Chapter 1: Storm Warnings

The news of Rohan Mehra’s crash tore through Mumbai’s high society faster than the first lash of the monsoon. One reckless night on Marine Drive, and the golden boy everyone envied was left with a mind as clouded as the city’s rainy skyline. At Malabar Hill’s kitty parties, aunties shook their heads, clucking, “Arrey, what a waste of such a good boy!” The city’s glitterati pretended indifference, but behind closed doors, everyone knew—the Sharma and Mehra families would never be the same again.

My engagement to him—once a distant, manageable rumour—was suddenly yanked forward like a train arriving ahead of schedule.

It happened on a muggy July afternoon, rain tapping at our windows, the tang of wet earth mingling with the scent of fresh coriander my mother brought home from Mehndiwala Lane. She came in, shaking droplets from her dupatta, a cryptic smile stretching her lips. “Get your trousseau ready, Ananya. The wedding will happen next month.”

I gripped the edge of my dupatta so tightly my knuckles whitened, dread twisting in my stomach. Defiance simmered just beneath my skin—I’d always dreamed of freedom, of a life on my own terms. But with one sentence, the future I imagined flickered like a candle in the Mumbai breeze.

His grandfather’s offer was as blunt as it was cold. Sitting across the glass-topped dining table, he didn’t even pause to sip his Darjeeling chai. “Beta, this is Mumbai—opportunities don’t wait. Give our family a heir and you’ll never want for anything.” His gold ring glinted as he tapped the table, and I felt the chill of transactional power in the air. Thirty crores. That number shimmered in my mind, brighter than any solitaire ring. In our world, money and power always spoke louder than love—louder than anything, really.

On our wedding night, humiliation clung to me heavier than my silk nightgown. Rohan lay on the bed, utterly ignoring me, his entire focus on a battered Chhota Bheem figurine. I stood awkwardly in the ornate bedroom, recalling my mother’s whispered warnings about ‘first night’ expectations—the unspoken rules, the aunties who’d gossip for years if they knew what was really happening.

The walls were painted a pale gold, shadows dancing in the flicker of the agarbatti burning in the corner. Despite the AC’s steady hum, the sticky monsoon heat seeped through; rainwater dripped rhythmically from the AC pipe outside. The faint whiff of mogra clung to my hair, a stubborn reminder of tradition. But my new husband, darling of high-society mothers, was lost in a world where only Chhota Bheem mattered. My cheeks burned—part shame, part fury.

I marched across the plush carpet, snatching Chhota Bheem from his grasp and tucking it into my neckline. The chill of the plastic against my skin startled me, and for a bittersweet moment, I flashed back to watching Chhota Bheem cartoons as a child—how I’d once laughed at his antics. Now, I was competing with him. The absurdity made my frustration ache.

With a mischievous glint, I crooked my finger at Rohan. “Find it, and I’ll give it to you.”

For a second, I almost felt like a Bollywood heroine in a masala scene—except the hero was only interested in a toy. But I was not about to let a plastic cartoon win this round. I squared my shoulders, channeling all the attitude of a Bandra girl who knew her worth.

Thirty crores, a husband who doesn’t even see me, and a secret plan. Mumbai’s monsoon had nothing on the storm inside me.