The Sharma household was a kaleidoscope of color and sound, transformed for the evening into a stage for social ambition. Fairy lights draped the veranda like stars plucked from the Mumbai sky, their soft glow reflecting off the polished brass urns that lined the entrance. Inside, the living room was a shrine to excess: a chandelier dripping crystals, a teakwood table groaning under platters of samosas, jalebis, and glistening gulab jamuns. The peacock painting above the mantel seemed to preen, its tail feathers a garish echo of the Sharma family's pride.

Aisha, however, felt like a sparrow caught in a gilded cage, her heart fluttering as she adjusted the heavy silk of her navy-blue saree, its silver zari border catching the light like a river under moonlight. The lotus clip in her hair—her grandmother's keepsake—felt like an anchor, grounding her amidst the chaos. She stood by the window, pretending to admire the garden, where marigolds nodded under the weight of the evening's earlier drizzle. The rain had left a sheen on the world, a reminder of its ability to cleanse—or to drown.

"Aisha, beta, stop mooning over the flowers!" Mrs. Sharma's voice rang out like a command from the heavens. "You're not a poetess tonight. You're the Sharma family's pride. Look lively!"

Aisha turned, lips curving into a smile honed by years of obedience. "Maa, I'm just catching my breath. The house looks like we're hosting a royal wedding already."

Mrs. Sharma smirked. "Cheeky girl. You think this is too much? Wait till you see the Kapoor boy's penthouse. They say it's got a view that makes the Taj Mahal look like a roadside dhaba."

She fussed over Aisha's appearance, tugging at her pallu, eyes lingering critically on the lotus clip. "Wear the sapphire necklace, not that old thing. You need to dazzle, not look like you're off to chant bhajans."

"Nani gave me this," Aisha said, her voice firmer than usual. "It's elegant."

"Elegance won't get you a husband like Rohan Kapoor. Status will. Now go check the chai, and not the watery nonsense you made last week."

In the kitchen, Rekha was already preparing the tea, the scent of cardamom and ginger weaving through the air. "Rekha Aunty," Aisha murmured, leaning in, "Maa's on a mission. Think we can sneak some extra sugar into her cup?"

Rekha cackled. "Beta, it'd take a whole sugar factory. But for you, anything."

Then the doorbell rang.

Mr. Sharma, moustache gleaming with oil and expectation, flung the door open like a merchant opening his showroom. "Rohan! Welcome, beta! Come in, come in—make this your home!"

Rohan Kapoor entered like a storm hidden in silk. His charcoal kurta clung just right, the tailoring subtle but precise. His hazel eyes swept over the room, assessing, absorbing. He moved with the easy grace of a man who knew people would always make space for him.

Aisha turned to greet him, but as his gaze landed on her, the atmosphere shifted. The silk of her saree clung to her suddenly warm skin, and her pulse danced under her collarbone. His eyes didn't just look; they lingered. Studied. Possessed.

"Namaste, Mr. and Mrs. Sharma," he said, inclining his head slightly. Then his voice dropped into something lower, velvet and precise. "Aisha."

Her name on his tongue felt like a match struck in a dark room.

"Namaste, Mr. Kapoor," she replied, her voice measured. Inside, she wasn't sure whether she wanted to run—or step closer.

They sat. Chai was served. Pleasantries exchanged. Mrs. Sharma's laughter filled the room like cymbals, Mr. Sharma nodded solemnly at every mention of wealth. But the pull between Aisha and Rohan thickened like monsoon heat. Every brush of fingers over porcelain, every fleeting glance, every layered word—it all buzzed with electric stillness.

"So, Rohan beta," Mr. Sharma began, eyes gleaming with the anticipation of a deal about to close, "what are your plans? A man like you must have grand visions."

"Dreams are for poets. I build." Rohan smiled faintly. "I plan to expand. Textile. Infrastructure. And I want a partner who can share that empire. A home deserves a queen."

He looked directly at Aisha as he said it. She felt the heat crawl up her spine.

"Our Aisha is just the kind of girl who brings peace to a household," Mrs. Sharma chirped. "Obedient, soft-spoken, not like those modern girls with English degrees and attitude."

"Actually, I have an English degree," Aisha murmured, eyes locked with Rohan's. "And a little attitude."

Rohan's brow arched, intrigued. "Good. Peace without spice is just boredom."

Mrs. Sharma laughed nervously. "Such humor! Rohan beta, you'll never be bored with our Aisha."

Then Rohan reached for his pocket. A velvet box appeared in his palm like magic. When he opened it, the diamond caught the light like a promise—and a warning.

"Mr. and Mrs. Sharma, Aisha," he said, voice steady, solemn, "I came to ask for Aisha's hand in marriage. I believe she is the woman to build my future with."

The room exploded into gasps, excitement, flashes of cameras. Mrs. Sharma clutched her heart. Mr. Sharma was already planning the press release.

But Aisha stood frozen.

She didn't hear the applause. Or her mother's screech. Or her father's booming congratulations. All she saw was Rohan's eyes—steady, calculating, warm only where it served him. She felt the lotus clip tremble.

"I... I'm honored," she said softly, her voice cutting through the noise. "But I'd like to know you better before deciding. Marriage is a lifetime, not a business merger."

Rohan inclined his head. "Of course, Aisha. Take all the time you need."

But his smile, soft and understanding, didn't reach his eyes.

Later, as the guests celebrated and her parents discussed venues and wedding saris, Aisha retreated to her room. Alone, she unclipped the lotus and placed it on her nightstand, watching its petals glint under the dim light.

Outside, the drizzle resumed, soft and rhythmic.

But the storm had already arrived.

And it was wearing a ring.