Samara Mehta had always imagined that the biggest shock of her life would come during finals week, or perhaps on the day she finally gathered the courage to confess to her mother that she had burned half the kitchen last summer while attempting to make pasta.

But no.

The actual shock came at exactly 4:12 PM, on a perfectly sunny Tuesday, when her father casually entered the living room and announced:

“Samara, you’re getting married.”

Just like that.

As if he were telling her they were out of milk.

Samara blinked. “Come again?”

Her father, Mr. Rajeev Mehta, a calm man with the emotional expression of a wall clock, repeated without a hint of drama, “You. Are. Getting. Married.”

“Forced?” Her voice cracked like thin glass.

“Arranged,” he corrected with a serene smile.

“That is just a polite word for formed!”

Before she could run, scream, or flop dramatically onto the sofa and fake unconsciousness, her mother chimed in from the kitchen, “Stop being over-dramatic, beta. Girls your age get married all the time.”

“I am eighteen!” Samara screeched. “I still watch cartoons!”

“Which is why you need a mature partner,” her father said wisely. “Someone responsible. Someone successful. Someone—”

“Someone who is NOT me!” Samara finished.

But fate had already packed its suitcase for her.

Her father cleared his throat. “We have chosen the boy. The paperwork is done. The families have agreed. The engagement is in three days.”

Samara froze.

A slow, terrible dread crept down her spine.

“Who?” she whispered.

Her father hesitated. Her mother leaned against the doorway, sighing dreamily.

“Shivansh.”

The moment the name left her mother’s lips, Samara felt the air leave her lungs.

Not that Shivansh.

Shivansh Oberoi.

The youngest CEO in the country.

Cold, sharp, intimidating.

A man who looked like he could file a lawsuit just by blinking.

A man whose face had been on the cover of every business magazine.

A man whose popularity graph rose higher than his patience level.

A man so stoic that if someone cracked a joke near him, even the joke would get nervous.

Samara had seen him once—ONLY once—at a party three years ago. She was fifteen, holding a plate of pani puri and smiling at everyone like the friendly neighborhood sunflower she was.

He had walked past her like a winter storm—expensive suit, perfect jawline, eyes colder than refrigerated soda.

She remembered thinking at that time: Any girl who marries him will need a heater.

Now apparently SHE was that girl.

Samara stared at her parents as if they had lost their collective minds.

“You want me to marry a man who probably sleeps with a business plan under his pillow?”

Her father raised an eyebrow. “He is a good man. He is successful. He is responsible.”

“He is scary.”

“Successful.”

“Emotionless.”

“Responsible.”

“POSSIBLY A ROBOT.”

Her mother sighed. “Even robots can make good husbands.”

Samara threw her hands up. “Why him? Why not… some normal person? Someone who smiles? Someone who talks? Someone whose expression changes once in three years?”

Her parents exchanged a quick glance.

She knew that look.

Something was being hidden.

Samara narrowed her eyes. “Okay. What are you not telling me?”

Her father exhaled slowly and sat down, patting the sofa next to him. “Samara… this marriage is important. The Oberois helped our business years ago. Now they want this alliance. It will secure both families.”

“So I’m a business contract?” she whispered.

“No!” her mother said quickly. “You are special to us. But sometimes family decisions require—”

“Sacrificing my entire life?!”

Her voice echoed through the room.

A lump formed in her throat. She wasn’t angry anymore—she was terrified. Marriage? To a stranger? A cold CEO who probably didn’t even know her birthday?

Samara sank onto the sofa, hugging a cushion to her chest.

Her mother softened. “Honey… life doesn’t always wait for the perfect moment. Maybe this will be good for you. Maybe you’ll learn things. Grow.”

“I’m eighteen. I’m still learning how to do laundry!”

Her father placed a hand on her shoulder. “Shivansh is 26. Mature. Stable. He will take care of you.”

Samara almost laughed. Take care? The man looked like he’d file a divorce notice the moment someone spoke to him loudly.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to shout.

But instead she whispered, “Do I have a choice?”

Silence answered her.

