The morning light was a liar. It streamed through the thin cotton curtains of Rooh’s room, painting cheerful, warm stripes across the faded bedsheet. It promised a new day, a fresh start. But for Rooh, waking up was like being dragged to the surface after drowning. There was no gentle transition. One moment she was in the numb void of exhausted sleep, the next, the memory of the previous evening slammed into her with the force of a physical blow.

A heavy, solid weight had settled deep in her chest overnight, a cold, dense stone of hurt that made every breath a conscious effort. She felt… bruised. Not on the outside, but deep within, where no one could see the swelling or the discoloration. Her eyes were raw, her eyelids sandpapery and swollen into puffy slits. Each blink was a gritty reminder of the tears that had seeped into her pillow long after the house had fallen silent.

She didn't move. She just lay there, staring at the familiar cracks in the ceiling plaster, tracing the pattern she’d known since childhood. The loop was already playing in her head, a grainy, painful film she was forced to watch.

The image, sharp and horrifying: her father’s hand. The way his fingers had curled, the tendons in his wrist tightening. Not a slap. A threat. A promise.

It wasn’t the first time. That was the thought that had truly unraveled her in the dark, silent hours. This wasn't new. The memory rose now, not as a story, but as a sensory ghost: the sharp, stinging heat on her Seventeen-year-old cheek, the shocking crack of the slap that had echoed in the sudden silence of the room. She couldn’t even remember what she’d said, what tiny rebellion had sparked such nuclear fury.

She just remembered the look in his eyes—not just anger, but a kind of disgust that she would dare. "Kabhi humse aise baat nahi karegi." The words were a brand. You are not allowed to talk back. Your voice is an offense.

The day after that slap, she’d gone quiet. A deep, numb silence. She’d moved through the house like a ghost, doing her chores, eating her food, speaking only in monosyllables. It was the only form of protest she had.

Her mother’s reaction to that silence was what had truly carved the lesson into her bones. Shivani, irritated by the gloomy atmosphere, had finally snapped at her in the kitchen.

“Yeh kya nautanki hai? Itna bolti thi, ab ekdun chup? Lagta hai wahi humari baap ban gayi hai.” (What is this drama? You used to talk so much, now suddenly quiet? It seems like you’ve become our father now.)

Then, the words that had become the blueprint of her existence: “Kal ko logo ke saamne humari beizzati kar degi. Dusron ki ladkiyon ko dekho… kitni sweet hai, maa-baap ki baat maanti hai… aur yeh ek hai.” (One day she’ll humiliate us in front of people. Look at other people’s daughters… how sweet they are, how they obey their parents… and then there’s this one.)

‘Aur yeh ek hai.’ (And then there’s this one.)

In that moment, she wasn’t Rooh. She wasn’t a daughter. She was a problem. A flawed specimen being compared to the perfect, mythical daughters of other families. Her pain was an inconvenience. Her silence was an act of aggression. Her very existence, when it wasn’t perfectly compliant, was a potential source of shame.

So, she had made a choice. A devastating, survivalist calculation. She had swallowed the hot coal of her anger. She had forced a smile. She had started talking again, her voice a little flatter, her eyes a little deader. She learned to become what they wanted: quiet, helpful, efficient.

She brought home stellar report cards, not for herself, but as a peace offering. She became a master of anticipating needs, of performing her role without a flicker of rebellion. She buried her true self so deep she sometimes worried she’d never find her again.

And it had worked. The tension eased. Her mother would sometimes pat her head. Her father’s grunts of disapproval became less frequent. She had bought a fragile, painful peace by slowly erasing herself.

But last night had torn that fragile peace to shreds. It had proven it was all a lie. The love was still conditional. The approval was a loan that could be recalled at any moment, for any reason. The threat of violence was still there, simmering just beneath the surface of her father’s indifference.

A fresh, hot tear escaped the corner of her eye and traced a path down her temple into her hairline. She thought of Ridhi, complaining about how her father nagged her about her grades, but then would secretly slip her money for a new dress. She thought of stories of friends who could laugh with their fathers, who could argue and know it wouldn’t end in a terrifying, frozen silence.

She had to struggle for every scrap. She’d had to plead for months to be allowed to study design, a battle she’d only won by simultaneously enrolling in a commerce stream to keep them happy. She’d fought to go on a college trip, only to have the permission revoked the night before because a relative had visited and her grandmother said it ‘looked bad.’

