EPISODE 1 — THE PROPOSAL THAT WASN’T A PROPOSAL

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.

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