, keeping my tone even.

He shrugged, settling into his seat as if that detail did not matter. “We are having dinner, so I don’t care.”

My frown deepened. “You cared this morning. You begged me to forgive you.”

“I don’t remember begging.”

I rolled my eyes and lowered my gaze to the menu in front of me. The names of the dishes pulled my attention instantly. This was an Italian restaurant, and just reading through it made my mouth water. I followed a YouTube channel that shared recipes like these, rich, creamy pastas, sauces that looked like they melted into every bite.

“What do you want to have?” he asked.

I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the menu. “I don’t care. You talk, and then I leave.”

“I told you we are eating.”

I exhaled quietly. “Pasta.”

“Garlic bread along with it?”

I gave a small nod, barely lifting my head, not wanting to seem too eager.

“Red or white?”

“White,” I said, before I could stop myself. “I love cheesy pastas. I make them at home.” The words slipped out too quickly, and I stopped, closing my mouth when I felt his gaze settle on me.

He watched me for a moment, something unreadable in his expression, then nodded and called the waiter.

“One fettuccine alfredo, one garlic chicken rice, a garlic bread basket, two mojitos.”

He turned to me. “Anything else?”

I shook my head, but my attention had already drifted back to the menu, lingering on the pictures, the descriptions.

“Add arancini,” he said to the waiter. “That’s it.”

The waiter left, and I frowned slightly, the unfamiliar word staying in my mind. I did not ask.

“It’s an Italian starter,” he said, as if he had read the question before I spoke it. “Crispy, fried rice balls, usually filled with mozzarella.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding lightly. “Okay.”

I folded the menu and set it aside, looking back at him. “Doesn’t matter. What did you want? You convinced me into meeting you.”

“We get married in two weeks’ time after you return from your trip.”

The words came without hesitation.

“What?” I stared at him, the calmness in his tone not matching the weight of what he had just said.

He nodded, as if it was the most natural thing. “I didn’t want to blindside you. So I’m informing you before my Baba talks to your Baba.”

“Why so soon?” I asked, the question leaving before I could soften it.

“Why not?”

I swallowed, my fingers tightening slightly against each other. There were a hundred reasons, but none of them seemed to form into words. Maybe we should wait. Maybe we should know each other better. But maybe none of that mattered here.

“I have decided to tell Baba that we want a simple wedding,” he continued. “We can do it at your place, so the expense is minimal.”

I looked at him then, really looked at him, the words settling slowly, fitting into places I had not expected them to reach.

So he had heard me.

“I don’t want to take over and make your family feel any less,” he added, his voice quieter now. “That was never my goal the first time as well.”

I had thought I had time. Maa had said January, which meant three months, enough to breathe, enough to understand what I was stepping into. And now everything felt pulled forward, too close, too fast. The excitement I had carried for my trip dimmed under the weight of it. Even the food I had been waiting to taste suddenly felt distant.

“Mehek…”

“I don’t want to get married so soon,” I said, cutting in before he could say more, my voice steady but tight.

“I heard some of your concerns,” he replied, his tone controlled, measured. “But I can’t amend everything you say. I have work trips, and I need to get this done.”

“Right,” I said, the word slipping out sharper than I intended. “Anyway, there’s no love involved, so…”

“You don’t need to keep reminding both of us that,” he snapped, cutting me off. “And it’s not like you love me.”

The words landed before I could react. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, the response forming somewhere but refusing to come out.

For a moment, I just sat there, staring at him.

Why would Lord Shiva do this to me? I had prayed, asked, held on to the idea of love so tightly, and this was what I had been given in return.

The frustration rose quietly, not loud, but steady. At him. At myself. At the situation that felt like it was closing in, leaving me with fewer choices than I wanted to admit.

Before I could say anything else, the food arrived, the plates placed between us, the aroma rising immediately, rich and inviting. It cut through everything else.

