The Sharma household was still aglow with the aftershocks of Rohan Kapoor's proposal, the air buzzing with Mrs. Sharma's plans for a wedding that would "make the neighbors green with envy." The living room was perpetually perfumed with rose and sandalwood incense; a revolving door of tailors, caterers, and overenthusiastic aunties kept the chaos swirling. It was a carnival of ambition. But Aisha felt like a moth caught in a lantern's glow—dazzled, but trapped.

She sat on the edge of her bed, the navy-blue saree from the previous evening folded neatly beside her, its silver zari threads glinting like a spider's web in the morning light. The lotus clip, her grandmother's heirloom, rested in her palm, its petals cool and unyielding, a symbol of purity but also of survival—blooming despite the mud. She traced its edges, her heart a tangle of hope, duty, and a nagging unease she couldn't name.

Downstairs, the clatter of breakfast preparations mingled with her mother's voice, as relentless as a monsoon downpour.

"Aisha! Don't dawdle up there! We're meeting the Kapoors for lunch, and you need to look like a bride, not a librarian!"

Her voice was half command, half prophecy.

Aisha sighed, slipping the lotus clip into her hair, its weight a quiet comfort. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror—almond eyes framed by kohl, a hesitant smile that didn't quite reach them. At twenty-two, she'd dreamed of love like the stories in her dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice, where hearts met in quiet understanding, not under the glare of social ambition. But Rohan Kapoor, with his polished charm and shadowed eyes, was no Mr. Darcy. His proposal had been flawless, almost rehearsed—every word perfect, every smile timed.

A performance.

She wanted to believe in it, in him. But that flicker of coldness in his gaze lingered, like a crack in a temple idol.

"Aisha, beta, move it!" Mrs. Sharma's voice jolted her from thought. Aisha grabbed a simple cream kurta, its embroidered hem delicate but unassuming, and headed downstairs, her dupatta trailing like a whispered prayer.

The living room was a flurry of activity. Mr. Sharma, his mustache freshly groomed, was on the phone, his voice booming with forced warmth. "Yes, yes, Rohan beta, we're thrilled! Lunch at The Saffron Room, perfect choice. Our Aisha's so excited, aren't you, beta?"

Aisha managed a nod, her smile tight. "Very excited, Papa." She caught sight of the peacock painting above the mantel, its tail feathers spread in arrogant splendor. It seemed to mock her, a silent symbol of vanity.

Mrs. Sharma swept in, her gold bangles clanging like a war cry. "Aisha, why this plain kurta? You should've worn the pink anarkali! Rohan's a man of taste—he won't want a wife who looks like she's going to a poetry reading!"

"Maa, it's just lunch," Aisha said, a spark of defiance in her tone. "I think Rohan will survive without sequins."

"Unless his taste runs to disco balls," she added under her breath.

Mr. Sharma chuckled, mustache twitching. "That's my girl—sharp as ever. But don't get too cheeky. The Kapoors are big fish."

Aisha's smile faltered. "I'll be myself, Papa. If that's not enough, then maybe it's not meant to be."

Mrs. Sharma gasped, her hands flying to her chest like she'd been shot. "Not meant to be? Aisha Sharma, you're talking nonsense! Rohan Kapoor is destiny wrapped in an Armani kurta!"

Aisha bit her lip, her fingers instinctively brushing the lotus clip. "Destiny doesn't come with a price tag, Maa."

But her mother was already bustling off.

The Saffron Room was elegance incarnate. Teakwood panels, soft sitar music, chandeliers that dripped starlight. Aisha sat across from Rohan, flanked by her parents like ceremonial pillars. On his side was Dadi Kapoor—regal in a sage-green saree, her eyes lined with kajal, her silver hair braided into quiet dignity.

Dadi's presence grounded Aisha. She reminded her of Nani—fierce in kindness, quiet in wisdom.

The table overflowed with flavors—paneer tikka, butter chicken, garlic naan—but Aisha barely touched her plate. Her attention flickered between her parents' rehearsed smiles and Rohan's calculated charm.

"So, Aisha," Dadi began gently, "Rohan tells me you love books. What's your favorite?"

"Austen," Aisha replied, "Tagore, Rumi. The kind of writers who let you feel something real."

Dadi nodded approvingly. "Poets of the soul."

Rohan sipped his water. "Austen? So you're waiting for a Darcy to sweep you away?"

"Not sweep," Aisha smiled. "Walk beside."

He looked at her, something unreadable in his eyes. "I prefer to lead."

The table went quiet for a breath.

"What about you, Rohan?" she asked. "What do you want in a partner?"

His answer came smooth. "Loyalty. Grace. Someone who understands the weight of legacy."

"Not love?"

He tilted his head. "Love is... seasonal. I want permanence."

The answer chilled her, though his tone remained warm.

Dadi's voice softened the air. "My boy is all marble and steel. He needs someone like you, Aisha—someone with heart."

Mrs. Sharma beamed. "Oh, Aisha's a marvel. She's traditional, devoted. A diamond in this modern mess."

Aisha glanced at Rohan. "A home isn't just about obedience. It's about honesty. Isn't it?"

His smile flickered. "It is. And I value honesty... as long as it's earned."

There it was again. That chill. That edge.

"Would you say the same thing to your business partners?" she asked suddenly, the question slipping out before she could stop it.

Rohan's eyes narrowed slightly, but he smiled. "I say it to everyone, Aisha. Trust is currency. The most valuable one."

The lunch unfolded like a stage play. Laughter, clinks of cutlery, plans for spring weddings and designer invitations. But Aisha's mind drifted, her hand resting over the lotus clip tucked into her purse.

When Rohan leaned in to say goodbye, his hand briefly touched hers—cool, firm. Possessive.

"You'll see, Aisha," he murmured low enough that only she could hear, "we'll build something... unforgettable."

She smiled, but her fingers curled tighter around the lotus.

Outside, the wind carried the scent of the sea. The tide had turned.

And the cage was starting to close.