The day the Kapoor family was coming felt like a countdown to my own undoing.

Every tick of the clock was a hammer tightening the noose around me.

I woke with a sense of urgency, knowing this was the moment I had to act.

I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let this meeting proceed under their suffocating rules.

The plan had been forming in my mind for days. I would slip out before the guests arrived.

No saree, no forced smiles, no pretending.

I’d catch a flight back to Paris that night if I had to. Anywhere but here, anywhere but stuck in their web of decisions.

My heart raced as my parents fussed about the arrangements, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.

My mother brought out the red saree—the one the guests expected me to wear—a symbol of tradition and submission.

I took it, running my fingers over the heavy fabric, but I wasn’t going to wear it.

Instead, I pulled out my midnight blue gown, the one that felt like me. The one that whispered resistance.

When my mother handed me the saree again that afternoon, her voice was steel. “You will wear this.”

I shook my head, quieter but unyielding. “No.”

“You’ll ruin everything,” she hissed.

That was the final shove.

Nothing else mattered.

As guests started arriving, the house buzzing with expectation, I slipped through the back door just as the first honk sounded in the driveway.

The humid Mumbai air wrapped around me, but it was freedom, no matter how fleeting.

My chest tightened with every step away from that grand house of cages

But fate wasn’t kind.

The family valet — a shadow who always seemed to know my every move — appeared silently ahead, blocking my path with a barely concealed smile.“Leaving so soon, miss?” His tone was casual but the message clear.

I tried to sidestep, run past, but more figures joined, and my sister appeared, eyes blazing with betrayal and fear.

“This isn’t the way, Amaya,” she whispered urgently.

“No?” I spat. “This is the only way left.”

The heavy curtain fell. I was dragged back inside, my freedom slipping through my fingers once again.

The meeting unfolded around me like a surreal play. The Kapoor family was impeccable—calm, composed, practiced in the art of tradition.

But the man I was supposed to marry—the one whose name haunted my every breath—was absent.

Mrs. Kapoor’s polite explanation echoed faintly through my storm: Nevan was still in London, preparing for a crucial case and would meet me soon enough.

I sank into silence. How could this be a real promise when the groom himself wasn’t here to witness it?

That night, trapped in a gown that felt foreign and a life I never chose, I lay awake wondering how many times I’d have to fight just to be heard, much less be free.

Nevan's POV:

I sat alone in my London flat, the city’s rain pattering against the window like a slow, relentless drum—distant but impossible to ignore.

The letter lay unsealed on the desk, the words “arranged marriage” stark in black and white, a reminder that no matter how far I went or how fiercely I fought my inheritance, the Kapoor name still held me hostage.

I am not my father.

I refuse to be the reckless silhouette in a sea of broken promises. Where he burned bridges, I kept my distance, cold and calculated.

But beneath my controlled exterior simmers a storm—a blend of anger, disappointment, and a stubborn streak that refuses to surrender.

Amaya Malhotra.

The name whispered to me through the corridors of family politics long before I even met her. A woman fierce enough to defy her own chains, much like myself.

It’s almost cruel how our fates are tangled by others’ ambitions.

I have spent years perfecting the mask of composure, but the truth is this arrangement unsettles me more than I care to admit.

Not because of duty alone, but because it threatens to crumble the fragile barriers I’ve built around my heart.

Tomorrow, I board the flight back to India—not as a triumphant son reclaiming his birthright, but as a trapped soul preparing to meet the woman who might just reflect the parts of me I bury deepest.

I stepped off the plane into the heavy Mumbai heat, the familiar chaos wrapping around me like an old, unwelcome cloak.

This city—its noise, its relentless pace—felt both alien and suffocating after the quiet order of London.

But despite my distance, despite my fights against the legacy I was born into, I was here now.

Pulled back by blood and duty, tethered to a fate chosen long before I could speak.

The Kapoor family home was vast, a sprawling colonial mansion nestled in one of the city’s upscale neighborhoods, where marble floors echoed with history and ancestral portraits glared silently from the walls.

It was a place of grandeur, tradition, and unyielding expectations—everything I wanted to distance myself from, yet everything I was bound to.

The meeting was arranged under the pretense of courtesy: a chance for Amaya and me to formally "know" each other before our union was sealed.

But there was no pretense in my heart—only the cold calculation of a man who had lived long enough knowing the true cost of such alliances.

When I finally saw her, she was not the timid girl the narratives hinted at. There was fire in her eyes, a defiance standing tall beneath the weight of expectation—a mirror to the storm inside me.

Yet, I remained distant, shielded, wary of the tangled legacy we both carried.

I said little, watching, measuring, always calculating how to protect myself from a life I never asked for, from a family I resented.

This wasn’t a meeting of hearts, but a meeting of chains—the first step in a dance we did not choose, in a script that demanded we play our parts well.

Amaya's POV:

The moment Nevan walked in, the tension slammed into the room like a thunderclap.

His cool, unreadable gaze locked onto me, icy and unyielding, like a man who had built walls higher than any family legacy could shatter.

I didn’t bother with pleasantries. There wasn’t any space for small talk in this battlefield.