Her heart sank.

She understood.

This wasn’t a proposal.

It was a decision.

Meanwhile, across the city…

Shivansh Oberoi sat in his glass-walled office, staring at the contract in front of him, jaw clenched so tight his assistant feared it would crack.

“You want me to what?” he asked quietly.

Mr. Oberoi Sr. cleared his throat. “Marry Samara Mehta. The Mehta family helped us years ago. It is time to return the favor.”

“I can return money,” Shivansh said coldly. “Not my life.”

“It is already decided.”

Shivansh’s fingers tightened around the pen.

He didn’t raise his voice—he never needed to. His silence was sharper than most people’s anger.

“I do not know this girl.”

“Then get to know her after the wedding.”

Shivansh shut his eyes, inhaling deeply.

He loved his parents. He respected them.

But forcing marriage?

He had no interest in romance, love, or family drama.

He had a company to run.

A growing empire.

A life perfectly organized and predictable.

Marriage would complicate everything.

“Shivansh…” his father added softly. “You owe us this.”

A muscle ticked in Shivansh’s jaw.

He hated that word—owe.

It reminded him of the promises he had made long ago. Promises connected to the Mehta family. Promises he couldn’t walk away from.

Finally, he exhaled. “Fine.”

His father blinked. “You agree?”

“I agree,” he said flatly. “But do not expect me to play husband.”

“You will learn.”

Shivansh didn’t respond.

He simply stood, buttoned his coat, and walked out of the room.

His assistant stared after him.

“Sir… where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Is everything okay?”

“No,” Shivansh said. “But it will be.”

His voice was calm.

Controlled.

Emotionless.

But inside, he felt something he hadn’t felt in years.

Uncertainty.

Back to Samara…

The next three days passed like a blur.

Between bridal outfits, relatives screaming instructions, and her mother force-feeding her sweets, Samara couldn’t even process her own emotions.

She didn’t want marriage.

She didn’t want responsibility.

She didn’t want a cold CEO for a husband.

She wanted to study, explore, live, fall in love naturally—not by her parents’ decision.

And yet… here she was, standing in a decorated hall, wearing a heavy lehenga that felt like a punishment, waiting for a man she barely knew.

The doors opened.

And Shivansh Oberoi walked in.

Tall. Confident.

Expression unreadable.

Eyes sharp enough to cut diamonds.

He looked like he had walked straight out of a luxury magazine.

Everyone stared.

Even Samara forgot to breathe for a second.

Then their eyes met.

His stare was cold.

But not hateful.

Just… distant. Reserved.

Samara swallowed.

He approached her slowly, stopping just two feet away.

Neither smiled.

Neither spoke.

Neither wanted this.

And yet, in that moment—

their lives already intertwined.

Forever.

Or at least until one of them exploded from frustration.

If someone had told Samara one month ago that she would be sitting beside a cold, expressionless CEO wearing a groom’s sherwani worth more than her entire house, she would have laughed.

Or fainted.

Or both.

But today, she was doing exactly that.

Sitting on a wedding stage.

Next to Shivansh Oberoi.

With cameras flashing, relatives crying fake tears, and her mother whispering, “Smile, beta! Smile! You look like you’re being kidnapped!”

Which—technically—was how she felt.

Shivansh sat perfectly still.

Like a statue.

A very handsome statue, but a statue nonetheless.

Samara peeked at him out of the corner of her eye.

No emotion.

No irritation.

No interest.

Just… icy calm.

She, on the other hand, was sweating like a nervous lemon.

“Can you at least pretend to look alive?” she muttered under her breath.

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t even blink.

Samara rolled her eyes. “Amazing. I’m marrying a Wi-Fi router with no signals.”

Shivansh turned his head slightly. “I can hear you.”

“Oh! Good to know something in you works.”

His lips twitched—just barely.

Not a smile.

More like a muscle reacting to an annoying mosquito.

Samara looked away, cheeks heating.

The priest began chanting the rituals, relatives gathered around, and the air filled with the smell of flowers and camera flashes.