I leaned forward without thinking, taking a bite of the pasta. The creamy sauce coated the noodles perfectly, warm and indulgent, and a soft sound escaped me before I could stop it.

I picked up a piece of garlic bread, tearing it slightly, the cheese stretching before giving way. The first bite melted, soft and buttery, and I slowed down without realizing it, chewing, letting the taste linger.

“You really behave like a child sometimes,” he said after a moment. “You are twenty one, Mehek.”

I did not respond. I kept eating, my focus on the plate in front of me, letting the food fill the space where my words had been. For now, that felt easier.

“What time is your flight?” he asked.

I looked up, narrowing my eyes slightly. “Why?”

“Can’t I even ask that?” he said, leaning back slightly. “We might be on the same flight. Or maybe… you can accompany me on my jet.”

My hand paused mid air. “You have a jet?”

He nodded. “Not personal. A company jet.”

“The company is yours.”

“It is.”

I let out a breath, reaching for my drink and taking a sip. The mojito was cool, refreshing, the mint sharp against the sweetness. “This is good.”

A faint smile appeared on his face. “Relationships are of different forms, Mehek. I will always put you first. I will respect you. And I will let you grow.”

I looked at him for a moment, then away.

“But not love me.”

“What is this obsession?” he asked, a trace of irritation returning to his voice.

“Nothing,” I said, lowering my gaze back to my plate, the word quieter this time, but not empty.

He didn’t understand, and perhaps he was not meant to. I had grown up dreaming of love, losing myself in romance novels, whispering quiet prayers to Lord Shiva for something that felt larger than life. He had not. His world was built on certainty, on control, on things that could be measured and secured. Love, to him, seemed unnecessary, almost indulgent.

We finished dinner in a silence that did not feel comfortable, only contained. I waited as he signaled for the bill, my fingers tracing the rim of the glass absentmindedly, already preparing to leave.

“I will drop you home.”

“No need,” I said without looking at him. “I will go on my own.”

“One time I did something I shouldn’t have, and you are going to forever punish me for it.”

I let out a quiet breath, my gaze lifting to meet his. “Not one time. First time. The first time we met, you left me alone at the café. I don’t want to expect that again from you. I can take myself home.”

He scrubbed his face, his fingers pressing into his skin as if trying to steady himself. I watched him for a moment, unmoved. If he felt exhausted, so did I.

Then he removed something from his pocket.

“I want you to take this or this,” he said, placing an envelope and a card on the table in front of me. His credit card.

I picked up the envelope and opened it slightly. Cash. Neatly arranged.

“I’m okay,” I said, sliding both back toward him.

“Mehek,” he said, his tone tightening, “why for once can’t you put your ego aside? I asked you to choose one. Choosing none is not an option.”

“Just because we are getting married doesn’t mean I will take money from you,” I replied, my voice steady but firm. “If I have to sleep on the road, I will.”

I stood before he could respond, the chair scraping softly against the floor. For a second, he stayed where he was, then he pinched the bridge of his nose and got up.

His hand came to my back as he guided me toward the exit. I stepped forward faster, trying to move out of his reach, but he matched my pace without effort, his presence close enough to feel.

I turned toward the other side, intending to leave on my own, when his hand closed around mine, firm, unyielding. Before I could react, he pulled me along with him toward the parking lot.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Let me go,” I snapped, trying to pull my hand free.

He did not look back. He did not answer. He didn’t care as he dragged me along with him.

We reached his car, and he opened the passenger door, his grip not loosening until he guided me inside. The door shut with a sharp sound, final, and he walked around to the driver’s side.

I reached for the handle immediately, pushing it open, but before I could step out, he was there, his hand catching my arm, his other hand pushing the door shut again. The lock clicked.

“You are not a kid, so stop behaving like one,” he said, his voice low, edged.

“Who is behaving like what… we both know,” I shot back, folding my arms tightly across my chest.

The place where he had held my arm tingled, the sensation lingering longer than it should have. I stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him, but my thoughts betrayed me. When he had walked into the restaurant earlier, there had been a moment, brief and unguarded, where I had simply looked at him.

