Pranati’s POV

It started with shadows.

At first, I told myself it was just the wind. The rustle of banana leaves behind Padmaakka’s house. The glint of sunlight on a bike mirror. A face in the crowd that looked too familiar for comfort.

But then I started to notice patterns.

Footsteps behind me when I took the shortcut past the school. A presence in the back row during the evening bhajans. A call that hung up the moment I answered.

Maybe it was nothing.

Or maybe it was him.

The wedding cards arrived two days later.

Glossy, gold-bordered, with our names embossed in deep maroon:

Shravan Reddy & Pranati Rao

in an almost arrogant font. Bold. Final.

“See, Pranu!” Anu chirped, waving one in my face. “Your name looks like it belongs to a queen.”

Maneesha joined in, "We’ve already booked the band. Don’t try to escape now."

I smiled. Or tried to. But it cracked at the edges. My cheeks hurt.

Sai did a dramatic drumroll on a plate nearby and declared, “From crush to couple, full circle!”

They meant well.

But it didn’t feel like a circle.

It felt like a noose.

Later that afternoon, we were all lounging in Nannamma's room, flipping through old photo albums stacked high like ancient scriptures of forgotten stories. Sai found the thick, red-covered one labeled “Satya akka’s Wedding.”

We all crowded around it, sprawled on pillows and mattresses. A wave of nostalgia washed over us as the first page opened to a picture of the bride, flanked by jasmine garlands.

And there I was.

Four years old, seated beside Satya akka as Thodu Pelli Kuturu—the little symbolic bride chosen to sit beside the real one, representing a girl who might marry soon in the future. It’s an old tradition, and Amma had insisted I be the one that day.

“Look at this!” Maneesha howled with laughter, pointing at herself in a boy’s shirt and khaki shorts, hair combed sideways. “I looked like I was auditioning for Chhota Bheem.”

“And me?” Uma pointed proudly to her baby blazer and pants. “Corporate even at four.”

“Anu never left her mom’s lap,” Sai added, nudging the now-silent Anu. “You were practically glued to her.”

“I had separation anxiety,” she muttered defensively.

Sai kept flipping until his laughter slowed.

“Guys…”

He held up a photo.

I felt my breath hitch.

Me—tiny, in a crimson and green lehenga, cheeks puffed, eyes wide and curious like two moons. But what caught everyone’s attention was Siddharth.

Eleven years old. Tall for his age. Skinny, sharp-eyed. Standing just behind me in every single picture.

“Dude,” Mahesh snorted, “was he your security detail?”

“Looks like he never let her out of his sight,” Anu grinned.

Sai chuckled, “Even back then, he was behind you. And Shravan?”

Everyone looked.

He wasn’t in a single photo.

Not one.

I closed the album gently. A part of me wanted to stay in that soft memory, but the present had too much weight.

That evening, while walking back from the temple, I felt it again—the watching.

I clutched my dupatta hanging on my sides tighter and quickened my steps, the sound of my anklets far too loud in the empty street. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting everything in a soft orange haze.

And then… a bike swerved past me.

The rider was wearing a half-helmet, scarf around his mouth, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

I didn’t think much of it—until the bike slowed.

Paused.

And in that half-second, he turned his head toward me and said it—

Barely a whisper. But I heard it clear as day.

“You’ll look better in white.”

My blood turned to ice.

The bike roared off.

And I couldn’t breathe.

I didn’t tell anyone.

Not Amma. Not Sakshi. Not Siddharth.

Especially not Shravan.

What could I even say?

That someone might have just threatened me with widowhood before my wedding?

That my body was shaking so badly, I spilled turmeric water all over the sarees when I got home?

That I didn’t feel like a bride anymore, just a girl waiting for something horrible to happen?

That night, Siddharth saw me from across the courtyard. I was handing jasmine strands to Padmaakka, but my hands were trembling.

He didn’t say anything.

Just kept watching. His gaze was heavier than the gold chain around my neck. Not judging. Not pressing.

Just… noticing.

And that was worse.

Because it made me want to collapse in front of him and admit everything.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

It was Shravan who cornered me.

It was on the rooftop, past midnight. Most of the cousins had gone to sleep, sprawled on mats and charpais, the air filled with murmured snores and leftover laughter.

I had slipped away to the edge, thinking I was alone.

But Shravan followed.

“Are you avoiding me?” he asked, voice unusually flat.

