More rituals followed. Sweet milk offered in silver cups. Blessings spoken by elders. Through it all, Divya moved as if sleepwalking, her body following instructions while her mind remained detached.
“One more ritual,” Kavita announced, voice carrying just enough authority to quiet the relatives. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “The groom must carry his bride to their room. It’s tradition.”
Divya’s head snapped toward her mother-in-law. “That’s not...”
But Vikram had already moved. One moment she was standing beside him, the next his arms were beneath her knees and back, lifting her as if she weighed nothing.
She gasped. Her hands flew up, wrapping instinctively around his neck.
“Tradition,” he murmured, eyes locked on her face with an intensity that had nothing to do with their audience. His voice was low, meant only for her. “Can’t disappoint my mother on the wedding day.”
Around them, relatives laughed and called out blessings. Someone made a comment about young love. Another about impatient grooms.
The teasing bounced off him. He didn’t hear any of it.
All he could hear was his own heart thudding against his ribs at the feel of Divya,his wife, in his arms. The weight of her slight frame. The warmth of her body pressed against his chest. The way her fingers gripped his shoulder, nails digging in slightly through fabric.
Her face was turned toward his, startled and innocent, and something in his chest pulled tight.
She was beautiful. Had always been beautiful. But here, in his arms, with that bewildered expression and her lips slightly parted, she was devastating.
He carried her toward the stairs, muscle memory guiding his steps while his entire focus remained on her face. The guests faded into background noise.
“You can put me down now,” she whispered as they reached the staircase. “They can’t see us anymore.”
“I’m aware.”
He didn’t put her down.
Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. “But...”
“Almost there.”
He took the stairs with deliberate slowness, in no hurry to end this. The slide of her dupatta against his arm. The faint scent of jasmine from her hair. The rapid flutter of her pulse visible at the base of her throat.
He’d carried dozens of actresses for romantic scenes. None of it had felt like this. None of it had made his hands shake slightly with the effort to keep his grip gentle, careful, reverent.
They reached the top. Turned down the hallway. His room, their room now, waited at the end.
He nudged the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, finally setting her down on the edge of the bed.
She sat there, hands braced on the mattress, breathing slightly uneven. Her hair, still pinned from the ceremony, had come slightly loose, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
Before she could recover, before she could retreat into professionalism, Vikram crouched before her. His hands moved to her ankles.
“What are you...” She tried to pull back, but his fingers had already closed around her ankle, holding it gently but firmly.
“Your sandals,” he said simply, undoing the delicate strap. “You’ve been dying to take them off for the past three hours.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. “How did you...”
“You kept shifting your weight.” He slipped off the first sandal, his thumb brushing the arch of her foot almost absently. “You’re not used to heels.”
She pulled her other foot back quickly, tucking it under her. “I can do it myself.”
“I know you can.” His hand reached for her ankle anyway, patient and unhurried. “Let me.”
He removed the second sandal with the same deliberate care, his fingers warm against her skin. Set it aside next to its pair.