She had tried so hard. She had folded herself into a smaller and smaller box to fit their expectations, and still, she was too much. Still, she was ‘yeh ek hai.’

The weight in her chest was suffocating. A dull, throbbing ache had taken root behind her eyes. The thought of going downstairs was physically repulsive. The idea of facing her father’s stony face across the breakfast table, of feeling her grandmother’s critical gaze, of performing the morning ritual of the obedient daughter—it made her stomach clench.

She could hear the sounds of the house coming to life. The clatter of utensils in the kitchen. The distant sound of the television news her father always watched. The familiar hum of their morning, continuing exactly as it always did, completely untouched by the fact that she was lying upstairs, feeling like her insides had been scraped raw.

She was trapped. Trapped in a house that was her home and her prison. Trapped by a love that felt like a leash, one that tightened the moment she tried to step out of line. The morning stretched before her, not as a new beginning, but as a life sentence to the same painful performance. And for the first time, the mask felt so heavy she wasn't sure she had the strength to put it on again.

***

The first thing Neel registered was the silence. It wasn't the sterile, pressurized silence of his Toronto apartment, but a deep, heavy quiet, broken only by the distant, melodic call of a koel bird outside his window. For the first time in years, there was no alarm, no internal clock jolting him awake for pre-dawn rounds. He had slept. Deeply. Uninterrupted. The kind of sleep that left his body feeling heavy and languid, his mind uncharacteristically still.

He lay there for a long moment, staring at the high, modern ceiling of his room. The tension that was his usual constant companion—a tight coil in his neck and shoulders—was present, but softer, muted. He felt… rested. It was a foreign, almost disorienting sensation.

Pushing back the expensive linen duvet, he swung his legs out of bed. The polished marble floor was cool under his bare feet. His routine, ingrained deeper than bone, demanded action. He changed into a grey sweat-soaked vest and training shorts and made his way to the mansion’s private gym—a spacious, glass-walled room filled with state-of-the-art equipment that saw more use from the personal trainer than from the family.

For the next ninety minutes, he lost himself in the rhythm of his workout. As a neurosurgeon, he understood the human body as a complex, fragile machine. His own was a machine he maintained with ruthless precision. He moved through sets of weighted pull-ups, his back muscles rippling under the strain, the defined latissimus dorsi flaring with each controlled pull.

The steady, powerful push of the bench press emphasized the breadth of his chest and shoulders. Core exercises—hanging leg raises, weighted crunches—sculpted a torso of defined, hard-earned abdominal muscles, each ridge a testament to discipline, not vanity. A fine sheen of sweat coated his skin, and the familiar burn in his muscles was a welcome, grounding pain. It was a language he understood perfectly: effort and result.

As he finished his final set, he saw his mother’s reflection in the glass wall. Anita was hovering near the doorway, a tentative smile on her face.

“Neel, come down for breakfast, beta. I have prepared all your favourites,” she called out, her voice warm with anticipation.

Neel finished his rep, his breathing steady but deep. He turned and gave a single, curt nod. “Five minutes,” he said, his voice even.

He walked back to his room, his body humming with endorphins. In the vast, spa-like bathroom, he stood under a rain shower so powerful it felt like a massage. The steam fogged the glass enclosure, and for a moment, he was just a body, feeling the heat and the water, nothing more.

Stepping out, he toweled off in front of the full-length mirror. The reflection showed the results of his relentless discipline: broad, powerful shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist.

A chest and torso layered with well-defined muscle, the six-pack of his abdomen sharp and clear even in a state of rest. It was the physique of an athlete, not a bodybuilder—functional, powerful, and controlled. There were no tattoos, no scars on his torso—just clean, taut skin over a frame of pure, utilitarian strength.

He dressed with his usual efficiency: a simple, well-fitting black cotton t-shirt and a pair of dark, tailored trousers. He applied a dab of his signature cologne—something woody and citrusy, devoid of sweetness—and ran a hand through his damp hair. The transformation was complete. From the sweating, straining athlete to the impeccably groomed, unreadable Dr. Rathore.

He descended the floating staircase, the scent of sandalwood and fresh coffee guiding him to the dining room. And then he stopped.