“So,” I started, voice sharp, eyes narrowing, “why did you agree to this? To become someone’s puppet? It’s not exactly a honeymoon proposal, I imagine.”

Nevan’s lips twitched into something bitter, like a smirk edged with contempt.

“Because sometimes survival means playing the game you hate,” he said coldly.

“Though, judging by the way you carry your rebellion, you seem to prefer losing on your own terms.”

That hit a nerve, and I felt an impatient laugh bubble up.

“Losing? No, I’m just done pretending. But you—stand so still it’s like you’ve already surrendered.”

“Better cold silence than loud stupidity,” he shot back, voice low and steady, each word laced with calculated distance.

I took a step closer, eyes glittering with challenge. “You know, you don’t have to marry me. There’s my sister—much better suited for your quiet misery. She won’t question, won’t fight.”

His dark eyes flicked dangerously, and he leaned in, voice dripping with warning. “Suggest that again, and you’ll find out exactly how quickly I snap.”

I met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Funny, I was starting to think you’d enjoy the fight.”

The air thickened around us—tension crackling, laced with raw anger, but beneath it, something volatile, like a mutual spark neither wanted to admit.

Our sharp words masked a tension far deeper than disdain—an uneasy understanding shaded by temptation and unresolved defiance.

I broke the silence last, voice daring: “So, tell me, Mr. Kapoor, how long have you been playing the perfect son… before you decided you’re just done?”

His cold eyes softened for the briefest flicker. “Long enough to know when to fight and when to wait. But I’m not done yet.”

The breath between us was short, sharp, electric with barely suppressed fury.

“Just marry Isha then,” I jabbed again, voice dripping with venom.

“She’s the easy choice. Quiet. No fire. No storms. The perfect daughter-in-law they want.”

I leaned in, eyes blazing.

“But if you think you’re getting me, know this—I’ll make your life hell if this marriage goes ahead. I’m not the obedient one, Nevan. I’m the wildfire you didn’t sign up for.”

His gaze darkened instantly, the ice in his eyes freezing over with barely contained rage.

“Enough.” His voice was low, sharp, and final, slicing through the charged air.

“I am not marrying Isha, and I’m not here to pick favorites. This isn’t a game, and your endless provocations make me question why I bother staying.”

My heart slammed with frustration, fear, and fury all at once.

“Well maybe you shouldn’t bother then. Because this isn’t some polite arrangement. It’s a war zone—and I’m the enemy who’s not going down without a fight.”

The tension cracked like thunder. Neither of us willing to retreat.

His voice lowered, deadly calm. “Try me, Amaya. See how far that fire really burns.”

I matched his tone, fearless and fierce. “I’m the storm no one warned you about.”

Amaya’s fierce words hung heavily in the air, her fire barely contained as she suddenly grew quiet, her breath catching for a fraction of a second.

Her eyes flicked toward Nevan’s arm just as he adjusted his sleeve, revealing a long, jagged scar etched across his forearm.

The sight tugged at something deep inside her—an unspoken story, a history of battles fought silently beneath his controlled exterior.

For a moment, her defiance faltered, replaced by a sudden, silent stirring she couldn’t quite place.

The room felt colder,

heavier.

Without another word, Amaya turned sharply and walked out, her footsteps firm and unwavering.

As she reached the door, she threw a final glance over her shoulder, eyes burning with a fierce warning. “If this marriage happens,” she said steadily,

“I won’t be quiet. Isha may be the calm one, but I’m the storm you’ll never tame.”

Then, with that last fierce declaration, she left, leaving Nevan standing alone in the charged silence, the scar on his arm lingering in her mind like a question unanswered.

Amaya’s footsteps echoed down the empty corridor, but her mind was far from the place she was headed.

The scar on Nevan’s arm burned into her memory, piercing through the anger and defiance she wore like armor.

What was the story behind that mark? A story of pain, survival, maybe even silent battles that mirrored her own.

She caught herself replaying his sharp words, his cold warning.

Was he really as untouchable as he seemed, or was that just another layer of the walls he kept carefully guarded?

The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

She clenched her jaw, willing herself to remember the fierce promise she had made—to be the storm that made his life hell. But beneath that promise, something stirred—curiosity, respect, maybe even an unexpected connection.

Meanwhile, Nevan sat alone in the quiet room she had just left, the echo of her footsteps replaced by the relentless whirlpool of his thoughts.

Her fire, her refusal to submit—they were unlike anything he had expected. The sharpness in her eyes, the way she challenged him so openly, haunted him.

And then there was that moment, as she turned to leave, when her gaze caught that scar on his arm.

Was she reading too much into it?

Or did she see the weight of his own battles, the invisible scars he bore beneath his calm facade?

In a life measured by control and caution, Amaya’s unpredictable defiance was a wild current he couldn’t ignore.

She rattled his carefully constructed silence, stirred emotions he had long buried.

Could two storms clash without destroying each other? Or were they destined only to burn?

Their minds, though worlds apart in that moment, were irrevocably connected—each occupied, unwittingly tethered to the other by the fierce, unspoken threads of challenge, pain, and a dangerous allure neither dared to name.