It had been only two days since that catastrophic day, but to me, it felt like an eternity. Two days of my mother's relentless sermons, her voice echoing with the same tone every time she asked, "Why shouldn't you marry Azaan?" as if he was some kind of jackpot, dressed in a man's guise-an ideal, an answer to all her prayers. As if he wasn't the most disrespectful, infuriating brat to walk this earth.

They were still staying at our house-yes, our house-the place that I had inherited, that should have been my sanctuary, now turned into a battleground. And here I was, barricaded behind locked doors, isolating myself because the atmosphere, the air, the very fabric of my home was toxic with his silent presence. The deafening silence, I might add. Because that's all he did-sit there like a statue, ignoring me as if I was some plague that had contaminated his space.

Honestly, his silence was grating on my nerves-an incessant, maddening drone that encroached on every corner of my mind. If I could banish him from the earth for this indifference, I swear I would. It was as if the very universe had conspired to make him seem more like a ghost than a living, breathing human. Now, today, apparently, he was out at some local shooting academy a "nearby" for a routine he claimed he couldn't live without. 'Can't live without shooting targets,' he'd said, as if that skill was some divine gift, an essential part of his existence.

And my mother, after yesterday's escapade, had decided that I, her overworked third-year MBBS student daughter-drained and exhausted from a full day of classes-would be his chauffeur. Her eyes had sparkled with that "business as usual" cunning, as she tasked me with fetching her "royal highness" from his shooting sanctuary, and then, of course, dragging me along for the "clothes shopping" for the pending engagement. Just perfect.

I had pulled up before the place-an unassuming structure, hidden behind rows of trees and a faded, somewhat battered iron gate. It wasn't much to look at, really-just a small, modest building with a corrugated metal roof, paint peeling from years of neglect, and a handful of old, rusted targets scattered across a dusty range. The air was thick with the scent of dry grass, gunpowder, and a faint whiff of oil lingering from the maintenance bays.

The ground was uneven, gravel crunching under my tires as I stepped out. The place buzzed with activity-men and women dressed in camouflage or casual athletic wear, some with guns slung over their shoulders, others crouched down, lining up targets with an air of concentration. The faint hum of talk, the click of rifles, and the distant echo of ricochets filled the air. Bright, colorful paper targets fluttered occasionally in the breeze-some with cartoonish faces, others with shapes of bullseyes, awaiting the next shot.

I pushed open the gate, which creaked loudly, and stepped cautiously onto the ground. My eyes darted around, searching for him. It didn't take long. There he was-almost like a king among peasants standing with poise, his stance firm and confident, the barrel of a sleek, shining rifle cradled effortlessly in his hands. His head tilted slightly, concentration etched into every line of his face, as he took aim at a distant target, the sun glinting off his dark hair, caught just at the perfect angle to make him look almost regal.

For a second, I just stared, utterly awestruck. Here he was-Azaan-this boy I knew, but also a stranger in his element, masterful and graceful in a way that I couldn't ignore. The recoil felt like a natural extension of his arm, smooth and controlled, his finger gentle yet firm on the trigger. His eyes, deep and focused, flicked across the range, assessing, commanding, as if all the chaos of the world boiled down to that single, narrow line of sight.

He shot again, precise and swift. Within moments, the target was shredded into tiny confetti-like fragments. He didn't so much as flinch; he looked like a figure carved from stone completely in control, a picture of intent and precision. The air around him shimmered slightly the undeniable aura of someone who wielded that weapon as if it were an extension of himself.

I found myself holding my breath in silent awe. It wasn't just the skill-though THAT was impressive enough-it was the focus, the effortless mastery, the way he moved with such discipline. I'd never thought of him as more than a bratty guy with a bad attitude, but right now, as I watched him unleash shot after shot with a calm that was almost frightening, I couldn't help but admire the sheer power in his stance how he looked like he belonged to a different world altogether-one where control and precision reigned supreme, where every shot was a silent promise of unwavering focus. The way he stood feet planted shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, shoulders relaxed yet taut with readiness embodied a rare, almost hypnotic grace. The sun caught the glint of his rifle, reflecting sharp flashes of silver and black, as if he was wielding a weapon forged from the very essence of discipline itself.

His eyes, dark and intense, narrowed slightly as he aimed, almost like a predator's calculating, patient, poised to strike with unerring accuracy. The wind fluttered the loose strands of his hair, but his gaze remained unmoving, a picture of calm amidst the chaos of the range. His rapid yet controlled breath, the slight twitch in his finger as he pulled the trigger, all seemed imbued with a quiet, almost sacred focus.

In that moment, I saw him differently, more than just an arrogant boy with a rigid attitude, more than the silent houseguest who ignored my existence. I saw a man who mastered his craft with dedication, who wielded that weapon with a quiet intensity that was both intimidating and undeniably captivating. The power in his stance, the meticulous way he worked the rifle, felt like an extension of his soul-calm, deadly, and utterly mesmerizing.