I blinked, startled. “No, I—”

“Because it feels like you are.”

Shravan came closer. His presence wasn’t aggressive. Just… tight. Contained. Like he was holding something back.

“Do you regret this engagement?” he asked.

Blunt.

Direct.

My stomach flipped.

I didn’t answer.

He laughed softly, bitterly. “You know what’s funny? You waited for me for years. And now that you have me… you look like you want to run.”

“Shravan—”

“Just say it, Pranu,” he cut in, voice low now. “Say what you really feel.”

I opened my mouth.

And I almost did.

But then I remembered the voice on the street. You’ll look better in white.

And suddenly, my fear drowned out everything else.

I shook my head, whispering, “It’s just wedding nerves.”

Shravan stared at me for a long second.

And then walked away.

He didn’t say a word.

In every photo they clicked of us, Shravan had his arm around me.

Not in a protective way. Not even affectionate.

Just claiming.

And the worst part was—I had let it happen for too long.

The week before the wedding had turned the house into a theatre of rehearsed joy. Music played from the speakers almost constantly. Aunties laughed too loudly. Cousins were choreographing dances and staging mock “bride vs groom” games like this was a film set.

But the cracks were beginning to show.

Especially in Shravan.

He hadn’t always been like this. He was once the boy who made everyone laugh with his broken dappu beats and mock love letters to random Tollywood heroines. But now…

Now he looked at Siddharth like he was the villain in his love story.

It started small. A look. A scoff.

Whenever Siddharth entered the room, Shravan would find some reason to leave or loudly redirect the conversation.

But it all came undone during a family dinner at Nannamma’s house.

All the cousins were seated on the floor, banana leaves laid out neatly, the smell of ghee, sambhar, and dosakaya pervading the air.

When I noticed Siddharth didn’t have pickle, I instinctively got up and went to the kitchen to get some. A small thing. No one noticed.

Except Shravan.

When I came back and quietly placed it on Siddharth’s leaf, not even making eye contact, Shravan’s voice rang out—too loud for comfort.

“Wow, Pranati. Taking care of everyone, aren’t we?”

Everyone paused.

I blinked. “I was just—”

“Just what?” he snapped, eyes narrowing. “You barely speak to me these days, but for him, you’re playing dutiful wife already?”

Siddharth’s fingers curled slightly on the banana leaf.

“I think you’ve had too much rasam,” he said quietly.

“Or maybe I’ve had too much of this silent savior act,” Shravan sneered.

“Enough,” Amma snapped. “This is a wedding, not a courtroom!”

Shravan rose abruptly, knocking over his leaf. He stormed out before anyone could speak.

Later that night, I found Shravan waiting for me in the backyard. He brought a delicate gold chain with a 'P' pendant.

“It’s custom made,” he said.

But when he stepped forward to put it around my neck, I stepped back.

“This doesn’t fix things.”

“I am your fiancé, Pranu.”

“I’m still a person.”

Before he could respond, a voice came from the shadows.

“Maybe it’s not the time, Shravan.”

Siddharth stood at the gate.

Shravan flared. “You always show up, don’t you? But she’s mine, Siddharth. Stay out of it.”

“I’m not the one trying to prove that.”

Shravan stormed past him.

And Siddharth? He just looked at me.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I opened the old blue notebook.

And began writing again.

The next morning, while I was helping Amma with guest lists, my phone rang.

Aabhir More.

My boss.

I answered quickly. “Sir?”

“Pranati,” he said in that deep, clipped tone. “How long are you planning to stay in the land of turmeric and laddoos?”

I blinked. “Sir, I mailed last week. I extended my leave. I’m getting married—”

“I know,” he cut in. “Congratulations. Very sweet. Big moment. Now when are you back?”

“I—uh—I’ll need at least two more weeks, sir.”

“Two weeks? Pranati, I’m drowning here. You know I want you here, that bastard fiancé of her is getting on my nerves before i kill him, I want you to convince her to break of her engagement”

I tried to hold back a smile. That was Aabhir More—strict, sarcastic, and terrifyingly efficient. Graduated from Harvard University. A college brat who once partied his way through his father’s money, now turned into the CEO everyone feared.

Except, somewhere under that cold voice, was a man with a plan. And at the moment, I was part of it. Alluri Lasya. A telugu girl and friend of mine. Is the woman he set is eyes on despite her being engaged.

That stunned me.