The long, teak dining table, which usually held a minimalist fruit platter and toast, was groaning under the weight of a feast. It was a vibrant, chaotic explosion of colour and aroma. Freshly squeezed orange juice stood next to tall glasses of chilled milk. Bowls overflowed with meticulously cut papaya, mango, and watermelon. And then came the hot dishes, a testament to his mother’s love and anxiety: light, fluffy poha studded with peanuts and sev; creamy, perfectly set upma; golden, steamed khaman sprinkled with coriander; soft, spongy dhokla; spicy, rolled patra leaves; and a plate piled high with crisp, golden jalebi and fafda. It was a Gujarati breakfast banquet.

Neel stood at the head of the table, his expression unchanging. “Maa,” he said, his voice flat. “Itna sab nahi banana tha.” (Mom, you didn’t have to make all this.)

Anita fluttered around, adjusting plates that were already perfect. “Kaise nahi banati?” she said, her voice laced with a mixture of love and mild reproach. “Mera beta itne dino ke baad aaya hai. Tujhe yaad bhi hai tera favourite kya hai?” (How could I not? My son has come home after so many days. Do you even remember what your favourite is?)

Reyansh, already seated and helping himself to a generous serving of jalebi, smirked. “Mumma, bhai aaya hai toh sab unke liye. Hum toh hamesha yahan rehte hain, humare liye toh kabhi aise nahi banaya.” (Mom, just because brother is here, everything is for him. We live here all the time, you never make this for us.)

Anita swatted at him playfully with a napkin. “Tu chup reh! Tu mere paas hi rehta hai. Vo thodi na mere paas rehta hai” (You be quiet! You live right here with me. It’s not like he lives with me.)

As Neel sat down, selecting a small portion of poha and fruit, Anita casually dropped the bombshell, her tone light and conversational.

“Vese, Neel, aaj maine Mr. Malhotra ko bulaya hai. Unki beti ke saath.” (By the way, Neel, I have invited Mr. Malhotra. With his daughter.)

She didn’t pause, continuing as she poured him a glass of juice. “Tum dono toh bacpan ke dost the, na? Nyra… Nyra Malhotra. Kal main unke ghar invitation dene gayi thi, tab Nyra ne hi kaha tha use tumse milna hai. Bahut excited thi.” (You two were childhood friends, weren’t you? Nyra… Nyra Malhotra. Yesterday when I went to their house to deliver the invitation, Nyra herself said she wanted to see you. She was very excited.)

The words hung in the air between the clatter of plates and the scent of fried snacks. Neel’s hand, holding a spoonful of poha, paused midway to his mouth. He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.

The perfectly laid breakfast table, the extravagant display of maternal love—it had all been the prelude. The campaign his mother had promised had begun. The first strategic meeting had been scheduled.

The air, once thick with the warm, comforting aromas of poha and jalebi, suddenly felt charged and thin. Neel placed his spoon down with a quiet, precise click. He kept his gaze fixed on his plate, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

“Maa,” he said, his voice low and even, devoid of any emotion that might betray his irritation. “Aapko pata hain, mujhe kisise milna nahi pasand. Especially under these… curated circumstances.” (Mom, you know I don’t like meeting anyone. Especially under these… curated circumstances.)

Anita’s smile didn’t falter, but it became a little strained at the edges. She waved a dismissive hand, as if swatting away his objection like a harmless fly. “Arrey, beta! Nyra zidd kar rahi thi! She was so insistent. She’ll be here in a little while. Just… baat kar ke toh dekhna na? For me? What’s the harm in talking?” (Oh, dear! Nyra was insisting so much! She’ll be here in a little while. Just… try talking to her? For me?)

Vikrant, seated at the head of the table, observed the exchange over the top of his financial newspaper. He said nothing, his expression one of detached amusement. He had set this machinery in motion; his wife was merely the executor.

Neel knew the script. Resistance was not just futile; it would be met with a prolonged, emotional campaign. It was more efficient to capitulate now and end the discussion. He let out a short, quiet breath through his nose.

“Okay,” he said, the single word clipped and heavy with resignation. He picked up his spoon again, the conversation clearly terminated as far as he was concerned.

Reyansh, who had been watching the entire exchange with glee, couldn’t resist. He leaned back in his chair, a wide, teasing grin spreading across his face. “Nyra weds Neel,” he announced to the room, as if reading a glamorous headline. “Kaisa rahega? The brain surgeon and the socialite. Very dramatic.”

Neel’s head snapped up. The look he shot his brother wasn’t one of anger, but of cold, laser-focused warning. It was the same look that made first-year residents freeze in their tracks. Reyansh, however, just burst out laughing, thoroughly enjoying his brother’s discomfort. “What? I’m just thinking of potential wedding hashtags!”