The black shirt, tucked in, paired with blue jeans, the ease in the way he carried himself, the kind of presence that did not try but still commanded attention. Casual looked different on him. Good different. Effortlessly handsome.

Then my gaze had dropped to his hand, to the ring I had placed there, and something inside me had tightened instead of easing.

I should not feel this way. Not when he had been so clear. Not when he meant none of it.

The car moved, and silence filled the space between us again, heavier this time. I turned my face toward the window, watching the city blur past, lights stretching into lines, people and places passing before I could make sense of them.

Then he took a turn, and I knew we were close.

He stopped the car, and I reached for the handle, ready to step out, but the lock clicked before I could move.

“What time is your flight?”

I let out a quiet breath and turned toward him. “Noon. Two PM.”

He nodded, as if noting it down somewhere in his mind. “Take the card or cash, whatever you want. Let me make sure you enjoy this trip.”

I hesitated for a moment, then picked up the card, turning it between my fingers. He watched me closely.

“Do you know how to use it?”

I shook my head, biting the inside of my lip, suddenly aware of how unfamiliar it felt in my hand.

“Just tap it,” he said, his tone easing slightly. “Keep the cash as well. I don’t know how commercial Panchgani is. You might need it for autos or small things.”

I sighed, but took the envelope too, slipping both into my bag. “Anything else you want to give?”

“Maybe I can drop you to Mumbai?”

“No.”

The answer came instantly.

He exhaled, a faint tension leaving his shoulders, but he nodded anyway.

I opened the door this time without interruption and stepped out. I gave a small wave, not waiting for anything more, and turned toward my building. I walked inside the gates, and paused for a second, glancing back through the small gap near the gate.

His car was still there, engine running, headlights steady. A minute later, it moved.

I turned away and walked inside, the card and cash still in my hand, their weight more than just physical. Maybe I should not feel guilty about this. Maybe I should let it be what it was, help, nothing more. He was my fiancé now.

Three days later, I was moving from one corner of the room to another, my suitcase open, clothes spilling out in hurried choices and second thoughts.

“Maa… have you seen my white leggings?”

My mother pushed the bedroom door open, already shaking her head, her eyes taking in the scattered clothes, the half packed bag, the quiet chaos I had created.

“I told you to prepare everything yesterday only. What time do you have to leave for the airport?”

“Um… I have an hour and a half,” I said, turning toward her with a small, pleading smile, softening my voice just enough. “Please, can you find it for me? I need to take a shower, have breakfast, and leave.”

“Go, go, I will find it,” she said, waving me off, though a faint smile touched her lips. “I just love when you smile, Priyo.”

“And I love when worry isn’t etched on your face,” I replied, stepping closer.

I wrapped my arms around her from behind for a brief moment, then pulled away and hurried to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. The water started almost immediately, warm and steady, filling the space as I stood there for a second longer than needed.

I was going to Panchgani.

The trip had almost slipped away. I could still remember how it had felt when he had said no, the quiet sinking of something inside me. And then, just as suddenly, he had changed his mind.

I did not know why.

But I was not going to question it now.

I was more excited about taking a flight to Mumbai for the first time than anything else. The thought of it kept returning, light and restless, fluttering somewhere inside me. I had flown only once before, years ago, when we had gone to Delhi, our first and last family vacation. I could still remember how tightly I had held Maa’s hand then, how everything had felt too big, too unfamiliar.

This time would be different.

I would do everything on my own. Check in my luggage, collect my boarding pass, walk through security, find my gate, wait until boarding was announced. I had gone over it again and again in my head, repeating the steps like a quiet rehearsal, making sure I would not miss anything.

Maa Durga, please let everything run smoothly today.

I let the hot water fall over me, closing my eyes for a moment, letting the warmth settle my thoughts. When I opened them, my gaze fell on the engagement ring on my finger. The stone caught the light even in the softened steam.

