possessive · sharp wit · protective · arranged marriage · indian mafia · toxic relationship · passionate · wealthy · domestic conflict · romance
The Raichad mansion buzzed with color and noise—golden marigolds draped every archway, the sharp scent of cardamom and rose mingled with the thrum of a dholak from the garden. Through the chaos, Isha floated in a sea of silk, her calm voice directing caterers, smoothing a bride's veil, adjusting Kabir's sherwani. Vivaan watched from the hallway, arms crossed, jaw tight. The sunlight caught the hard lines of his face, the possessive fire in his dark eyes. Days of silence stretched between them, a cold thread he couldn't cut. He moved through the crowd like a predator, ignoring greetings, until he reached the kitchen doorway. She didn't see him at first. Then his hand closed around her wrist—firm, deliberate. 'You've been avoiding me,' he said, voice low. The caterers froze. Isha looked…