The rest of the breakfast proceeded with a tense normalcy. Neel finished his food in silence, while Anita chattered nervously about inconsequential things.

By eleven, the doorbell chimed, its melodic tone echoing through the vast mansion. Anita practically leapt from her seat, smoothing down her sari. “They’re here!”

Neel remained seated in the living room, a medical journal open on his lap—a prop and a shield. He didn’t look up as the guests were ushered in. He heard the polite greetings, his father’s deep voice, his mother’s effusive welcome.

Then, a different sound: quick, light footsteps clicking against the marble floor, approaching him directly.

He looked up.

And then she was there. Nyra Malhotra. She was a vision of modern, calculated glamour. Her hair fell in perfect, glossy waves. She was dressed in a chic, light pink short dress with a daring off-shoulder neckline. A large, satin bow was artfully placed on the chest, adding a touch of playful innocence to the otherwise sophisticated outfit. Her makeup was flawless, her smile wide and blindingly white.

Her eyes locked onto his, and they lit up with a performative delight.

“Neel! Oh my God! I’d know those brooding eyes anywhere!” she exclaimed, her voice a high, tinkling sound that seemed to bounce off the high ceilings.

Before he could stand, before he could even form a word of greeting or extend a hand, she closed the distance between them. In a flurry of expensive perfume and rustling fabric, she leaned down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight, dramatic hug. The medical journal was crushed between them.

Neel went rigid. His hands, which had been resting on the arms of his chair, remained there. He did not reciprocate. His face, over her shoulder, was a mask of frozen stoicism, his eyes staring blankly at a point on the opposite wall. The scent of her perfume—a cloying mix of jasmine and vanilla—was overwhelming.

After a moment that felt infinitely long to him, she pulled back, still holding onto his shoulders, her face just inches from his. “Look at you! Dr. Neel Rathore. Toronto must have been so exciting! You have to tell me everything.”

Neel slowly, deliberately, extracted himself from her grasp. He placed the crumpled journal on the side table and finally stood up, forcing her to take a step back. He offered a nod, the movement stiff and minimal.

“Nyra,” he said, his voice a flat, neutral tone he reserved for difficult patients. “It’s been a long time.”

The contrast was jarring. Her vibrant, effusive energy seemed to crash against the immovable wall of his impassivity. The carefully orchestrated reunion was not going according to anyone’s script but his own.

"How are you, Neel? You came back after so long!" Nyra exclaimed, her voice a bright, practiced melody. She didn't wait for an answer, closing the distance between them in a few quick, clicking steps of her designer heels.

Neel gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "Yeah. It's been a long time." His voice was a flat, neutral monotone, a stark contrast to her effusive energy.

Vikrant, observing the stilted exchange with a businessman's eye, saw an opportunity. He clapped a hand on Mr. Malhotra's shoulder. "Let us go to my study," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We can discuss the new export policies further there. Let the children… catch up."

With the patriarchs retreating, the atmosphere in the living room shifted. Anita beamed, gesturing for everyone to sit. She served tea herself, her eyes darting between Neel and Nyra, watching her imagined future unfold.

Nyra didn't need any encouragement. She launched into a relentless monologue, barely pausing for breath. She talked about her recent trip to Milan, her opinion on the latest fashion week, her new sports car, name-dropping people Neel had never heard of and places he had no interest in. She asked him questions about Toronto but steamrolled over his brief, one-word answers with her own assumptions.

"...and the shopping there is just divine, isn't it? Not that you'd have time, with all those surgeries! Oh my God, a brain surgeon! It's so intense. So thrilling. I told all my friends, my childhood friend is this brilliant, handsome doctor in Canada..."

Neel sat through it like a rock enduring a constant, chattering stream. He nodded occasionally, sipped his tea, and offered non-committal hums of acknowledgment. His expression never changed from its default state of detached politeness.

Anita, however, watched, enthralled. She saw Nyra's confidence, her modern outlook, her obvious wealth and style, and her apparent infatuation with Neel. In Anita's eyes, it was perfect.

After what felt like an eternity to Neel, but was likely only forty-five minutes, the Malhotras made their excuses to leave. Nyra gave Neel another dramatic, perfumed hug, which he endured with the same rigid stoicism.

