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“Not every silence means peace — some are just storms held in.”

New Delhi.
A city that never truly sleeps.

Its pulse beats through the constant hum of traffic, through the aroma of street food mingling with exhaust smoke, through old Mughal alleys and modern skyscrapers standing shoulder to shoulder. Somewhere between heritage and hustle, Delhi thrives, chaotic and elegant all at once. In the quieter part of the city, away from the honking horns and neon chaos, sits a refined two-storey mansion nestled within the elite neighborhood of South Delhi. It isn’t sprawling, but it doesn’t need to be.

Its class speaks through its subtlety clean white walls trimmed with dark wooden panels, a balcony draped in bougainvillea, antique lanterns casting warm light along the stone pathway. The front garden is manicured to perfection, where even the breeze seems to move with discipline. The entrance door, solid mahogany, etched with delicate carvings opens into a home that breathes quiet wealth.

Inside, the dining room is pristine. A long teak-wood table sits in the center, polished to a mirror sheen. Crystal glasses, bone china plates, and shining silverware line each place setting precisely. A chandelier hangs overhead, its glow soft and golden not too bright, not too dim. Seated around the table are five members of the household.

1. Mr. Deepak Sharma, a man in his late 50s. Broad-shouldered, always in crisp white kurta-pajama even at home. His jaw is set, eyes unreadable behind square glasses.

2. Mrs. Charu Sharma, dignified, graceful, with sharp eyes that miss nothing. A woman whose silence speaks more than words ever could.

3. Jhanvi, their eldest daughter, 24 — composed, resilient, wearing a muted silk suit and barely a trace of makeup. Her back straight, her eyes downcast.

4. Manvi, 20 — younger, bolder in spirit, but equally quiet in the moment. Her fingers twitch slightly, eager to pick up her phone — but she knows better.

5. Manan, their 19-year-old son — dressed in a plain shirt, sitting stiffly. His face still carries softness, but his posture has already been taught to reflect authority.

The only sound in the room is the gentle clinking of cutlery and the muted ticking of a wall clock. No words. No laughter. No casual chatter.

Not because there’s nothing to say.

But because in the Sharma household, silence during meals is tradition — and tradition is law. Even breathing feels measured. There’s a certain weight in the air, the kind that children grow up carrying but never dare question.

Just as Jhanvi gently placed her fork down, the sound of her plate barely making a clink…
Just as Manvi shifted ever so slightly, her body instinctively ready to leave the stiff silence behind…
And just as Manan glanced ever so briefly toward the door...

“SIT DOWN.”

Mr. Deepak Sharma’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Everyone froze. Chairs that had begun to move stayed exactly where they were. Manvi sat back down without making eye contact. Jhanvi folded her hands neatly in her lap. Manan straightened, expression unreadable. Mrs. Charu simply looked at her husband once and gave a small, approving nod. She already knew what was coming.

Deepak cleared his throat softly. Then looked directly at Jhanvi. His voice was calm. Controlled. But final.

“A proposal has come. For YOU.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet, it was suffocating. Jhanvi blinked once. Her lips parted slightly, as if she might speak. But she didn’t. No one did.

“The family is coming to see you tomorrow,” he continued, pouring himself a little water, casually, as if discussing the weather. “They’re a good family, Well-respected in Delhi. Business background. I’ve heard their name.”

He took a sip.

“They’ll be here at eleven in the morning. Be ready.” Manvi looked up sharply at Jhanvi, but she masked the flash in her eyes. Manan kept his gaze on his glass, jaw tight.

Jhanvi inhaled softly; almost imperceptibly, and gave a small nod.

“Yes, Papa.” That was all she said.

Deepak got up, adjusted his shawl over his shoulder, and left the table without another word. Mrs. Charu followed, glancing only once at her eldest daughter.

Manvi turned toward Jhanvi, wanting to say something. Anything. But Jhanvi just placed a hand on hers under the table and gave her a soft squeeze — a silent plea to stay quiet.

The Next Morning

The Sharma household was a flurry of activity.

