Chapter 1: The Lovebird and the Chessboard

The son of a powerful MLA—whose marriage was more of a chess move than a love story—kept a lovebird, pampering her until she strutted about like the rani of Instagram. It was the kind of thing Delhi’s inner circles whispered about, eyebrows arched over their evening chai, voices dropping lower whenever my name came up.

Just as I was about to end this farce of an engagement, my phone buzzed. Instantly, a flood of WhatsApp forwards hit me—like the time Aunty Neena got caught gossiping at kitty party:

[“What did the MLA’s son do wrong? He just wants your attention, yaar.”]

[“Didi, don’t break off the engagement. Just shed a few tears and he’ll give you the world in a heartbeat.”]

My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles ached. A sudden sting pricked my eyes, but I blinked it away, refusing to let anyone—even the faceless family group—see me falter. A muttered curse slipped out: Why do they care more about drama than my life?

I turned away from the harsh glare of the WhatsApp screen, letting my gaze drift out the window to the busy Lajpat Nagar street below. The honking autos, the shouts of sabziwalas, and the sizzle of roasting corn from a street vendor mingled in the late-afternoon haze, grounding me even as nausea rose in my throat.

Across the road, the lovebird—her bracelet glittering like a Diwali light—clung to Arjun Malhotra’s arm, her face aglow with smug satisfaction.

He looked down at her, lazy and relaxed, like a nawab in a Mughal painting, utterly at ease with his little kingdom.

Suppressing a sigh, I forced a tight smile and replied to my lawyer’s message: “Continue drafting the breakup agreement.”

No sooner had I hit send than my family WhatsApp group, aptly named “Malhotra-Priya Shubh Khabar,” exploded. There was no escaping the deluge:

[“How can didi be so heartless? The poor MLA’s son will drown his sorrows at some pub now...”]

[“Sigh, the MLA’s son is just a bit proud and stubborn, and now he’s lost his wife.”]

[“No worries, the MLA’s son will just bankrupt didi’s family so she’ll have to beg him for mercy.”]

[“Then didi will have to fight other women for his attention every day, and the MLA’s son will be delighted!”]

My jaw clenched so hard it hurt. My thumb hovered over the mute button, a bead of sweat trickling down my back. I wanted to hurl my phone across the room, but instead I screenshot one particularly nasty message, thumb pausing before I almost sent it to my lawyer—then stopped myself. No, not yet. I needed to stay in control.

Out of habit, I scanned the group for Ma’s name, hoping for a word of support. But all I found was a silent double-tick—read, but no reply. The hollowness in my chest ached more than any insult.

Glancing sideways, I caught Arjun’s sharp eyes fixed on me through the café’s glass, as if he knew exactly what I was reading. He let the girl clutch his arm as if nothing had happened—no trace of guilt, only that arrogant tilt of his lips.

Maybe he caught the storm brewing on my face, because his lips twitched upward, mocking.

The lovebird—some wannabe Instagram star—looked perfectly at home beside him. It was a real tamasha: curious onlookers pausing, phones out, eager for gossip. I could practically hear the aunties’ voices: "Dekho, MLA ka beta aur uski nayi wali."

With the glass walls so clear, I wondered if I’d been caught in the background of some viral Insta reel. God forbid my mother’s friends see me like this.

Muttering under my breath about my kismet, I grabbed my bag—faux leather, not designer—and called my driver, deciding to wait for the car somewhere less public. Who wanted to give the colony aunties more masala for their WhatsApp groups?

But as luck (or karma) would have it, I barely got out the door before I bumped into Arjun himself.

The pavement was warm under my sandals, and the smell of roasting corn from the street vendor mixed with my rising nausea. The world felt too bright, too close.

“Did you just come this way?” I asked, keeping my voice even, as if we were discussing the weather and not the impending doom of my reputation.

“So concerned about me?” Arjun’s eyes, heavy-lidded and lazy, curved in amusement. The arrogance in his tone—uff, typical Delhi boy. As he spoke, he rolled his cufflinks between his fingers, like he had all the time in the world.

His lovebird looked at me, eyes narrowed, like she was deciding if I was a threat or just another background extra. She kept quiet, but her grip on his arm tightened, and she adjusted her dupatta, smoothing it with practiced, nervous fingers.

The WhatsApp taunts echoed in my head, and I felt my temper start to simmer. My bangles clinked softly as I clenched my fist, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear to steady myself.

I tried to sidestep them, but before I could escape, Arjun’s hand shot out and gripped my wrist—firm, unyielding. Right there on the pavement, under the afternoon sun, like some filmy hero with a bad attitude.

I spun around. He leaned in, voice low: “Kya hua, Priya? Why are you making such a face?”