"We'll see you tomorrow at the party, right? We have so much more to catch up on!" Nyra trilled on her way out.

The moment the front door closed, the mansion seemed to sigh in relief. The performative energy dissipated.

Later that night, in the master bedroom, Anita was buzzing with excitement. A tablet in her hand displayed the latest R-House saree collection for her to choose from for the next day's party. Vikrant was already in bed, scrolling through news on his phone.

"Vikrant," Anita began, her voice brimming with certainty. "I like Nyra for our Neel. Did you see? Nyra also likes Neel! They will be so happy together going forward."

Vikrant didn't look up from his phone. "Haan. Neel maanega nahi lekin iske liye." (Yes. But Neel won't agree to this.)

"Mein hoon na!" Anita said, undeterred. "Mein Neel ko manaungi." (I am here, aren't I? I will convince Neel.) She put the tablet down, her eyes shining with determination. "And Nyra has grown up right in front of us. She's modern, she's from a good family. She's compatible with Neel. You'll see, Nyra won't say no to the marriage either."

Vikrant scrolled down on his screen, his response casual, almost bored. "Jaisa tumhe theek lage. Nyra itni buri bhi nahi hai." (Whatever you think is fine. Nyra isn't so bad anyway.) It was his standard response to his wife's matrimonial campaigns—benign approval without any active involvement.

But Anita was already several steps ahead, plotting the timeline of her victory. "Mein Neel ko mana hi lungi Nyra ke liye," she declared, her voice firm with resolve. "Aaj raat ko hi mein baat karti hoon Neel se. Agar woh maan gaya, toh kal subah hi Nyra se baat karke, shaam ko party mein hi announce kar denge dono ki shaadi ka!"

(I will convince Neel for Nyra itself. I will talk to Neel tonight. If he agrees, then tomorrow morning I'll talk to Nyra, and tomorrow evening at the party itself, we will announce their engagement!)

She looked at her husband for confirmation, for shared excitement.

Vikrant finally looked up from his phone, meeting her eager gaze for a brief second. He gave a slight, indifferent shrug. "Jo tumhe theek lage." (Whatever you think is fine.)

It was all the permission she needed. The plan was set. In Anita's mind, the party was no longer just a welcome home gathering. It was to be her son's engagement party.

The late-night silence in the Rathore mansion was deep and absolute. Neel was propped against the headboard of his massive bed, the blue light of his phone illuminating his focused expression. He was on a video call with Dr. Evans, his voice a low, steady murmur as they discussed a post-op patient’s latest scan.

“The edema is reducing, but I want the steroids tapered slower this time. Last time we were too aggressive,” Neel instructed, his finger tracing a line on his own tablet where the scan was mirrored.

Suddenly, his bedroom door opened without a knock. Anita stood there, backlit by the hallway light, holding a small silver tray bearing a steaming glass of golden turmeric milk.

Neel’s professional demeanor didn’t flicker, but his eyes cut towards the interruption. “Evans, I’ll have to call you back. Review the protocol and page me if anything changes.” He didn’t wait for a reply, ending the call and placing the phone face down on the bedside table.

He swung his legs off the bed and walked towards his mother. “Maa, yeh sab mat karo aap. Aapko itni raat mein jaagna nahi chahiye.” (Mom, don’t do all this. You shouldn’t have to get up so late.)

Anita’s face softened into a loving smile. “Kaise nahi karu? Tu toh mera chaand hai. Teri aadat hai yeh, raat ko doodh peene ki.” (How can I not? You are my moon. This is your habit, drinking warm milk at night.)

She placed the tray on a low table and sat on the plush sofa in the sitting area of his room, patting the space next to her. Neel complied, sitting beside her and picking up the warm glass. The familiar, earthy scent of turmeric and saffron filled the space between them.

As he took a sip, Anita placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her touch light but possessive. “Neel, ab main jo kehne wali hoon, dhyaan se sunna.” (Neel, now listen carefully to what I am about to say.)

Neel stilled, the glass halfway to his lips. He knew that tone. He braced himself.

“Maine Nyra ko chuana hai tumhare liye,” she said, her voice brimming with conviction. “Mujhe woh bahut pasand hai. Uske jaise ladki nahi milegi.” (I have chosen Nyra for you. I like her very much. You won’t find a girl like her.)

Neel let out a long, weary sigh, placing the glass back on the tray. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maa, ab main kya bolu aapko?” (Mom, what can I even say to you now?)