I was engaged.

I reminded myself the same every day. Three days had passed since then, since the engagement and the evening we met at the Italian restaurant. True to his word, his father had come home, sat with Baba and Kaka, and spoken about the wedding.

In the end, my parents had decided to book a marriage hall. The sangeet would be held at their place, something his father had suggested. Maa had been visibly relieved, her face lighting up in a way I had not seen in days. It finally felt like they could do something, contribute in a way that mattered.

He had said the wedding would be my way, and he had kept that promise.

But he had not said anything about love. Not once. Not even a possibility.

Still, he cared. It showed in the decisions he made, in the way he adjusted things without making it sound like a compromise. Maybe that was enough. Maybe it had to be.

Life was not always fair. I had learned that slowly, over time. And this trip, this small escape, felt like something I could hold on to.

I finished quickly, washing my hair, then my body, and stepped out, wrapping the towel around myself. Maa was already there, my clothes neatly arranged. Only she could do this. And I loved her so much for being who she was. A silent strength, a pillar that never breaks.

“Maa… I love you.”

She sighed, but there was no anger in it, only worry. “I’m afraid of you going alone, Mehek. I haven’t slept a wink last night.”

“Maa…”

“I’m terrified, Priyo,” she said, her hands stilling for a moment before she looked at me. “I did something. You might not like it.”

I frowned slightly as I began combing through my damp hair. “What?”

“I called Abhoy this morning.”

“What?” I turned toward her, the movement quick. “Why?”

“I wanted to know how safe it is for you to travel alone from Kolkata to Mumbai. And then from Mumbai to Panchgani,” she said, her voice soft but etched with worry. “I was scared. I know you want to go, and I want you to go, but for a woman to travel alone… it is not always safe. He travels a lot, so I asked him.”

“Maa… but…”

“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked, watching me closely.

“I am,” I admitted, my voice softer now. “But what else can I do? This is my trip of a lifetime. I need this. Nothing else is going right in my life, Maa. This is the only thing that is keeping me from falling apart.”

She listened, her expression not changing, but her eyes softening.

“Abhoyji will come with you.”

“What?” The word came out sharper than I intended. “No.”

“Just until you reach your hotel safely,” she said gently. “He asked if I wanted him to do this, and I said yes.”

“Maa, what?” I let out a breath, feeling so angry. “I was so excited to go alone.”

“He will only accompany you to Mumbai and then safely drop you to Panchgani. Then you can have your trip, and he will pick you up when it ends. He has to be in Mumbai.”

“That was a lie, Maa,” I said, turning to face her fully now. “How does he have to be in Mumbai at the same time as I have to be?”

“No, Priyo,” she replied, her voice steady, patient. “Your mother in law told me he postponed his trip. He was supposed to go a week ago. Because of the engagement, he delayed it.”

I let out a breath, long and tired, but she continued, not giving the moment space to settle.

“I can be stress free this way. Please, beta.”

“This is not done, Maa,” I said, the words coming sharper now, slipping out before I could soften them. “I was excited to do this on my own. I was excited to board the plane alone. Now you have taken that away from me.”

“Priyo… please…”

The sting in my eyes came suddenly, unexpected but impossible to ignore. “All my life, people have done things for me behind my back,” I said, my voice breaking slightly. “You never did. And now you did.”

“Mehek…”

“How can I be comfortable traveling with him?” I asked, shaking my head faintly, trying to blink the tears away.

She frowned, stepping closer. “You both have met a few times. And I haven’t told your Baba about this because it would become a scandal, you and Abhoyji traveling alone before marriage. But he told me your safety is his guarantee.”

“I don’t need him.”

“Priyo…” she sighed, the sound heavy with something deeper than just worry. “You scare me sometimes. I don’t know why you dislike him so much, but they are good people. His father agreed to a simple wedding so we could afford it. They refused dowry without even letting us speak about it. Where do we find people like that?”

