Aparna Sawant, a woman who prioritizes her independence and fulfilling career, has never subscribed to the idea of happily ever after. Marriage, for her, is a practical decision.
Varad Oberoi, a successful businessman hardened by past experiences...
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
A P A R N A
Meeting new people has never been my cup of tea. I thrive on solitude, not because I dislike people, but because I choose it. First impressions are my kryptonite, and every first meeting feels like an audition I'm destined to flunk. I yearn for a rewind button for introductions, a chance to do them over.
Another one of my shortcomings: toddlers. Making funny noises for their amusement sounds like torture, and frankly, my entire body malfunctions around them – complete meltdown on my end, not theirs.
So, why am I about to enter Mr. Oberoi's mansion, a place dripping in old money? Because it's time to discuss our, ahem, marriage. Yes, you read that right. Time to meet junior Oberoi, or should I say Megh now, for the first time since he was a tiny bean.
It's been a whirlwind week. Mr. Oberoi materialized on my doorstep seven days ago, and six days later, I blurted out "yes" to his rather unconventional proposal. Eighty percent of it was for Megh, but now, standing on the precipice of this new reality, I'm riddled with doubt. I've been gnawing on my fingernails (or what's left of them) ever since the auto rickshaw pulled up.
The auto lurched to a halt in Mumbai's poshest corner, snapping me out of my mini panic attack. I paid the driver and stepped out, my simple red and grey checkered kurti a stark contrast to the towering mansions and luxury cars around me. A sudden urge to bolt back home slammed into me.
The Oberoi mansion, a vision of white with a manicured lawn and an exotic flower garden, loomed ahead. A sleek black car sat in the driveway, visible through the ornate iron gates.
Life, however, doesn't come with a redo button. With a deep breath, I approached the gates and informed the security guards of my arrival. A few minutes later, the gates swung open, granting me passage into this opulent world.
Stepping inside, I was greeted by a gaggle of impossibly good-looking people who all stopped dead in their tracks to stare at me. A photo from my sister's funeral, plastered all over the news, jogged my memory – the Oberoi family. Sudhir and Yamini Oberoi, Mr. Oberoi's parents, and his siblings, Ved and Vartika. All four were perched on a plush couch, likely dissecting my arrival.
Our staring contest was shattered by a high-pitched squeal courtesy of Vartika Oberoi. The trance broke, and the women swarmed me. Mr. Oberoi and his son lumbered in behind them.
"Oh my god, she's adorable!" Mrs. Oberoi shrieked. A compliment? A rare occurrence these days. Naturally, I mumbled a thank you and looked down at my shoes.
"And cute," Vartika cooed, pinching my cheeks. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if they mistook me for a child. The next Oberoi utterance dispelled that notion.
"And hot," Ved Oberoi smirked. A collective glare shot his way from his parents and sister, but it wasn't entirely necessary – a well-aimed pillow found its mark on his smug face. We all swiveled around to see Mr. Oberoi, looking every bit the businessman in his sharp suit.
