Gauri's POV

I closed my eyes, my heartbeat racing like a wild animal trapped in my chest. The entire room had been meticulously decorated for our wedding night. Dimly lit lamps cast soft shadows across the walls, and the sweet, heavy scent of fresh flowers hung thick in the air. The massive bed I sat on was practically buried under garlands and a thick blanket of red rose petals. I was completely dolled up for my husband.

But my husband hadn't come in yet.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips. I truly didn't know how to handle any of this. I was terrified—utterly terrified of the wedding night. I had no idea how my husband would behave toward me. We had only gotten married because it was our parents' wish.

He was undeniably handsome, but at the same time, he looked incredibly strict and unapproachable. His eyes, when he looked at me earlier, had seemed hollow, entirely devoid of any warmth or emotion.

I knew why I had to marry him. When my father was gravely sick, Abhay's father had stepped in and saved us with his help. So, when he eventually asked for my hand in marriage for his son, my family simply couldn't refuse. While his father seemed like a genuinely good human being, I had severe doubts about his mother. She didn't look like she liked me at all, and she clearly despised this wedding.

I was deeply lost in these thoughts when the door suddenly opened with a sharp, distinct click. My breath hitched. Peeking out from beneath the heavy border of my bridal veil, the first thing I saw was a pair of black leather shoes, polished to a high shine. He hadn't worn the traditional attire for our wedding reception; instead, he was dressed in a sleek tuxedo. There was no debating it—he looked incredibly handsome. But his looks weren't my main concern right now; his behavior was.

Up until this moment, we hadn't exchanged a single word. The only time I had actually heard his voice was back at the mandap when we took our vows, repeating our lineages and ancestors' names. His voice was heavy, deep, and honestly, kind of scary.

I listened to his footsteps as they measured the distance toward the bed. He stopped right at the edge, and I could feel his burning gaze boring down into me. Moving again, the mattress beside me dipped significantly under his weight as he sat down.

An awful, profoundly uncomfortable silence stretched between us. It hung heavily in the air until he finally decided to break it.

"You should sleep," he said, using that same deep, commanding voice.

I tightly gripped the fabric of my heavy lehenga, completely bewildered. Why would he say that? Wasn't this supposed to be our wedding night?

"I know it's our wedding night," he continued, as if reading my mind. "But I am not going to fuck you."

The bluntness of his words shocked me. My head snapped up, and I stared at him directly through the sheer fabric of my veil.

"We are nothing but strangers," he explained, his tone completely flat. "Sex tonight would mean nothing. It would just be the fulfillment of a duty."

I didn't say anything. I just sat there, frozen, quietly enduring the intensity of his stare. Perhaps he was expecting a question, a protest, or some form of approval from my end. When I provided absolutely no reaction, he spoke up again.

"Do you have a problem with that? Like... Do you want to have sex? If that's what you want, I'll respect that. You're my wife now, and I won't ignore your feelings."

Hearing him lay it out like a corporate chore, my voice vanished entirely. I couldn't find it anywhere. I immediately shook my head in a frantic negative.

"Fine then. Change your clothes and go to sleep."

With that, he stood up, turned around, and walked straight into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

I finally lifted my veil completely, staring blankly at the closed bathroom door. What on earth just happened? I had never heard of a man denying sex on his wedding night. Was he just completely uninterested in me, or in this entire marriage? Maybe that was it. Neither of us had married by choice; we were only here because of our parents.

Sighing deeply, I stood up and walked over to the vanity mirror to begin the exhausting task of taking off the heavy bridal jewelry. It was a nightmare to manage on my own. There were what felt like a hundred hairpins shoved into my hair. By the time I finally managed to strip away the jewelry and all the heavy accessories, the bathroom door clicked open again, and he stepped back into the bedroom.

I caught his reflection in the mirror. He was completely shirtless. Oh my god. A sudden, inexplicable wave of heat rushed through me just looking at his bare torso. As if sensing my eyes, his gaze shifted, meeting mine directly through the glass. I immediately looked away, my cheeks burning.

Silently, I stood up and walked over to my trolley bag. I unzipped it and pulled out my nightwear—a basic oversized t-shirt and a pair of simple trousers—before scurrying into the bathroom.