I looked away, wiping my tears with the back of my hand, the argument already slipping out of my grasp. She did not raise her voice, did not insist forcefully, but the weight of her words pressed just the same.

“Okay. Fine,” I said finally, the resistance fading into something quieter.

Her face softened instantly, relief flickering through her eyes. “You are a very good daughter, Mehek. And I see things, even if I don’t say much. You are in good hands. Your in laws are good people.”

“They are,” I said, the agreement coming easier than everything else.

“I know you didn’t want to marry this soon, but when destiny decides, things fall into place,” she continued, her hands returning to my bag, adjusting it, smoothing it as if it needed no fixing. “Abhoy showers you with gifts. Your mother in law decorated the entire house for the engagement around your name. Who does that?”

“But he said there would be no love,” I said quietly, the words slipping out before I could hold them back.

She paused for a moment, then looked at me, her expression softer than before. “Love is not said, Priyo. It happens. Trust Mahadev. Trust him to give you exactly what you need.”

I did not respond immediately, just nodded faintly, letting her words settle somewhere I was not ready to examine.

Once my bag was packed, I stepped out into the hall. Baba was sitting there, his posture straight, his expression unreadable at first glance, but the tightness around his eyes gave him away. He was not pleased.

I walked toward him and bent, touching his feet. “Shubho shokal, Baba. Amar jonno ashirbad koro.”

“Amar ashirbad roilo,” he said, his voice calm, but not entirely at ease. “Kintu tomar jaowa ta amar pochhondo na.”

“Emon bolo na, Baba,” I said softly, straightening up.

He sighed, then reached into his pocket, pulling out some cash and holding it out to me. “Here. For your trip.”

“No, Baba,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m good. Abhoyji gave me money.”

He frowned slightly. “He did?”

I nodded, and after a brief pause, his expression eased, a small smile replacing the concern. “Good. See… he’s already taking care of you. Keep this as well. Buy something for your mother from me.”

I smiled and took the money, folding it carefully before slipping it into my bag.

I sat down for breakfast, eating quickly, the familiar taste grounding me for a moment. Once I was done, I went to the small mandir in our house. The diya flickered softly, the faint scent of incense lingering in the air. I folded my hands, closing my eyes.

The trip had already begun with too many turns, too many things shifting out of my control, but I still prayed, quietly, asking for it to get better.

When I opened my eyes, Maa was standing at the doorway.

“Abhoyji is here,” she said gently. “He has come to pick you up.”

Great. Now I could not even go to the airport alone.

I held on to whatever little optimism I could gather, because there was nothing else to do. Maa was not wrong. That did not make it easier.

He was standing outside when I stepped out. He took my bag without a word, placing it in the trunk with practiced ease. I slid into the passenger seat, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder before letting it fall beside me.

The drive began in silence.

He did not speak, and neither did I. I turned my face toward the window, watching the morning traffic unfold in slow, restless patterns. People moved with purpose, vehicles edged forward, horns filled the gaps. Time passed without shape, without weight.

An hour later, we reached.

Not a single conversation.

For a moment, it felt like I had taken a cab.

He took both our bags out, handing me mine before we joined the line. When my turn came, I handed over my ticket and identity proof, my fingers steady despite the quiet tension sitting inside me. He did the same beside me, his movements efficient, familiar.

Inside, we moved toward the check in counters. The process felt smoother than I had imagined, quicker, less overwhelming. I followed his lead without thinking, watching where he went, what he did, letting it guide me without asking.

Once the luggage was checked in, we moved toward security. There was comfort in not having to figure everything out alone. He knew exactly where to go, when to step forward, when to wait. It showed in the way he moved, in the lack of hesitation.

After the security check, he turned to me.

“I haven’t had breakfast. Let’s eat something.”

“I already did,” I replied. “You have it. I will find the gate and sit nearby. You can find me when you are done.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You are coming with me.”

I muttered something under my breath but followed anyway.