Samara sat stiffly as the garlands were brought forward.

Shivansh stood first, lifting his garland with the elegance of a king.

Samara lifted hers like she was picking up a heavy suitcase.

He leaned forward.

She stretched, stood on her toes, and nearly tripped.

He caught her elbow instantly.

His grip was firm, steady, surprisingly warm.

Samara froze.

Shivansh steadied her, eyes locking with hers.

For a second—just one—she thought she saw a flicker of humanity.

Then he let go.

Back to statue mode.

She placed the garland awkwardly around his neck. He placed his around hers with perfect grace, not even disturbing a single strand of her hair.

Show-off.

After endless rituals, the priest finally said the words:

“Now, the bride and groom will take the pheras.”

Samara gulped.

This was it.

This was the moment her life officially jumped off a cliff.

Shivansh extended his hand.

Samara hesitated.

Everyone was watching.

Cameras flashing.

Families smiling.

Expectations heavy.

She placed her hand in his.

It was warm.

Strangely reassuring.

But also terrifying.

They walked around the holy fire, step after step, binding their futures together with traditions older than either of them.

Samara felt like she was walking toward the unknown.

Shivansh felt like he was walking toward responsibility.

Neither felt love.

Neither felt excitement.

Just inevitability.

When it ended, the priest blessed them, relatives clapped, and Samara officially became—

Mrs. Samara Shivansh Oberoi.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream, faint, or ask the universe for a refund.

The Wedding Night (that wasn’t a wedding night)

The huge room smelled like rose petals and expensive perfume.

Samara entered slowly, awkwardly, eyes wide as she stared at the luxurious decorations.

Her bridal lehenga was heavy.

Her jewelry was heavier.

But her heart felt the heaviest.

Shivansh entered behind her, removing his sherwani coat and loosening the collar.

Samara almost jumped.

“Oh! You’re here…”

“This is my room,” he said plainly.

“Right… obviously.”

Silence.

Samara stood by the bed, fidgeting with her bangles.

Shivansh sat on the sofa across the room.

He didn’t come close.

Didn’t speak unnecessarily.

Didn’t look at her for more than two seconds at a time.

She cleared her throat. “So… um… what now?”

“Nothing,” he said calmly.

“That’s… vague.”

Shivansh looked at her, voice steady. “Samara, listen. This marriage happened because of our parents. Not because of us.”

She nodded, swallowing. “I know.”

“I don’t expect anything from you. No pressure. No obligations. You’re free to live as you want.”

Samara blinked. “Really?"

“Yes.”

She exhaled slowly, relieved.

But something inside her also felt strangely hollow.

She sat on the edge of the bed. “So… what are we? Strangers who are married?”

“Something like that.”

“Great,” she muttered. “Sounds like the beginning of a Bollywood tragedy.”

He ignored the sarcasm. “I don’t intend to interfere in your life. You do what you want. Study. Work. Travel. I won’t stop you.”

Samara looked down at her hands. “You sound like you’re giving a job orientation.”

“I am giving clarity.”

She sighed. “And what about you? What do you want?”

He paused.

A long, heavy pause.

Then he said, “Distance.”

Samara stiffened.

Not because it hurt—she expected this—but because he said it with such honesty.

“And freedom,” he added softly. “Like you.”

She nodded slowly.

There was no romance here.

No spark.

No connection.

Just two people trapped in a bond they didn’t ask for.

She stood. “Okay. Then let’s make a deal.”

Shivansh raised an eyebrow.

“No expectations,” she said.

“No interference. No drama. No emotional stuff.”

“Agreed.”

“And we… coexist peacefully.”

“Agreed,” he said again.

Samara exhaled. “Good. Then… I’ll sleep on the bed and you can—”

“I will sleep on the sofa,” he said.

“That’s fine. I don’t snore anyway.”

He stared. “I didn’t ask.”

“Oh. Right.”

Awkward silence #198 began.

She sat down, removing her heavy jewelry. “Shivansh… one last thing.”

“Yes?”.

“Why did your parents choose me?”

He looked at her for three seconds, unreadable as always.

