The Sharma household buzzed with the kind of chaos only a Sunday morning in a traditional Indian joint family could muster. The air was thick with the scent of cumin and coriander, wafting from the kitchen where Mrs. Sharma, draped in a starched peach saree, barked orders at the cook.

"More ghee in the parathas, Rekha! Do you want our guests to think we're stingy?" Her voice carried over the clatter of steel plates, a symphony of domestic command.

Upstairs, in her lavender-scented room, Aisha Sharma sat cross-legged on her bed, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice open in her lap. At twenty-two, she was a vision of quiet grace—almond eyes framed by kohl, a cascade of dark hair pinned loosely with a silver clip shaped like a lotus. The flower, a gift from her late grandmother, gleamed softly in the morning light filtering through the jali window. A symbol of purity rising from mud, it was her talisman, a reminder of the stories Nani told her about love and destiny.

"Aisha!" her mother's voice sliced through her reverie. "Stop daydreaming and get ready! We have guests coming, and you need to look like a proper Sharma daughter, not some bookworm!"

Aisha sighed, closing the book with a gentle thud. "Coming, Maa," she called, her voice soft but clear, like a temple bell. She smoothed her pastel green kurta, its embroidered hem whispering against her ankles as she stood. The mirror reflected a face that was all gentle curves and hesitant smiles, but her eyes held a flicker of something else—dreams of a life beyond these walls, where love wasn't a transaction but a melody.

Downstairs, the living room was a shrine to the Sharma family's vanity. Ornate brass lamps flanked a rosewood sofa, and a garish painting of a peacock—its tail spread like a boast—hung above the mantel. Mr. Sharma, a portly man with a mustache that seemed to have its own ego, was polishing his glasses with a handkerchief, muttering about "new business prospects."

Mrs. Sharma fluttered in, her bangles jangling like a warning. "Aisha, beta, wear the sapphire earrings. They'll make your face pop. We can't have you looking like a village girl."

Aisha's fingers brushed the lotus clip in her hair, her lips twitching into a half-smile. "Maa, I think the guests will survive if my ears aren't sparkling."

Mrs. Sharma gasped, clutching her chest as if Aisha had suggested eloping with the milkman. "Survive? This is about our reputation! You think people marry into the Sharma family for your... your reading habits?"

"Leave her be, Sunita," Mr. Sharma interjected, his tone dripping with the patience of a man who'd learned to pick his battles. "Aisha's our diamond. She'll shine no matter what." But his eyes, scanning her like a jeweler appraising a gem, betrayed his true thoughts: she was their ticket to climbing Mumbai's social ladder.

Aisha bit her lip, the lotus clip cool against her scalp. She wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to be seen for herself, not as a bargaining chip. Her parents had been dropping hints about "suitable matches" for months, their voices thick with the promise of wealth and status. She dreamed of a husband who'd laugh at her silly jokes, who'd read Austen with her under a monsoon sky, who'd see the lotus, not the mud.

The doorbell chimed, and Mrs. Sharma's face lit up like a Diwali sparkler. "They're here! Aisha, stand straight, smile properly!"

As Aisha descended the stairs, her dupatta trailing like a soft breeze, she overheard her father's hushed excitement. "Rohan Kapoor, Sunita. The Rohan Kapoor. If this goes through, we're set for life."

"Kapoor?" Mrs. Sharma whispered back, her voice a mix of awe and greed. "The textile tycoon? Oh, Aisha's lucky stars are shining!"

Aisha's heart gave a small, curious lurch. Rohan Kapoor. She'd heard the name in passing—whispers of a man who'd risen from nowhere to conquer Mumbai's elite circles. She pictured someone older, stern, maybe with a paunch like her father's. But the idea of a proposal, even one orchestrated by her parents, sent a flutter through her. Could this be her Mr. Darcy?

The door opened, and the room seemed to shift, as if the air itself held its breath. Rohan Kapoor stood there, tall and impeccably dressed in a charcoal kurta, his presence commanding yet effortless. His hazel eyes swept the room, landing on Aisha with a weight that made her breath catch. He smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that was both warm and unreadable, like a flame behind glass.

"Namaste, Mr. and Mrs. Sharma," he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. "And you must be Aisha." His gaze lingered, appraising, and for a moment, she felt like the lotus in her hair—beautiful, but fragile under scrutiny.

"Namaste," Aisha replied, her voice softer than she intended. She clasped her hands, the lotus clip glinting as if to remind her to stay rooted.

"Such a lovely home," Rohan continued, his tone polite but laced with something Aisha couldn't place—a shadow, perhaps, like rain clouds on a clear day. "And such a charming daughter. I can see why everyone speaks so highly of her."

Mrs. Sharma preened, her peacock painting practically glowing with pride. "Oh, our Aisha is a gem! So obedient, so traditional. Perfect for a man of your... stature."

Aisha's cheeks warmed, but she caught Rohan's eye again, and there it was—that flicker of something cold, like a blade catching moonlight. Her smile faltered, but she pushed the unease away. Just nerves, she told herself. Destiny doesn't come without a little tremble.

"Shall we sit?" Mr. Sharma gestured to the sofa, his mustache twitching with anticipation. "We have much to discuss, Rohan beta. Tea? Or perhaps something stronger?"

"Tea's perfect," Rohan said, settling into the sofa with the ease of a king claiming a throne. His eyes found Aisha again, and he added, almost playfully, "I hear Aisha makes the best chai in Mumbai. Is that true?"

Aisha laughed, a nervous bubble of sound. "I don't know about best, but I can manage a cup without burning the house down."

Mrs. Sharma swatted her arm, her bangles clanging. "Don't be silly, beta! She's a marvel in the kitchen. Aren't you, Aisha?"

Rohan's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure she is," he said, his voice a velvet trap. "A marvel in every way."

As the conversation turned to pleasantries—weather, business, the upcoming festival—Aisha watched Rohan, her heart a mix of hope and something she couldn't name. The lotus clip felt heavier now, as if warning her to tread carefully. Outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle, but the air still hummed with the promise of a storm.