Chapter 6: The Price of Defiance

Rohan and I weren’t actually an arranged marriage. I met him in high school. My parents had already chosen a fiancé for me—the prince of the Kapoor family in Mumbai, Kabir. But I didn’t want a business marriage. My parents’ marriage was all for show: loving in public, different lovers in private, and endless fighting. I was sick of pretending. So I rebelled in the only way I knew—refusing to play the perfect daughter.

My mother, always immaculate in her silk saree, would hiss at me over the dinner table, “Beta, respect the family’s reputation.” She jabbed a finger at me, her gold bangles clinking sharply. As if reputation would keep me warm at night. My father’s business friends would pat my head, already discussing the Kapoor deal like my happiness was a side order. I rebelled, refusing to play along.

In my second year of high school, Rohan became the boy who sat behind me. When I was at my lowest, he approached me like a happy puppy. Saying yes to his confession felt natural. We grew up swapping tiffins in the school corridor, and now my wedding sari still hangs untouched in the cupboard—because Rohan is gone. Not long ago, we went back to our alma mater to give a speech together. Everyone envied us, saying we were the perfect campus romance. I was lost in their envy, never knowing the one I thought would never betray me had already found a nightingale.

Sometimes I’d catch teachers whispering about us, proud and envious: “See, real love story—none of this arranged nonsense.” I lapped up their praise, convinced I’d broken the cycle. But love stories aren’t always written in ink; sometimes, they’re written in disappearing ink.

The girl in the videos called him husband, posting “little daily moments with my rich uncle type,” and her followers begged for more. Rohan would hold her, filming hand gesture dances. His face wasn’t shown, but I could tell he enjoyed it. Every business trip, he brought her. All those nights I thought he was working late, he was in someone else’s arms.

Once, I told him not to work so hard. He said: “I want your parents to respect me, and I want to earn more money so we can have a wedding everyone envies.”

Five minutes before the accident, Rohan messaged: “No matter what happens, Rohan will always love you.” Every time I read it, I cry. But all of it was popped like a soap bubble.

[The hero even has an excuse ready for after the fake death: he was swept downstream, rescued by a family, and lost his memory.]

[The kicker is, the heroine believes it when she hears it, chooses to marry him, and starts a life of suffering, dying depressed in a cycle of forgiving Rohan. How are there still authors writing this kind of tired, abusive romance?]

[But now the plot’s changed. The heroine found out the truth early. Please don’t let her repeat the same mistakes!]

My phone buzzed again. The comments almost felt like friends, their outrage sharper than my own. For the first time, I wondered—could I rewrite my own ending?