By 9 a.m., the staff was running around, setting trays, polishing silverware, and aligning cushions as if the rishta itself depended on perfect upholstery. Mrs. Charu Sharma personally supervised everything—from flower arrangements to the number of almonds on the welcome tray.

Jhanvi sat in her room as a stylist worked on her hair. Today, she was expected to embody the perfect daughter—poised, elegant, and ready for inspection. She wore a deep blood-red organza saree, delicate golden embroidery at the border, with a soft pearl choker adorning her neck. Her hair was styled into a low bun, accented with a single white rose, and her makeup was kept minimal—just enough to bring out her large, expressive eyes.

Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the pleats. It wasn’t fear, exactly. Just a strange hollow feeling in her chest.

By 10:50, the guests arrived.

Three people stepped out of a black BMW—a graceful woman in a blue silk saree, a dignified man in a bandhgala, and a tall young man in a tailored kurta-pajama, face calm and unreadable.

Jhanvi still hadn't seen him.

A knock came at her door. Manvi peeked in with a teasing grin.

“They’re here. And Didi—let me tell you, I wasn’t happy about this rishta but... the guy? He’s really handsome,” she whispered dramatically, eyes wide. “I mean—lottery level handsome. I’d say yes just for that jawline.”

Jhanvi blinked. “You saw him?”

Manvi nodded, already pulling her sister by the hand toward the stairs. “Come on! The whole family is waiting.”

Heart pounding softly, Jhanvi walked slowly down the staircase, the pleats of her saree swishing gently with each step. Her eyes were focused on the floor, on the movement of her bangles, on not tripping.

And then—she looked up.

Three pairs of eyes looked back at her.

The woman seated on the velvet sofa—Mrs. Mahima Chauhan, elegantly dressed in a royal blue silk saree—stood up, her expression instantly warming.

“Oh my,” she said, clasping her hands together, “She’s beautiful.”

Her smile was genuine, not forced—eyes soft, admiring Jhanvi from head to toe. “Such grace in her walk, such simplicity in her attire... Charu ji, your daughter is just... perfect.”

Charu Sharma beamed with pride, but kept her composure, giving Jhanvi a subtle nod to go greet them.

Jhanvi moved forward slowly, offering a polite greeting to the guests. Her eyes flicked, for the briefest moment, toward the boy seated beside them.

He hadn’t said a word.

But he hadn’t looked away either.

His gaze was fixed—calm, unreadable, almost too still. Not ogling. Not scrutinizing. Just… watching.

Like he was observing more than her appearance.

Like he was trying to read the quiet behind her eyes.

Jhanvi’s hands trembled again as she picked up the tray of sweets. She offered it to him first. As he took one, his fingers brushed hers lightly—intentionally or not, she couldn’t tell.

Still, he didn’t speak. But his gaze lingered.

She sat down after serving them all, her heartbeat uneven under her calm façade.

“So, beta,” Deepak Sharma began, clearing his throat, “This is our eldest, Jhanvi. She just completed her Master’s and is quite fond of classical music.”

Mrs. Chauhan smiled. “We were told. She seems very cultured.”

Still, the boy said nothing.

And then—finally—he spoke.

A single word.

“Hi.”

Jhanvi finally dared to look at him—properly.

And she froze.

The boy—no, the man—seated across from her was nothing short of breathtaking. His voice was deep, smooth.

He was tall, even seated, his posture straight yet relaxed — like someone who didn’t need to command attention, but somehow always did. His skin was a warm, golden tone that caught the morning light just right, and his face… it was carved in sharp, aristocratic lines. A strong jaw. High cheekbones. A nose straight and defined. Hair jet black, styled effortlessly—casual, yet polished.

But it was his eyes that held her still.

Dark. Deep. Piercing. Like shadows that had seen too much, too soon. And yet—calm. Not cold. Intense, but controlled. There was a quiet storm in them.

He wasn’t just good-looking—he was striking. The kind of man people glanced at twice, then a third time, wondering if he was real. There was something enigmatic in the way he looked at her. He didn’t smile much. But when he did—just the barest lift of a corner—it was enough to knock the air from her lungs.

Manvi had called it a lottery.

In that moment, Jhanvi wasn’t so sure if she had won something—or was about to lose everything.

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