We found a small café. He ordered a sandwich and coffee for himself, and just coffee for me. I wrapped my hands around the cup, letting the warmth settle into my palms while he remained quiet, his attention shifting to his phone.

A few minutes later, he took out his laptop, opening it with ease, his focus slipping fully into work. The world around him seemed to fade as he typed, paused, read, and typed again, sipping his coffee in between.

I watched him for a moment, then looked away.

When his plate was empty, I cleared my throat softly. “Um… we should go.”

“We still have time,” he said without looking up.

“I don’t want to be late.”

He exhaled, closing the laptop after a second, slipping it back into his bag. “Fine.”

We walked through the terminal, the announcements echoing faintly overhead, the steady flow of people moving in every direction. Then, without warning, he turned into a bookshop.

My steps slowed instinctively.

Rows of books lined the shelves, colors, titles, stories waiting quietly. Something inside me softened at the sight. I glanced at the time and let out a small breath. Thirty minutes.

I reached for one, then another, flipping through pages, losing track of everything else without realizing it.

Ten minutes later, he found me.

I was standing still, a book open in my hands, my attention completely caught.

“Want to buy this?” he asked.

I looked up, then nodded, almost immediately.

He did not say anything more.

By the time we reached the gate, ten more minutes had slipped by. We found our seats, the area filling slowly with passengers, announcements drifting in and out.

He sat beside me, his gaze drifting across the space, taking in everything without seeming to try. There was a quiet sharpness to the way he observed, like nothing escaped him, yet nothing lingered long enough to be obvious. He looked unfairly good, composed in a way that made the world around him feel slightly disordered. But he wasn’t mine.

“I thought you said you had a jet,” I said.

He turned to look at me. “And I thought you said no to travel with me on the jet.”

“So you agreed to travel commercial.”

“Yes. Remember the sacrifices I have already made for you,” he said then.

I huffed. Yeah, right. Big sacrifices. He had no idea what that word meant, and how it was connected to a woman. Being a woman meant sacrificing. But yes… he left his private jet to fly commercial with me. Wow, how considerate.

It felt strange, inside me, all these new emotions. It was like I was living my own romance novel, minus the romance of course.

I lowered my eyes to my hands, fingers loosely entwined in my lap. My body couldn’t decide what it felt, a strange mix of ease and restlessness settling under my skin. With him there, something in me unclenched, as if I didn’t have to stay alert for every little thing. And yet, because he wasn’t filling the silence with unnecessary conversation, I was left alone with my own thoughts. It should have been comforting. Instead, it felt unfamiliar.

I didn’t know what this was, the way he behaved with me. Detached, maybe. Or careful. But I didn’t care enough to name it.

We boarded the flight, and as soon as I settled into my seat, my heartbeat grew louder than it should have been. Our seats were separate, I had seen that clearly, but somehow, when I looked up again, he was beside me. I caught a brief exchange between him and the air hostess, a polite murmur, a nod, and then he was there, as if that had always been the arrangement.

The flight stretched quietly. I kept my face turned to the window, letting the clouds pull me away from everything else. They looked soft enough to touch, endless and untouched, and for a while, I let myself disappear into them. Beside me, there was the steady, rhythmic clicking of a keyboard. He worked without pause, his focus unwavering, like the world outside the screen didn’t exist.

What if Abhoy Chatterjee did love me? The thought came before I could stop myself, settling somewhere deep before I could push it away. What would that even look like? What would it feel like, to be at the receiving end of something like that from him?

As the flight began its descent, the calm slipped without warning. Something twisted low in my stomach, a sudden, hollow drop that made my fingers curl into the armrest. My breaths turned uneven, shallow, as if the air around me had thickened. It didn’t make sense. I wasn’t a child. I had wanted this, wanted to travel alone, to prove something to myself. And yet, here I was, unable to steady something as simple as a landing.

I turned slightly, instinctively seeking him, but he wasn’t looking at me. He sat in the middle seat, angled toward the man on his right, speaking in low, composed tones. Completely unaffected.