The moment the bathroom door shut, I let out a massive, ragged sigh. Everything about this was so overwhelmingly new, awkward, and uncomfortable. His sheer presence and the weight of his gaze made me feel incredibly uneasy. It wasn't that he gave off "bad man" vibes, but there was an intense friction there—the friction of a sudden relationship and a strange environment. I didn't even know how to put the feeling into proper words.

Looking at myself in the mirror, my face was furiously flushed. I tapped my cheeks with my palms and splashed some cold water over my skin. Glancing around the luxurious bathroom, I found the essential toiletries, picked up a face wash, and thoroughly cleaned my face.

Then came the struggle of getting out of the heavy lehenga. When it came time to remove the blouse, the strings got stuck. I groaned internally, blindly reaching behind my back for the dori. I pulled carefully, terrified of tangling it into a permanent knot, and by some miracle, I was successful.

I pulled the blouse off, but then I hit a dilemma. I didn't have the habit of sleeping with a bra on. Back home, I always slept comfortably in just a t-shirt. But how could I do that now? He was right outside. Without a bra, my breasts would definitely bounce and shift under the thin t-shirt whenever I walked or moved. But if I left it on, I wouldn't be able to sleep a wink.

“It's okay,” I tried to reason with myself. “He won't be looking anyway, right? He's probably already getting ready to sleep.”

Nerving myself up, I threw on the t-shirt and trousers, quickly braided my hair, and stepped out of the bathroom.

The moment I crossed the threshold, my heart dropped. “Oh my god.”

He was sitting upright on the bed. “Shit.”

I tried to tell myself to act normal and just keep moving, but as soon as he felt my presence, his head snapped toward me. I froze right in my tracks. His eyes swept over me, lingering on my chest for a fraction of a second before he instantly averted his gaze. A wave of immense relief washed over me. I was incredibly thankful that he chose to just ignore it rather than making the situation agonizingly awkward.

"I wanted to ask if you would be uncomfortable sharing the bed with me," he said, breaking the silence. "I mean... I can sleep on the sofa if you prefer."

I glanced over at the sofa. Given his height and broad frame, there was absolutely no way he would fit on it. The bed, however, was a massive king-size. We could easily sleep on it together—especially since he had already explicitly denied any intention of consummating the marriage tonight.

"Don't worry, I won't bother you," he added, his voice steady. "If I wanted to do something, I wouldn't have refused to consummate our marriage in the first place."

I knew he was speaking the truth. If he had wanted to touch me, I probably would have just submissively agreed to it because that was all I had ever known or seen. From what I understood, most marriages around me were arranged, and couples routinely had sex on their wedding night despite being total strangers. And within a year, they usually had a baby. Technically, I had mentally prepared myself for that exact reality. It was him who had chosen not to touch me.

Still, standing there in front of him felt deeply uncomfortable.

"You didn't reply," he prompted gently.

"I... I have no problem," I stammered, my voice sounding unnaturally timid and small even to my own ears. "You can sleep on the bed. It's quite big."

"Are you sure?" he asked, looking closely at me. "Look, I won't force you into anything. I'll be honest with you—I can't sleep properly if I'm not in my own bed. But if you are feeling even a little bit uncomfortable, I will happily make a makeshift bed on the floor or sleep on the couch."

There was an undeniable note of genuineness in his voice that caught me off guard.

I shook my head quickly. "No, you don't have to do that. I'll be fine."

After all, we were legally married now. Married couples slept in the same bed, so it only made sense that we did too. He nodded in acceptance and lay back down against the pillows. I couldn't help but look at him again—he was still entirely shirtless.

"I have a habit of sleeping shirtless," he stated simply, as if explaining away my staring.

I just nodded. I couldn't really judge him; I couldn't sleep with a bra on either, so I understood the need for comfort. Moving carefully, I climbed onto my side of the bed. He reached over and switched off the lamp on his side, plunging his half of the room into darkness. I immediately did the same, turning off the lamp on my side.

I lay flat on my back, staring up at the dark ceiling, my eyes wide open. Sleep was miles away. My mind was spinning with endless questions. Nothing about this night was matching up with the stories I had heard from my cousin sisters and friends. They all consummated their marriages on the very first night—so why didn't he?

Did he already harbor a deep dislike toward me?