Chapter-1

Aryaman Mehta sat on the stone ledge overlooking the river, his fingers loosely intertwined as he stared at the restless water below. The slow hum of temple bells and distant murmurs of prayer filled the air, blending with the rhythmic flow of the current.

The weight of his impending marriage pressed against him—not as a burden, but as his move. His winning move. He will be one step closer to his goal. To be the CEO of Gangothri Industries.

Ananya Shah was the winning choice. Also, the responsible choice. She was intelligent, well-spoken, and from a family that aligned with him in every practical way. Marriage wasn’t about emotions or fleeting desires; it was about stability, about duty.

His father had failed at that. Had walked away, leaving behind chaos for others to clean up. Aryaman had spent his whole life ensuring he would never be that man. He was a fighter, unlike his father. A victor.

And if that meant marrying a woman he felt no particular spark with, then so be it.

The village, though—that was an irritation he couldn’t quite ignore. His mother had insisted on tradition, on getting married in the ancestral land. But the roads were uneven, the air thick with the scent of cow dung and temple incense, and everything felt just a little too slow. He would have much preferred a city wedding.

Yet, as always, he had agreed. Because that was what was expected. Because it was just a wedding.

A sound pulled him from his thoughts.

A voice.

Soft yet unwavering, drifting through the temple courtyard like a quiet prayer meant only for the gods. It slipped into his consciousness without permission, stirring something within him before he could even place why.

His gaze lifted.

She stood inside the temple, eyes closed, her lips moving with reverence as she sang. A simple salwar kameez draped over her frame, her dupatta loosely covering her hair. She was neither extravagant nor striking in the conventional sense, yet there was something about the way she stood—completely absorbed in her devotion—that made it impossible to look away.

For the first time in days, his mind went still.

And then—

His leg slipped.

The world lurched, gravity gave way, and suddenly, ice-cold water engulfed him. The river swallowed his breath, filling his ears with a dull roar as the current yanked him under. His limbs flailed, but it was futile—he had never learned how to swim.

Panic clawed at his chest. His lungs burned, his movements turned sluggish, the river’s weight pressing down on him like an unrelenting force.

Then—

A blur of gold. A shimmer in the murky depths.

Through the water’s haze, she appeared.

For a moment, time itself seemed to slow.

Her dupatta billowed around her, floating like liquid gold. Strands of dark hair wove through the water, framing her face, her features soft yet unwaveringly focused. Her eyes—large, impossibly deep—locked onto his, calm in a way he could never be.

The river roared around them, but she was steady. Effortless.

She reached for him, her hands cool against his skin, her grip firm. He barely registered the urgency of their situation—only the surreal stillness of the moment, the way the world had reduced itself to just this. Just her.

And then, air.

They broke the surface, and he gasped, coughing violently as the weight of the river left his body. Before he could even process what had happened, she was already pulling him toward the shore with practiced ease.

The world returned in a rush—the sound of the river, the scrape of gravel beneath him, the rough, uneven breaths tearing from his chest.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice even, controlled. "Do you need a hospital?"

Aryaman blinked up at her, still catching his breath.

She was dripping wet, her clothes clinging to her frame. She was gasping for breath, but her expression was completely composed.

His gaze drifted to her eyes.

Large. Doe-like.

A shade of brown that held depth, warmth, and something familiar... was it pain?

She looked at him with a puzzled face as he continued. "Sir, Are you alright?"

Reality slowly seeping in, he nodded in affirmative. She adjusts her dupatta as she returns his nod. He saw her dry her hair with her hands.

Before he could say anything, a voice called out.

“Didi!”

A young boy ran toward them, and in an instant, whatever mild concern she had shown Aryaman was gone.

She turned to the boy, her entire expression softening in a way it never had for him. “Mohan,” she said, relief flooding her voice.

Then, with a polite nod in Aryaman’s direction, she stood and walked away without another word.

No second glance. No hesitation. As if he were just another nameless stranger in the background of her day.

Aryaman let out a sharp breath, raking a hand through his dripping hair.

For a moment, the image of her underwater lingered in his mind—the way she had looked through the murky depths, the way her presence had felt so unshakably certain.

And then, he shoved the thought aside.

It didn’t matter.

He had more important things to focus on. He had emails to send. Clients to reassure. A menu to check.

And no time to wonder why the taste of river water still clung to his breath

Yes. That was what mattered.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turned toward the bungalow where the wedding preparations were already in full swing.

His future was waiting.

********************

The evening air was thick with the scent of wood smoke and the distant murmur of evening prayers from the temple. Krishna Joshi walked briskly through the narrow lanes leading to her small home, her college bag weighing heavily on her shoulder—not just from books but from the burden of responsibilities waiting for her inside.

She mentally ran through her evening tasks: mend the tear in Mohan’s school uniform, soak the lentils for tomorrow’s meal, and finish stitching Mrs. Patel’s cushion covers before nightfall.