I tried to breathe through it, pulling in air slowly, checking my seatbelt again even though I knew it was secure. The seconds stretched, heavy and unending, each one tightening the knot in my chest. Before I could stop myself, my hand reached out and gripped his arm. My eyes shut tight.

“No, no, no…” The words slipped out under my breath, barely there.

“It’s okay. Calm down.” His voice cut through, steady and close, and I opened my eyes.

At that exact moment, the plane jerked, the wheels hitting the ground with a force that sent a sharp jolt through me. My grip on his arm tightened without thought. The plane continued moving, the pull pressing me back into my seat, and I held on until the motion began to slow, until the rush steadied into something manageable. He didn’t move his arm away. Didn’t say anything.

Only when the plane came to a complete stop did I let go.

He handed me a bottle without looking at me. I took it, unscrewing the cap with slightly unsteady fingers, and took a few sips. The water was chilled, grounding in a way I hadn’t expected.

“I didn’t know I was going to feel nervous,” I said, my voice quieter now.

“It’s okay. My first time was horrific.”

“This wasn’t my first time,” I snapped, the words coming out sharper than I intended. Irritation flared, quick and defensive. What did he think? That I had never stepped into a plane before?

He exhaled slowly. “Then you have problem,” he said, simple, unbothered.

Five minutes later, we deboarded.

I followed him out, the airport air cooler, busier, louder than the closed silence of the cabin. We stood by the baggage belt, watching the bags circle endlessly. The moment stretched, and I broke it first.

“I can go from here on my own.”

He glanced at me, then away, like the answer was already obvious. “Really? What is your big plan, Mehek? It’s five PM, and do you know it takes a minimum of six hours to reach Panchgani from Mumbai? What time will you reach your hotel? Twelve at night? Is that your big plan?”

“This was the cheapest flight,” I muttered, the justification sounding weaker out loud.

“Yeah, I understand.” He nodded once. “What next?”

“You don’t have to worry.”

“Your mother has given me your responsibility.” His voice didn’t rise, but there was something firm beneath it now. “Your parents have agreed that all your decisions will be mine. You are only going to Panchgani because I allowed you to go. And you still say I don’t have to worry?”

“No one asked you to take my responsibility,” I shot back, the words slipping out before I could soften them. “You could have said no to marrying a twenty-one-year-old barely a woman, mostly a girl.”

“Which hotel?”

I stilled.

The question hung between us, heavy in a way that made my throat dry. I hadn’t booked anything. Every time I checked, the prices had climbed higher, just out of reach. He had given me his card, yes, but that didn’t solve anything. Online bookings needed a pin I didn’t have. So I had planned to manage once I reached, to find something on the spot. It didn’t seem impossible then.

The woman I was going to meet had offered me a place in her home. A small house, already full with a family of five. I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t.

My bag appeared on the belt, and I bent to pick it up, but he was faster. He pulled it off with ease, his other hand already holding his own sleek black bag. Without waiting, he started walking toward the exit, and I followed.

“I will ask again. Which hotel?”

“I haven’t done the bookings yet,” I admitted, my voice softer now, almost careful.

He stilled for a second, then let out a slow breath, like he was trying to process something unreasonable. Like I had managed to surprise him in the worst way.

“You know, it’s funny,” he said, his tone dry, almost thoughtful. “I want to leave you here and see how you manage things. Teach you a lesson.” His eyes shifted to me then, steady, unreadable. “But I can’t.”

We stepped out of the airport, the evening air settling against my skin, warmer than inside, carrying the faint hum of traffic and movement.

“We are staying the night here in Mumbai,” he continued, already moving ahead as if the decision was made long ago. “My company has an apartment here. Tomorrow morning, we leave at four for Panchgani. We will reach by nine.”

“No. I’m leaving now. I won’t waste a night of my trip.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t even look at me. He simply walked ahead, straight toward a man standing a little distance away, holding up a white board.

