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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