Then he said, “Because I owed your family.”

“Owed… what?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

She frowned. “That’s not ominous at all.”

He stood up. “Sleep. You look exhausted.”

“I feel exhausted,” she muttered.

He turned off most of the lights, settling on the sofa with a calmness that made her envy him.

Samara crawled into the bed.

Her heart was beating fast.

This wasn’t how a wedding night should feel.

But it was her reality now.

She stared at the ceiling.

Married to a stranger.

A handsome stranger, yes.

But a cold, unreadable stranger.

Her new life scared her.

But somewhere deep inside her, she sensed something else too—

This was only the beginning.

Of a journey that neither of them saw coming.

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The first morning of marriage was supposed to feel magical, at least in movies.

Sunlight, soft music, shy smiles, maybe a romantic breakfast.

Samara’s first morning felt nothing like that.

Instead—

She woke up tangled in a mountain of blankets she didn’t remember pulling over herself.

Her hair looked like a bird had built a nest in it.

A pillow was on the floor.

Her jewelry box was open for a reason she couldn’t recall.

And her husband—yes, the word still made her eyelid twitch—was sitting by the window, already dressed in a perfect black suit, typing on his laptop with frustrating grace.

Samara squinted. “Are you human?”

Shivansh didn’t look up. “I believe so."

“You’re working? It’s 6 AM.”

“It’s 7.”

She grabbed her phone.

It was actually 7:01.

“Who wakes up before the sun?” she muttered.

“People with responsibility.”

“And no joy.”

He ignored that.

Samara stretched, rubbing her eyes. “Did I… by any chance, steal all the blankets last night?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Did I kick you?”

“Twice.”

“Oh.”

“Did I snore?”

“No.”

Samara sighed with relief. “Thank God. I told you I don’t snore.”

“You talk in your sleep.”

Her eyes widened. “WHAT DID I SAY?”

He finally looked up.

“You argued with someone about… pani puri.”

Samara groaned and covered her face. “Kill me.”

“I considered it,” he said calmly.

She glared. “You’re not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

She threw a pillow at him. He caught it without even looking, as if he had predicted her every move.

Annoying.

Predictable.

Perfect reflexes.

She hated that he was so… composed.

How could someone be so calm after getting married to a stranger?

Samara dragged herself out of bed and looked around the enormous room that now belonged to her too.

Everything was too expensive.

Too perfect.

Too shiny.

She whispered to herself, “This house probably has more bathrooms than my school.”

Shivansh didn’t comment, though his expression suggested he agreed.

Breakfast at the Oberoi Mansion

Samara expected a grand dining room with classical music playing in the background.

She wasn’t wrong.

The dining hall was huge—bigger than her entire living room back home. A long table, polished to perfection, stretched across the room. Chandeliers hung like giant glittering ice drops.

She swallowed nervously.

Shivansh sat at one end, reading a newspaper like a textbook.

She sat five chairs away because sitting next to him felt too awkward.

The servants placed dishes on the table—pancakes, fruits, idli-sambar, toast, freshly squeezed juice.

Samara blinked. “Wow. Is this breakfast or a wedding banquet?”

“One meal,” he said.

“One meal for twenty people.”

“Eat whatever you want.”

She took one idli.

Just one.

Shivansh lowered the newspaper slightly, eyes flicking to her plate. “That’s all?”

“I’m nervous!” she whispered. “Who can eat in front of—” she gestured vaguely at him “—that face?”

His eyebrow twitched. “What is wrong with my face?”

“It’s too serious.”

“It is normal.”

“Exactly.”

He looked away, choosing not to fight first thing in the morning.

Samara sighed and attempted to eat, but the silence was suffocating.

Every clink of the spoon echoed like thunder.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore.

“So… do you always eat breakfast like a silent statue?”

“Yes.”

“And talk like a robot?”

“Yes.”

“And stare like the world owes you money?”

“Yes.”

She slammed her spoon down softly. “Can you say something other than ‘yes’?”

“No.”

She glared. He didn’t even blink.