Abhoy Chatterjee. The name was written in bold, large letters, impossible to miss.

“Are you listening to me?” I snapped, the irritation rising again, sharper this time.

He gave me nothing. Not a word, not a glance.

We reached the car. He placed both our bags in the trunk with practiced ease and slid into the backseat. The driver started the engine, but the car remained still, waiting.

I stood there, outside, the heat rising to my face, anger curling tight in my chest. He didn’t call me in. Didn’t acknowledge me. He just sat there, as if time meant nothing, as if I would eventually fall in line.

The driver’s eyes flickered to me once, then away, his silence heavier than words. I felt foolish standing there, stranded between leaving and staying.

I walked to the back and tried to open the trunk. It didn’t move. I pulled harder, my fingers slipping against the metal, but it remained locked, unmoving.

A sting gathered behind my eyes before I could stop it. My bag was inside. All my thread material, everything I had come for, everything that mattered for this trip.

We couldn’t stay together. Not like this. Not before marriage. That wasn’t right.

I looked around, at the wide glass facade of the airport, the polished floors, the neat lines of cars pulling in and out. It was the kind of place I had imagined enjoying, taking in slowly. But right now, all I could feel was the tightness in my chest and the weight of him sitting inside that car, waiting me out.

Minutes passed, slow and stretched.

From the corner of my eye, I saw him lean his head back, a brief flicker of impatience crossing his face. Then he pushed the door open and stepped out.

He walked around the car, his steps measured, and before I could step back, his hand closed around my arm. Firm, unyielding. He opened the door and guided, no, pushed me inside.

I tried to steady myself, my palm bracing against the seat as I slipped in, but he was stronger, leaving no space for resistance.

He followed in from the same side, his shoulder brushing mine as he nudged me to move further in.

“I’m not going to stay with you in the same apartment. How dare you,” I said, the words coming out tight, breath uneven.

He turned to look at me then, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in what I had said. His head tilted just a fraction, studying me as if I had said something unexpected.

“Mehek Bagchi,” he said, calm, almost detached. “I’m not interested in you that way.”

I went still. Completely still, as if any movement would betray something I refused to show. My eyes burned, but I blamed the air, the long day, anything but the quiet crack that spread somewhere deep inside.

“You don’t have to worry,” he continued, his tone even, practical. “We can coexist without you worrying about your honor. The apartment has two rooms, so we are not sleeping in the same bed.” A brief pause. “We are never sleeping in the same bed, even after we marry, so you don’t have to think about any of that.”

The car started then, the sudden movement filling the silence he left behind.

I turned toward the window, letting the passing lights blur, hiding the tears as they slipped free despite everything I tried to hold back. They fell quietly, unnoticed, the city outside moving as if nothing had changed.

I hated this. I hated how easily he said things like that, as if they meant nothing. I hated that this was the man I had to marry.

Why? The question rose again, stubborn, unanswered. Why couldn’t he love me? What was it that held him back so completely?

Because I could. I knew I could. It wasn’t difficult to see it. He was steady, confident, carrying himself with a quiet strength that reminded me of Mahadev, composed and immovable. There was something in him that drew you in without asking permission. I could fall in love with a man like that.

If only he didn’t keep reminding me that there would be no love.

I exhaled slowly and forced myself to look away from him, letting my gaze settle on the city instead. Mumbai stretched around me, alive and unfamiliar. So far from Kolkata, from everything I had known. And yet, beneath everything else, there was a small, steady sense of pride.

I had come here on my own. This was mine. Not something decided for me, not something I had to do for others. I was doing this for me, because I wanted it.

There was no compromise involved here. And that, at least, felt good.

Mumbai wasn’t cold. The air held a warmth that lingered even as the evening deepened. But Panchgani would be different. It was a hill station and I couldn’t wait to reach there.

Fine, a night in Mumbai, but I was having my tomorrow’s breakfast in Panchgani.