And then there was the matter of money.

The electric bill was overdue, and the kitchen shelf wobbled dangerously every time she placed a pot on it. The motor pump needed repairs, but the little she had saved for it had already gone toward groceries and school fees.

As she reached the front door, she paused.

Raised voices.

Her heart sank.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.

Their father stood in the center of the dimly lit room, his figure swaying slightly. The stale scent of alcohol clung to the air.

“Give me money, girl!” His voice was thick with intoxication, his tone slurred yet sharp. “Or I’ll make sure you both regret it!”

Krishna’s stomach twisted as her gaze darted to the corner of the room—Mohan.

Her younger brother stood frozen, his small hands clenched into fists at his sides. His wide eyes flickered between their father and the door, as if calculating the best way to escape.

Krishna’s heart clenched.

Not again.

She stepped between them without hesitation, positioning herself in front of Mohan like a shield. “Leave him alone,” she said, her voice calm despite the storm inside her.

Her father’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Always protecting him. Always coddling him,” he spat. “That boy is cursed! He killed his own mother the day he was born.”

Krishna flinched. The words still stung, no matter how many times she had heard them.

But she couldn’t let them reach Mohan.

Reaching into the pouch tied at her waist, she pulled out a few crumpled notes—the last of her savings meant for the motor pump repair. Her fingers trembled as she extended them toward her father.

“Mohan doesn’t need to listen to this,” she said, her voice steady even as her heart broke. “Take this and go.”

Their father snatched the money, sneering. “You’re a fool, Krishna. The world doesn’t care about your kindness.” He stuffed the bills into his pocket, swayed on his feet for a moment, then stumbled out the door.

Silence settled over the room, heavy and suffocating.

Krishna turned to Mohan. His small frame was tense, his face pale, but he wasn’t crying. Not this time.

Still, she knelt beside him, pulling him into a firm embrace. “It’s over,” she whispered, rubbing his back. “You’re safe.”

His hands clutched the fabric of her kurta, holding on for a moment longer before pulling away.

“I’m okay, Didi,” he mumbled.

But Krishna knew better.

She placed a kiss on the top of his head before rising. “Come, let’s eat.”

Dinner was a simple meal—dal, rice, and a single piece of chapati each. She made sure Mohan got the slightly bigger portion. They ate in silence for a while, the only sound being the occasional scrape of metal against metal.

Her mind kept circling back to the money. She needed a way to make up for it.

Once they had finished eating, she wiped her hands and reached for her phone.

Pinkesh Uncle.

The man had been organizing weddings in the village for years. If there were any extra work, he would know.

She dialed his number, her fingers tightening around the phone as it rang.

“Ah, Krishna! Beta, how are you?” came his warm voice on the other end.

“Pinkesh Uncle, I need work,” she said without preamble. “Whatever you have, I’ll take it.”

There was a brief pause. Then, “Well, as a matter of fact, I do have something for you.”

Krishna straightened. “What is it?”

“There’s a big wedding happening in the village. The family rented the old Thakur bungalow. We need someone responsible to help out—guiding guests, making sure things run smoothly, handling small tasks.”

A wedding.

Two weeks of work.

“How much does it pay?” she asked, already calculating what she could cover with it.

Pinkesh Uncle chuckled. “Enough to make it worth your while, beta. Trust me.”

That was good enough for her.

“I’ll take it.”

“Great! I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

After hanging up, Krishna let out a slow breath.

It wasn’t a long-term solution, but for now, it was something.

She turned to Mohan, who was watching her curiously. “I got a job,” she said, keeping her tone light. “I’ll be working at a wedding for the next two weeks.”

Mohan’s eyes widened. “A wedding? A *big* wedding?”

Krishna shrugged, stacking the empty plates. “I don’t know. Probably.”

“You *don’t know*?” He gaped at her. “Didi, *everyone* in the village is talking about this wedding! It’s *huge*! The groom is some big businessman, and the bride is from an even richer family! People say they’re spending *crores* on it!”

Krishna hummed in response, uninterested.

Mohan, on the other hand, was practically bouncing in his seat. “Imagine the decorations! The food! The cars! Ohh, Didi, you think they’ll have those fancy ice statues?”

Krishna rolled her eyes fondly. “I don’t know, Mohan. And I really don’t care.”

“But Didi! *Crores!*” He threw his hands up dramatically. “This is the kind of wedding you see in movies! And you get to be part of it!”

Krishna smiled faintly, ruffling his hair as she stood. “I get to work at it. There’s a difference.”

Mohan huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he grabbed his schoolbook and flopped onto the floor, flipping through the pages. Krishna watched him for a moment, the weight of responsibility pressing against her chest.

She didn’t care about this wedding, about who was getting married or how much money they were spending.

But if it meant keeping the lights on, if it meant making sure Mohan had what he needed—then she would do it.

Because that’s what she had always done.

And that’s what she would keep doing.