The haze in my mind was slowly dispersing, like fog lifting at dawn, but I was still caught in a fog of confusion and frustration. My thoughts raced, but I snapped out of it with a sudden jolt, eyebrows knitting as I shook my head, trying to clear the muddle. Meanwhile, he finally turned his gaze toward me, eyes dark and unreadable, after hosting a few more rounds of what I can only describe as reckless bravado. With a lazy, almost careless motion, he handed the rifle to a guy seemingly out of place in the chaos and then turned, walked steadily towards me like he had no worries in the world.

Without knowing why, I felt a sudden urge to explain myself an impulse I couldn't suppress. "My mom wants us to go shopping," I said, voice trembling slightly, trying to fill the heavy silence that had stretched between us. But he, as if he hadn't heard, ignored me entirely. His focus was elsewhere, lost in some distant thought, or perhaps just indifferent to my words.

He strode past me without a flicker of acknowledgment, his shoulders squared as he headed for what I presumed was the washroom my jaw remained agape, stunned by the sheer dismissiveness he showed. It was as if I was invisible, transparent, an afterthought in his calculated march. I crossed my arms tightly across my chest, feeling a surge of irritation boiling inside me. If not for my mother's commands, I'd have been long gone-dropped everything and escaped that suffocating silence, yet I found myself rooted, caught in the web of her orders and his reckless disregard.

A few minutes later, the subtle sound of water interrupted the tense quiet. Azaan emerged from the corner, hair damp and falling messily over his forehead, droplets still glistening on the strands as he wiped his face with his hand. The faint scent of shampoo clung to him-fresh, clean, yet somehow profoundly absent of any warmth. He slipped on his glasses, the frames slipping onto the bridge of his nose with a quiet click, and was immediately changed into a sharply fitted shirt-one that perfectly emphasized his broad shoulders and lean frame, hinting at a new confidence.

He glanced at me, a silent command in his eyes, and with that cool detachment, he said, "Let's go." Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed his bag a sleek leather piece, polished and unassuming and turned to stride ahead, leading us to the car like he owned the whole world. His actions lacked even the smallest gesture of courtesy no opening the door for me, no waiting to let me go first just that indifference simmering beneath his cool exterior.

I followed, my footsteps quickening as I approached my car. The sunlight dappling the pavement, casting long, stretching shadows, seemed almost oblivious to our silent standoff. Climbing into the driver's seat, I sank into the familiar comfort of the steering wheel, feeling the smooth, worn leather under my fingertips. I started the engine with a crisp turn of the key, the rumble echoing in my chest, and he slid into the passenger seat, the space around us shrinking as he settled in.

His voice broke the tension, casual yet sharp the kind that makes you question whether he even realizes how irritating he sounds. "Aap chala lengi na?" he asked, tone flat, devoid of any warmth, as though merely confirming a routine. [T- "You sure, you will drive?"]

I shot him a sidelong glance, eyebrows raised in challenge. "Yakin nhi toh utar jaye," I replied, voice deliberately cold, and shifted the gear into drive. [T= "You can leave if you want if you don't trust me"]

"Yakin toh bilkul nhi," he responded, a smug smile tugging at his lips, proving that his audacity was far from exhausted. My hand clenched the steering wheel, the urge to kick him out broiling just beneath my skin. [T= I don't trust you even a bit]

I let out a weary sigh, knowing that even a small retort would escalate everything. Better to stay silent. Maybe he'd get tired of the game. But the speed breaker ahead jarred us abruptly-an abrupt, jarring bump that made the car lurch forward with a nasty jerk. His voice, tinged with mockery, cut through the air: "Since when government started giving licenses to kids?" he sneered, eyes gleaming with mischief or perhaps something darker.

My glare was icy enough to freeze the air between us. "Bachchi bolne ki himmat bhi na kare, aap junior hai mere. Dodo," I snapped, the term of endearment slipping out too casually-an old, affectionate nickname from days long gone, back when we were inseparable, best friends just a little younger and a lot more naïve. [T= Don't you dare call me a child. You are the one junior here, Dodo]

His mouth closed like a trap, his expression darkening in a way that sent a cold shiver down my spine. A flicker of pain, maybe guilt, darted through his eyes before he looked away, refusing to meet my gaze.

The entire journey to the shop was wrapped in silence weighty, tense, almost oppressive. Neither of us spoke, the air thick with unspoken words and memories. Finally, the vehicle pulled into the parking lot of the bridal shop a place that looked like it had stepped straight out of a different era, with ornate iron gates, filigree detailing on the glass windows, and a heavy wooden door painted a regal shade of crimson.

The shop was a sanctuary of dreams every corner filled with shimmering fabrics, intricate embroidery, delicate lace, and silk that looked as though it was spun from moonlight itself. The air was infused with the scent of jasmine and rosewater, mingling with the faint aroma of antique wood and velvet. As we stepped inside, the gentle chime of the bell above announced our arrival, echoing softly against the marble floors and ornate chandeliers that dripped with crystals. An elegantly dressed woman with a warm smile and eyes full of stories, looked up from behind a velvet-draped counter.

Each lehenga displayed like a work of art owns with trailing trains, beadwork that catch the light with every movement, delicate embroidery that whispered of centuries-old craftsmanship. The walls were lined with mirrors, reflecting endless possibilities, dreams woven into expensive fabrics. This was where hope and elegance intertwined a place for a bride to find her perfect moment of eternity.

