An arranged marriage isn't something everyone wants. It's a big chance that not everyone would take. Will this one work out, or will it not?
Can love really grow when you didn't choose who you marry?
Will they be happy together? And in the end, wil...
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ANANDITA'S POV
He stood behind me, and we both stopped in the corner where my bag was. He sat down and tried to open it, and the stubborn zip miraculously gave way in one go.
"Done," he looked up, a hint of triumph in his eyes.
"Thank you," I gently muttered. He nodded and walked outside. I opened the bag and took out my simplest suit; I didn't want to wear anything heavy and laid it on the small center table.
Also, i don't know how to make saree plates better and i don't want to waste my time on that os the suit choice is great.
Looking at the sliding mirror in the closet, I started unraveling my dupattas, removing bun pins, and my arms began to ache from being in one position for too long. I sighed, giving my hands a break for a moment, and then resumed with the rest of the accessories.
Finally, it all came to an end. I let my hair fall freely, and thankfully, I had refused to use hair fixer, letting my straight hair do justice. I smiled at my reflection in the mirror, satisfied with how everything was coming together.
I touched my waist wound and winced, biting my lip to suppress the pain. Trying to distract myself, I moved on to opening my blouse, but the hooks at the back proved to be a challenge. I managed to undo two, but the upper ones remained stubbornly closed. When I attempted to tackle them, the pain shot through my waist, and I couldn't help but wince.
Ignoring the pain, I continued my struggle with the blouse. Frustration crept in, and I let out a scream of annoyance. The closet door swung open, and I swiftly turned, only to find him on the other side now.
"Sorry... I'm really sorry," he stammered. I sighed and draped my dupatta over my upper body.
"What do you want?" I asked, my frustration evident, both with him and the uncooperative blouse. My patience wore thin as I grappled with the stubborn hook.
"You," he replied, and my eyes widened.
"How many hours do you need?" Before I could argue, he continued.
"This blouse of mine is stubborn like you." I gritted my teeth.
"What?" he asked from outside.
"Nothing. I need help. Can you call your cousin?" I requested.
"What kind of help do you need?" His questions were relentless, and I sighed in exasperation at his persistent probing.