I looked him and the girl up and down—matching designer outfits, coordinated smiles. “Mujhe farak hi nahi padta. Best wishes to you both,” I replied, my words crisp as a samosa shell.

But he didn’t let go. The girl rolled her eyes. “Oh, feeling left out, kya? Arjun toh never even got you anything na?” She flicked her gold bracelet in my face, pouting like a soap serial heroine.

I kept my voice calm, hiding the sting. “Do you know he has a fiancée?”

She froze, then scoffed, nose in the air. “A marriage alliance—what feelings could there be? If Arjun really liked her, would he be with me now?”

Arjun snorted, lowering his gaze, eyes dark and unreadable.

My face betrayed nothing. I nodded, then stared at his hand, still locked around my wrist. “Let go.”

He held on stubbornly, as if daring me to cause a scene. “Find someone else to accompany you to the reception the day after tomorrow.”

The girl’s expression flickered with surprise, but she quickly recovered, giving me a smug once-over. “Oh, so you’re his fiancée? So what? The day after tomorrow, Arjun will be with me.”

Calculating silently, I reminded myself that the breakup agreement would land in the Malhotra mailbox by tomorrow. Time to be rid of this melodrama.

“Alright,” I said, “can you let go now?”

Arjun’s face darkened, hand still tense. “Who are you going to bring?”

Names—sons of industrialists, a Bollywood producer’s nephew, even that IIT fellow my mother’s always pushing—flashed through my mind. “I haven’t decided yet, but I’ll pick one when I get home,” I answered truthfully.

The air around us felt thick, the hum of the shopping street replaced by a hush. I could sense curious glances from the paanwala and the aunty at the bangle shop. A sticky bead of sweat slid down my back as the tension mounted.

Again, those WhatsApp comments invaded my head:

[“Oh my god, the MLA’s son is about to explode.”]

[“MLA’s son: Can’t you just look at me with teary eyes and soften up? Must you drive me mad?”]

[“Didi, act cute, cry! Don’t waste your beauty and the MLA’s son’s love!”]

[“Honestly, didi, don’t be so stubborn. If the MLA’s son snaps, who knows what he’ll do... bankrupt your family, lock you up until you give in.”]

“Priya, well done.” Arjun’s words came out between clenched teeth, voice as cold as a December night in Shimla.

He finally released my hand. I flexed my wrist, trying to shake off the imprint of his fingers, my bangles jangling in protest.

I stepped forward, glancing deliberately at the necklace around the girl’s neck before locking eyes with Arjun. “You said before you’d give me this necklace.”

With that, I turned away, letting my heels click sharply on the pavement.

Arjun followed, his tone unreadable, voice carrying in the humid air: “You still remember?”

“But now I don’t need it.”

He muttered, almost to himself, “She knows how to act cute, always clings to me... even calls me husband.”

So that’s why you gave her the necklace you once promised me? My throat burned, stomach roiling—like the aftermath of too much wedding food. I blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.

The WhatsApp forwards reached fever pitch:

[“He’s hinting at you!”]

[“The MLA’s son can’t hold it in anymore, hehe. Didi, just call him ‘husband’ once, and he’ll give you his life.”]

[“The MLA’s son dreams of you calling him husband—wakes up and has to change the bedsheet...”]

I stopped, squared my shoulders, and met Arjun’s gaze head-on, each word crisp and deliberate:

“That’s right. From now on, I’ll act cute with other men, call someone else ‘husband’. Then he’ll grant my wishes too.”

“Say that again.” Arjun’s voice could have chilled a glass of nimbu paani.

His hand clamped down on my shoulder, fingers digging in as if trying to anchor me in place. I felt the sticky drag of my lipstick as I pressed my lips together, refusing to flinch.

Just then, the lovebird piped up, timid for the first time: “Arjun, what’s wrong?”

He ignored her, all his attention fixed on me.

She pouted, sending daggers my way. “You made Arjun angry? He’s never unhappy when he’s with me.”

My disgust was written plain on my face. I turned away, lips pressed in a thin line. Why dignify this circus with a response?

After a heavy silence, Arjun finally dropped his hand, closing his eyes in frustration. The tension in his body was almost visible, a dark monsoon cloud.

“She knows how not to anger me, Priya.” With those cold words, he walked away, the girl scurrying after him, her voice sweet as rasgulla.

From behind, they looked like the poster couple for an arranged marriage ad—perfect, at least from a distance.

WhatsApp forwards exploded again:

[“Didi just won’t soften up, personally pushing away the one who loves her.”]

[“Can’t you say a few nice words to the MLA’s son? Do you really want that white lotus to win?”]

[“Speechless. Check Instagram—some bystander already posted photos and videos online.”]

A single tear threatened, but I wiped it away, standing tall. I would not be the tragic heroine in their WhatsApp reels.