This was the opening Anita needed. Her voice took on a plaintive, aching quality. “Neel, ek toh tum mujhse itna door rehte ho,” she began, her eyes welling up with practiced ease. “Mujhe har waqt tumhari fikar rehti hai. Khaana khaaya ki nahi? So paya ki nahi? Kaam zyada toh nahi ho raha?” (Firstly, you live so far away from me. I worry about you all the time. Did you eat? Did you sleep? Is the work too much?)

She leaned closer, her hand tightening on his shoulder. “Beta, shaadi kar lo. Ek achchi ladki tumhare saath hogi, woh tumhara khayal rakhegi. Phir mujhe itni chinta nahi hogi. Main bas tumhe settle dekhna chahti hoon, aur kuch nahi.” (Son, just get married. A good girl will be with you, she will take care of you. Then I won’t worry so much. I just want to see you settled, nothing else.)

She looked at him, her eyes pleading, laying on the guilt with a master’s touch. “Aur Nyra perfect hai tumhare liye. Modern hai, educated hai, acchi family se hai. Tum dono ek jaise ho.” (And Nyra is perfect for you. She’s modern, educated, from a good family. You two are alike.)

Neel listened, his face an impassive mask, but inside, he felt the familiar walls of his resistance being chipped away by the relentless drip of her emotional blackmail. He saw the tears glistening in her eyes, heard the tremor in her voice.

He calculated the energy it would take to fight this, the prolonged drama, the daily pressure. He thought of the cold, quiet efficiency of his life in Toronto and weighed it against the exhausting emotional battlefield of his home.

It was a clinical decision. The path of least resistance. A way to secure temporary peace.

He looked at his mother’s hopeful, tear-streaked face and made his choice.

“Fine, Maa,” he said, his voice devoid of any emotion, as if he were agreeing to a change in a surgical schedule. “If Nyra agrees, then I will not object.”

It was not a ‘yes’. It was a capitulation. A handing over of the decision to someone else to end the current conflict.

Anita’s face transformed. The tears vanished, replaced by a radiant, triumphant smile. She pulled him into a tight hug. “Mera beta! Mera samajhdaar beta! Woh zaroor maan jayegi! Main kal subah hi baat karti hoon usse!” (My son! My understanding son! She will definitely agree! I’ll talk to her tomorrow morning itself!)

She released him, picked up the empty tray, and floated out of the room, her mission accomplished. The door clicked shut, leaving Neel alone in the silence. He picked up his phone, the screen still dark. He had just agreed to marry a woman he found insufferable, all to silence the one voice he couldn’t operate on. The taste of the turmeric milk turned bitter in his mouth.

***

The next morning, a sliver of pale gold sunlight cut through the gaps in Neel’s blackout blinds. He was already awake, lying still and staring at the ceiling, the weight of his late-night capitulation sitting heavy in his gut. The sterile, controlled peace of his Toronto life felt a universe away.

His brooding was interrupted by a loud, insistent knock, followed by the door swinging open without ceremony. Reyansh leaned against the doorframe, already dressed in what looked like the entire latest R-House men's collection.

"Get up, sleeping beauty. We're going shopping," Reyan announced, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Neel didn't move. "I have no intention of going shopping."

"Tough luck," Reyan said, striding into the room and pulling open the curtains, flooding the room with harsh light that made Neel wince. "You can't show up to your own 'Welcome to the Matrimonial Market' party looking like you're about to perform an autopsy. Which, knowing you, you might be. Now move it. The car's waiting."

The mention of the party, the unspoken reason behind it, was the final push. Perhaps any distraction was better than lying there, dissecting his own poor decisions. With a grunt of resignation, Neel swung his legs out of bed. An hour later, after a silent, perfunctory workout and a shower, he found himself in the passenger seat of Reyan's flashy convertible, being driven towards the city centre.

Meanwhile, in the sun-drenched sitting room of the Rathore mansion, Anita Rathore took a deep, steadying breath. She adjusted her silk kimono, checked her reflection in her phone camera, and placed a video call.

After two rings, Nyra Malhotra’s face filled the screen. She was in what appeared to be a lavish home gym, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, her makeup impeccably done even for a workout.

"Hello, Aunty!" Nyra chirped, her voice bright and energetic.

"Hello, beta," Anita said, her smile warm but slightly nervous. "I called to talk to you about something important. I thought I should ask you first, before speaking to your parents."