After breakfast, she followed him as he walked toward the entrance hallway.

He put on his watch.

She put on her slippers.

He grabbed his laptop bag.

She grabbed a chocolate bar.

He adjusted his tie.

She adjusted her messy bun.

The contrast between them was laughable.

He glanced at her. “The driver will take you wherever you want to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then stay home.”

“Okay.”

Silence again.

Samara finally blurted, “Are you always this cold?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever smile?”

“No.”

“Like ever-ever?”

“No.”

“Not even when you were a baby?”

He paused for the first time. “I don’t remember.”

“Well, maybe your mother does.”

“That question would not be appropriate.”

“Oh.” She nodded slowly. “Touchy topic?”

He didn’t respond.

Samara bit her lip. For a moment, she saw something in his eyes—a flicker of sadness. Something buried deeply.

But then it vanished, and he returned to his effortless coldness.

He looked at the time. “I have a meeting. I will return late.”

“Okay.”

“If you need anything, ask the staff.”

“Okay.”

He stared at her a second longer, like he wanted to say something…

Then he turned around and left.

Samara’s Exploration Mission

Shivansh’s house—no, their house—was huge. Even calling it a house felt disrespectful. It was practically a mini-palace.

There was a private gym.

A swimming pool.

A library big enough to lose yourself in.

A garden filled with roses that smelled like luxury soap.

Samara walked through the hallways like a lost tourist. The staff bowed every time she passed.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Oberoi.”

The last one made her trip on her own feet.

Mrs. Oberoi.

Her.

Wow.

She wished someone would pinch her so she could wake up from this ultra-rich dream-nightmare mixture.

Despite the huge space, she felt alone.

Like a guest.

Not a wife.

Not a family member.

Just a new piece of furniture in the mansion.

She wandered into the huge library and sat down, hugging her knees.

Her chest felt heavy.

Her throat tightened.

She didn’t want this life.

She didn’t want a cold husband.

She didn’t want a mansion with echoing walls.

She wanted comfort.

Warmth.

Love.

She wanted someone who smiled at her.

Someone who asked how she was.

Someone who didn’t treat her like a business arrangement.

She wiped the moisture from her eyes quickly.

“Get it together,” she whispered to herself. “You are not going to cry on day one.”

She held her head high.

If she was living here, she might as well survive like a warrior princess.

Evening — When Cold Meets Chaotic

By evening, Samara had tried everything to distract herself—movies, music, exploring the garden, even baking cookies (which she accidentally burned).

She was on her fourth attempt at chocolate cookies when the kitchen door opened.

Shivansh stepped inside.

He stopped.

She straightened. “Hi.”

He stared at the mess—flour everywhere, bowls scattered, the oven slightly smoking.

“What,” he asked slowly, “are you doing?”

“Domestic science experiment,” she said proudly.

“Is that oven… burning?”

“Yes.”

He calmly walked to it, turned it off, and opened the door. Smoke puffed out like a tiny volcano.

Samara coughed. “I was trying something new.”

He looked at her with a very unreadable expression.

Not angry.

Not annoyed.

Just… confused.

“Why?”

“I was bored,” she said honestly.

He blinked. “You could have… rested.”

“Resting is boring.”

“Reading?”

“Boring.”

“Swimming?”

“I can’t swim.”

“Gym?”

“I am too young to suffer.”

Silence.

Then something unexpected happened.

He exhaled softly through his nose.

Not quite a laugh.

But definitely not nothing.

Samara tilted her head. “Did you… just smile?”

“No.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No.”

“I saw it!”

“You imagined it.”

She pointed a finger at him. “You smiled. A tiny one. This is a historical moment.”

He picked up a towel and handed it to her. “Clean the counter.”

She shoved the towel at him. “You clean it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No.”

She huffed. “You really have no weaknesses.”

He looked straight into her eyes.

“I do,” he said quietly.

Her breath caught.

“What?”

He stepped back.

“Nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”

And he walked out of the kitchen.

Leaving Samara wondering—

What weakness could a man like Shivansh possibly have?

And why did he almost tell her?