cold · possessive · professor · age gap · arranged marriage · slow burn · wealthy · strict · indian
The sacred hall glowed with the amber light of a hundred oil lamps, their flames flickering against the crimson and gold drapes. The air was thick with sandalwood and jasmine, a heady perfume that masked the tension crackling beneath the chants. She sat alone on the low wooden platform, the heavy veil obscuring her vision, her hands trembling in her lap as the priest's voice droned on. Across the fire, Professor Arjun Malhotra was a statue of polished restraint, his tailored sherwani immaculate, his jaw set like stone. His hazel eyes, however, were not on the flames—they were boring through the fabric of her veil. He leaned forward, the firelight casting shadows across his sharp features. "You're not her." His voice was a blade, cutting through the sacred silence. The priest faltered. T…