Nyra picked up a designer water tumbler, taking a delicate sip. "Yeah, Aunty, say," she prompted, her curiosity piqued.

Anita leaned closer to the screen, her expression turning earnest. "Beta… do you like Neel?"

The question caught Nyra off guard. A slow, pretty blush spread across her cheeks. She looked down for a second, a coy smile playing on her lips before she looked back at the camera. "Why? What happened, Aunty?" she asked, playing for time.

Anita’s smile widened. This was a good sign. "I like you for my Neel," she declared, her voice swelling with maternal pride. "And… Neel has said yes. But only if you agree."

The blush on Nyra's cheeks deepened. She was silent for a moment, seemingly processing this. "Aunty…" she began, her tone softening into something more genuine. "I have liked Neel since we were children. But then he went to Canada and… our connection was lost."

This was the confirmation Anita had been praying for. She clapped her hands together softly. "Oh, beta! So? If you agree, we were thinking… we could do the engagement at the party itself tonight. A surprise for everyone!"

Nyra’s eyes widened with delight. The idea of a dramatic, public engagement, of being the centre of attention in that glittering crowd, was irresistible. Any hesitation vanished.

"Yes, Aunty," she said, her voice firm and decisive now. "I like Neel. I don't have any problem in marrying him."

Anita felt a wave of triumphant relief so powerful she nearly laughed. "Okay, wonderful! Then I will talk to your parents right away! See you tonight, beta!"

She ended the call, her hands trembling slightly with excitement. She had done it. The deal was sealed. Her son's future was set. The party tonight would no longer be a simple welcome home; it would be the grand announcement of the union of two powerful families. Everything was falling perfectly into place.

The sleek, air-conditioned silence of the R-House flagship store was a world away from the emotional negotiations happening across the city. Neel stood like a stoic mannequin as an eager stylist held up a navy-blue bandhgala jacket against him. Reyansh was lounging on a plush velvet sofa, scrolling through his phone and offering unhelpful commentary like, "Too funereal. You look like you're going to bury your own dreams."

Neel's phone, sitting on a nearby console table, buzzed insistently. He saw his mother's name flash on the screen. He held up a hand to the stylist, a universal signal for pause, and picked it up.

"Ma," he answered, his voice flat.

"Neel! Beta!" Anita's voice was breathless, giddy with excitement, a stark contrast to his own monotone. "I talked to her! I just got off the call with Nyra!"

Neel said nothing. He simply waited, his expression unchanging. He could feel Reyan's amused gaze on him.

"She agreed, Neel! She said yes!" Anita practically sang the words. "She told me she's liked you since you were children! Isn't that wonderful?"

A muscle in Neel's jaw twitched. "I see," was all he said.

"So it's final! Tonight, at the party, we will make the announcement. The engagement! It will be a beautiful surprise for everyone. Oh, I'm so happy, beta! My Neel is finally settling down!"

The words washed over him: engagement, announcement, settling down. They felt alien, like a diagnosis for a patient he hadn't even examined. He had agreed to a hypothetical, a conditional "if" to end a conversation. His mother had transformed it into a concrete, impending reality in a matter of hours.

"Okay, Ma," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion that could be mistaken for enthusiasm or resistance.

"Okay? Just okay?" Anita laughed, a light, tinkling sound. "Your life is changing, beta! Be happy! Now, what are you buying? Make sure it's something elegant for the announcement. I have to go, I need to call the jeweler! And Nyra's parents!"

The line went dead. Neel stood holding the silent phone for a moment longer before placing it back on the table with a quiet, precise click.

Reyansh let out a low whistle, a wide, incredulous grin spreading across his face. "Whoa. Engaged? To Nyra Malhotra? Seriously? Dad moves fast. Well, Mom does." He shook his head, laughing. "Your life is officially over, brother. It was nice knowing you."

Neel didn't respond. He turned back to the stylist, who was still holding the jacket, looking uncertain.

"This one is fine," Neel said, his voice calm and utterly empty.

He had navigated complex surgical plans, made life-and-death decisions under immense pressure. He would navigate this too. It was just another procedure. A social one. He would stand where he was told to stand, say what he was told to say.

The outcome was predetermined. His consent had been given, not out of desire, but as the most efficient path to temporary peace. The engagement was now just a clinical fact, another item on the day's agenda. His feelings on the matter were irrelevant data, to be discarded.