The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue over Mumbai as Ishaan revved the Royal Enfield, Ari climbing on behind him with a contented sigh. The day's earlier triumphs—the sales job confirmation, the modeling success, and the growing bond between them—lingered in the air like a sweet fragrance. The bike roared through the bustling streets, the wind tugging at their clothes as they headed home. Halfway there, Ari leaned closer, her voice cutting through the engine's hum. "Ishaan, tomorrow's Saturday, and I've been called to the family home. Grandfather wants to discuss something. Would you be willing to come with me? I… I might need you there."
Ishaan nodded without hesitation, his grip steady on the handlebars. "Of course. I'll be with you." The reassurance in his tone eased her tension, and they rode on in comfortable silence, the city's chaos a backdrop to their shared resolve.
Upon arriving at the flat, the warmth of their moment evaporated as they stepped inside. Lajja and Misahay lounged in the living room, their eyes narrowing as the couple entered. Ari took a deep breath, deciding to share the summons. "Grandfather called me to the family home tomorrow. He wants to talk."
Lajja's face lit up with a mix of curiosity and opportunism. "Oh? We should come too! It's been ages since we've seen the old man—might be a chance to sort out some family matters." Misahay nodded eagerly, already imagining leverage.
Before they could plan further, Lajja's gaze swung to Ishaan, her voice turning accusatory. "This must be your doing, isn't it? Stirring trouble again? What did you do this time, you useless boy?" Her tone dripped with disdain, her finger jabbing the air.
Ari interjected sharply, stepping between them. "Mother, stop! This has nothing to do with Ishaan. Grandfather called me, not because of him. Let's not jump to conclusions." Her voice carried a firmness that silenced Lajja momentarily, though the older woman's scowl remained. Misahay muttered under his breath, unconvinced, but the tension hung thick as they moved to prepare dinner—simple dal, rice, and a vegetable stir-fry. The meal passed in uneasy silence, each bite a struggle against the unspoken accusations, and they retired to bed, the night heavy with anticipation.
The next morning, Saturday, dawned at 6:00 AM with a soft knock of dawn light against the curtains. Ishaan rose with his usual discipline, the kitchen becoming his sanctuary as he brewed chai, the rich aroma mingling with the sizzle of parathas on the griddle. Ari joined him, her movements brisk as she helped, the routine a quiet comfort. After breakfast—parathas with a dollop of ghee and a side of pickle—they gathered the family. Lajja insisted on a cab, unwilling to endure the bike, and they piled into a hired vehicle, the drive to the Bajaj family home in South Mumbai a tense affair. The grand ancestral house loomed ahead, its colonial architecture a testament to the family's wealth, the iron gates creaking open to admit them.
Inside, the living room was a cavern of opulence—polished marble floors, ornate chandeliers, and heavy velvet curtains framing tall windows. Adhiraj Bajaj, the patriarch, sat in a high-backed armchair, his silver hair glinting under the chandelier's light as he read a newspaper, the rustle of pages the only sound. Ari entered first, her voice respectful yet cautious. "Good morning, Grandfather."
Misahay and Lajja echoed her greeting, their tones a mix of deference and eagerness, while Ishaan remained silent, standing slightly behind, his presence unobtrusive. Adhiraj didn't glance up, his voice a low growl as he continued reading. "Morning. Sit." The family obeyed, settling on a plush sofa, the air thick with unspoken tension.
Without lifting his eyes from the paper, Adhiraj began, his words deliberate. "Ari, this isn't a social call. Trouble's brewing. The second uncle's friend—his son, some hotshot businessman—was interested in you. We've lost all their business dealings, beaten down by someone they won't name. But they pointed fingers at your husband. They claim this is all because of him. I demand an explanation."
Ari's brow furrowed, her hands clasping in her lap. "Grandfather, I don't know anything about this. Even if I did, there's nothing Ishaan could have done to cause such chaos. He's been with me, working hard—"
Adhiraj slowly lowered the newspaper, his piercing gaze fixing on Ishaan for the first time. The old man's face was a map of stern lines, his eyes cold and assessing. He'd rarely spoken directly to Ishaan, treating him as an insignificant appendage to Ari. "You," he said, his voice a gravelly command. "Do you want to say anything? Something to explain this mess?"
Before Ishaan could respond, the room shifted as Tanish and Aadiv, Adhiraj's sons, entered with their children—Prithvi, Driti, Rajat, and Ranveer—trailing behind like a pack of eager wolves, their expressions a mix of curiosity and hostility. Prithvi, the cousin who'd taunted Ishaan about the bike, stepped forward, his voice cutting through. "Grandfather, he's up to something! Trying to undermine our business, meddling where he doesn't belong. This houseboy's got no right!"
Ishaan remained quiet, his posture relaxed yet alert, letting the bickering wash over him—Tanish muttering about lost contracts, Aadiv grumbling about reputation, the cousins snickering. The room buzzed with accusations, a cacophony of blame. After a long pause, Ishaan met Adhiraj's gaze, his voice steady and clear. "A few weeks ago, that businessman's son offered me a ₹10,00,000 cheque to divorce Ari. I slapped him. That's all I did."
A stunned silence fell, broken by Adhiraj's furious roar. "How dare you slap him? Who gave you the right to lay hands on anyone in this family's circle?" His face reddened, veins bulging as he leaned forward, the newspaper crumpling in his grip.
Ishaan held his ground, his eyes locking with Adhiraj's, unflinching. "Anyone in this world who dares look down on my wife, I will slap him. That's my right."
The room erupted. Adhiraj's anger peaked, his voice trembling. "Then will you slap me as well?" The challenge hung heavy, a test of Ishaan's nerve.
Ishaan's response was calm, cutting. "If you try to sell her off for money, yes." The words landed like a thunderclap, igniting a storm. Adhiraj's face contorted with rage, his fists clenching, while Tanish and Aadiv shouted in unison. "How dare you talk to Grandfather like that?" Lajja gasped, clutching Misahay's arm, her voice shrill. "Insolent boy! You've gone too far!"
Adhiraj rose, his towering frame trembling with disgust. "It seems you've grown wings of your own, Ishaan. Your mouth has grown bold—no longer bowing, but daring to snap back. I'm disgusted by you." His gaze shifted to Ari, his tone icy. "Is this the kind of husband you have, Ari? Despicable. Because of him, our family suffers—businesses crumbling, reputation in tatters. You're a disgrace to the Bajaj name!"
Tears welled in Ari's eyes, her chest heaving as she absorbed the onslaught. The room spun with accusations—Prithvi sneering, Driti whispering to Ranveer, Tanish pacing angrily. But amidst the fury, Ishaan's defense stood out, the only voice raised for her. Her grandfather's words cut deep, but his threat loomed larger. Adhiraj pointed a trembling finger at her. "I'll give you a final option, and this is the last. You've been eating off our money, working in our company though you don't deserve it. If you don't divorce him, I'll take back your job. You'll be on the street—penniless, homeless. Decide now."
The tears spilled over, tracing paths down Ari's cheeks as she looked at Ishaan, then back at her grandfather. The weight of her family's rejection clashed with Ishaan's unwavering support. Her voice, though shaky, grew firm. "If you want to take away my job, go ahead. But I will never, ever divorce my husband." The declaration rang through the room, a defiant stand against the patriarch's ultimatum, her resolve hardening as Ishaan's presence bolstered her.