“So you’re coming back and helping me not sound like a disaster, understood?”

I laughed, despite myself. “I’ll be back, sir.”

“Good. Finish the rituals. Toss the rice. Get back here and be useful.”

He hung up.

I stared at the phone, heart weirdly lighter.

Sometimes, even sarcasm felt like a hug.

And I knew—my story wasn’t over.

Maybe it was just beginning.

Shravan's POV

I used to think I understood love.

I thought it was in the waiting. In the little glances. The way she blushed when I teased her. The way she looked at me in school, wide-eyed and breathless.

But now, I know better.

Love is not patient. Love is not kind. Love, when it begins to slip through your fingers, turns into something else.

Something darker.

Obsession.

Possession.

She was mine. She always was.

So why did it feel like she was slipping away from me every single day?

It started with the way she avoided my gaze. The way her smile vanished when I touched her. The way she leaned away, like I was someone she had to endure instead of someone she had once waited years for.

And worst of all, the way she looked at him.

Siddharth.

Always there. Always watching her. Quiet, calm, acting like some stoic protector while I—I—was the one engaged to her.

It wasn’t fair.

And I was done playing fair.

It happened one night when the cousins were outside, dancing on the rooftop. I went into her room looking for her phone charger. That's all I wanted.

That’s when I saw it.

A blue notebook. Frayed edges. Bent spine. Tucked beneath a stack of marigold-stained sarees.

I don’t know what made me open it.

But I did.

The handwriting hit me first—her soft curves, her rushed swirls.

Then the words hit harder.

Words she hadn’t said to me.

Words she had written for herself.

"You waited so long for love, you forgot how to recognize it. You confused attention for care, and silence for safety... You thought marrying Shravan would feel like coming home. But it feels like renting a space in someone else’s dream."

My vision blurred.

"You are not alone. He watches over you. He never says a word. But you see it in the way he notices the tremble in your hands... He’s not the one you chose. But maybe... he’s the one who never let go."

I couldn’t breathe.

The pages trembled in my hands.

Siddharth.

She was writing about Siddharth.

Not me.

I was her fiancé. Her first love. The boy she waited for through her teenage years. And now?

She was giving her heart to him.

I saw red.

I tore the pages out—one by one. My fingers ripped through her words like claws through silk. Until the notebook lay shredded on the floor.

A thousand little confessions, now turned to dust.

I couldn’t let this happen.

I wouldn’t.

I needed to get Siddharth away from here. Away from her. Even if just until the wedding.

I started planning that night.

A fake emergency at his hotel in Dubai. A call from an unknown number. Something that would drag him back, even for a few days.

All I needed was time.

Time to win her back.

Time to remind her who really loved her first.

But then, a memory hit me. One that had long collected dust in my mind.

We were children.

Pranati was around ten, maybe younger. She had gone up to Satya akka's rooftop with a bowl of payasam in her hand, stealing bites with her fingers as she tiptoed around sleeping Sai and Pandu.

I was already awake and brushing my teeth outside my house.

She was trying to wake them, soft taps on their shoulders.

Then came the monkeys.

A whole troop had somehow made it onto the rooftop. One, bold and angry, eyed her payasam.

Pranati froze.

Her eyes wide. Bowl trembling.

Sai and Pandu screamed, hiding behind her.

She stood there, horrified. Shielding them.

She didn’t run.

She didn’t drop the bowl.

Just stood there, a little girl, brave and terrified.

I’d never moved so fast in my life.

I grabbed a bamboo stick from near the water tank and ran up, waving it like a sword. Shouting, screaming, shooing until the monkeys fled.

When I turned back, Pranati was crying silently, clutching the bowl tight. Sai was hugging her leg. Pandu was trembling.

She looked at me like I was a hero.

That moment had meant everything to me.

And now?

Now she looked at Siddharth the way she once looked at me.

I couldn’t allow it.

Siddharth had to go.

Even if it meant burning every bridge. Even if it meant crossing every line.

She would be mine.

No matter what.

And I’d make sure she remembered why she loved me first.

Because she did.

Didn’t she?

Hello my pretty ladies, hope you all are doing great? But I'm upset guys!!! I'm not receiving any likes the target of 50 likes is not completing even then I'm giving updates... now a days I'm feeling demotivated to update the chapters. Make me happy by completing the target and showering with your comments... only then I'll be updating. Thank you. Take care everyone.