But I wasn't the type of bride who danced around happily, dreaming of fairy-tale weddings or love-filled vows. No, I was more like a bargaining chip-a pawn in some elaborate deal between our parents, a piece on their chessboard. I had no idea what was written in those unspoken agreements, but I knew enough to understand that my happiness wasn't part of the equation. The shopkeeper, a graceful woman with a gentle smile and eyes that held stories of years gone by, beckoned us inside the luxurious bridal store, her hands guiding us with practiced ease.

The inside was a wonderland-rows of lehengas, each one more mesmerizing than the last. Fabrics shimmered with gold zari work, delicate beads draped across the necklines, catching the warm, inviting glow of the overhead chandeliers. Every gown seemed to whisper a different story, a legacy of craftsmanship and tradition. Colors ranged from blush pinks to icy blues, mint greens to lavender-each shade a fragment of a dream, a moment frozen in time.

Today was our engagement ceremony, a formal affair, and I knew I had to pick something in pastel hues-soft pinks, creams, and minty greens-all gentle, subdued, yet elegant. Even though I harbored plans to smash this impending union eventually, I figured I might as well wear something that wouldn't make me cringe later. Besides, Azaan was going to pay-so why not indulge every whim, every glittering thread, every costly embellishment? Every rupee spent on his dime felt a small act of rebellion, a silent protest nestled within the folds of this seemingly innocent shopping trip.

I casually brushed my fingers over a sky-blue lehenga with intricate silver embroidery, pretending to be captivated by its beauty. But my mind was elsewhere-plotting tiny ways to irritate him, to needle him just enough to provoke a reaction.

With a pointed glance, I let my lips curl into a sly smile and said in a falsely sweet tone, "Azaan, I hope you're writing all this down. You're about to become the 'generous' fiancé who's splurging on his future bride. Don't worry-every penny spent here will be a treasured memory... or maybe a reason for us to argue later."

I leaned closer, voice dropping just enough to be teasing. "You know, when I finally decide to break this engagement, I'll just remind you of the vast treasure chest of your 'generosity' today. Might have to pay you back in some way-perhaps with a lifetime of teasing."

I reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the elegant pastel pink lehenga that shimmered softly under the warm glow of the jewelry-filled display. The fabric was delicate-so light it felt as if it might float away at a whisper-embroidered with silver thread that caught the light with every gentle movement. It was perfect for the occasion: understated, elegant, yet undeniably beautiful. Even as I hesitated, a small smirk curled on my lips, knowing that this was exactly what I wanted.

But before I could lift the fabric, Azaan's eyes flicked to me. His gaze, cold and sharp, held no warmth. Without missing a beat, he spoke, voice laced with sarcasm and a hint of cruel amusement. "Yeah, that one would match your fragile ego," he drawled, his tone razor-sharp. His eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned back against the velvet wall behind him, arms crossed. "And it would also make you look like the doll you are," he added, voice colder now, as if he enjoyed tossing these barbs.

The words hit like a sting, but I only smiled inwardly. My fingers tightened around the fabric, clenching it like a shield. His words didn't faze me-they only fueled my resolve. I straightened up, pretending to examine the lehenga, but inside I was already planning my next move. He thought he could break me with insults. Little did he know I was already smiling behind my mask.

I turned slowly, pulling the lehenga toward me, and then I did something calculated-something to get under his skin. With a sly, calculated movement, I dangled the prize tag in front of him, flaunting it with a deliberate flourish. The tag glinted under the bright lights, boldly displaying the price: 42,000 rupees.

My lips curled into a smirk as I looked at him, watching as his eyes flicked to the tag, perhaps realizing that this wasn't just any dress, but one that cost a small fortune-and, more importantly, that I was willing to spend his money on something I wanted. It was a tiny act of rebellion, a reminder that I still had some control, even in this orchestrated game.

"I want this one," I announced decisively, voice steady but playful, my eyes gleaming with defiance. I held the lehenga high, as if presenting a trophy, and made sure to let the price tag dangle just a little longer-an unapologetic tease, an unspoken 'look what I can do'.

Without missing a beat, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his sleek black credit card, the surface pristine and shiny, as if it were a talisman of his wealth and status. He handed it to me with a casual, almost dismissive motion.

"Shop as much as you want," he said softly, voice smooth but carrying an unmistakable undertone of authority. "Paise ki kaami nhi hai. Bas, apna munh mat khola karo."

The words-so nonchalant, so sure of himself-stitched deeper into my nerves. His tone didn't just suggest generosity; it was a challenge, a reminder of his money, his power, and my supposed helplessness in this game. Yet, beneath the surface, I knew that every little act of defiance, every irritated glint in my eye, was a silent rebellion-a refusal to be just another pawn in his grand plan.

I flipped the tag between my fingers, suppressing a grin as I decided to indulge in the small act of petty revenge, knowing well that tonight, this moment our quiet power struggles would be the secret story I'd replay later, in the quiet shadows of my mind.