Ridhima gripped the edge of her dupatta, her nails digging into the soft fabric. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating, as she stared at the man standing across from her.

Veer.

Her husband.

The word felt foreign, wrong—like a chain around her neck she never asked for.

"You're awfully quiet," he said, his voice calm, but there was something sharp beneath it. "Regretting it already?"

Ridhima exhaled slowly, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Veer scoffed, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white kurta. "I don't believe in regrets. But I do believe in choices. And this—" he gestured between them, "—wasn't mine."

"Do you think it was mine?" she shot back, stepping closer. "Do you think I wanted to wake up one day and find out my life was decided for me?"

His jaw clenched. "Then why did you say yes?"

Her breath hitched. The answer sat heavy on her tongue, but she refused to give it to him. "Same reason you did."

His lips curved into a humorless smirk. "Obligation."

Silence stretched between them, charged, suffocating.

"We don't have to pretend," Veer said after a moment, his voice quieter now. "No expectations, no illusions. Just two strangers under the same roof."

Strangers.

Ridhima swallowed hard, the weight of the gold ring on her finger suddenly unbearable.

"We'll see about that," she murmured, turning away.

But even as she walked off, she could feel his gaze burning into her back.

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