She slowly shifted her gaze from the mutilated car to him, her movements hesitant, almost fearful. 

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her suit as if holding onto it might somehow steady her. 

At this point, even negative felt like an understatement—her aura, her confidence, her already fragile standing in this house had fallen somewhere far below zero.

She had wanted to impress him.
So badly.

Instead, it felt like she had pushed him into some silent, irreversible grief.

The realization stung. 

Her chest tightened, and a strange heaviness settled in her throat. This was not how she had imagined it—not like this. 

She had only wanted to prove that she wasn't useless, that she wasn't just a careless, spoiled girl who couldn't do anything right. 

She wanted him to see that she could handle things, that she could stand on her own, that she wasn't as helpless as he probably might think she was.

But reality had other plans.

She stood there, rooted to the spot, when she suddenly felt it—that sharp, suffocating sensation of being watched. No... not watched.

Glared at.

Her heart skipped a beat. 

Slowly, almost instinctively, her eyes dropped to the ground. 

A small, helpless pout formed on her lips, one she didn't even realize had appeared. She hadn't done it intentionally. 

She hadn't meant to ruin his car, his pride, his first and only love. The thought alone made her eyes sting.

She swallowed hard.

Her heartbeat quickened as the air around her shifted. She felt it before she saw it—him taking a step closer. 

Just one step, but it felt loud, heavy, and final. Her pulse raced in her ears, each thump echoing her fear and regret.

She stood there, breathing shallowly, knowing one thing with painful clarity—

She had tried to prove herself.

And somehow, she had only made things worse.

  She instinctively tried to take another step back—but bad luck had already cornered her. There was nowhere left to go. 

The cold metal of the car pressed against her back, the torn, jagged edge of the broken gate looming beside her like silent proof of her mistake. And in front of her—

Him.

He was standing too close. Close enough that she could smell his perfume—deep, masculine, expensive—and feel the warmth of his breath brushing against her face. 

Her spine stiffened, her shoulders tensing as her heart began to hammer violently against her ribs. 

She didn't dare lift her eyes. Not now. Not when his presence alone was enough to make her knees feel weak.

Before the silence could suffocate her further, hurried footsteps echoed behind them.

The gate guards came running, panic written all over their faces. 

They stopped a few steps away, bowing nervously, almost frantically. One of them spoke in a rushed, trembling voice,
"I-I am really sorry, sir. Choti Malkin asked us to place the plow outside, and we were just about to remove those machines—"

Arvind's glare snapped in their direction like a blade.

For a brief moment, it genuinely looked as if he might put the guard under that very plow. 

His jaw tightened, his fists clenched, and the air around him turned dangerously cold. But then—slowly—he took a deep breath. 

One long inhale. One controlled exhale. He forced his anger down, burying it somewhere deep, where it wouldn't explode.

With a sharp motion of his hand, he dismissed them.
"Leave."

The guards didn't wait for a second command. 

They turned and practically fled, their relief evident as they disappeared from sight.

Silence returned.

Heavy. Thick. Unforgiving.

Arvind turned back to her.

Aanya was still looking down, her lashes casting shadows on her flushed cheeks, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of her suit. 

She could feel his eyes on her—cold, sharp, assessing. Then his voice cut through the quiet, low and dangerous.

"Do you fucking know," he said slowly, each word weighted with restrained fury, "that this car was my favorite?"

Her heart dropped straight into her stomach.

She looked up just a little, her eyes glossy with guilt, and spoke in a soft, apologetic tone,
"I-I am really sorry," she said quickly.

"But don't worry... I'll ask Papa to buy you a new one. The latest top model."

For a second, he simply stared at her.

Disbelief flickered across his face, subtle but unmistakable. His lips curved—not into a smile, but into something far colder.

"You are truly a father's princess," he said flatly.

Her face brightened just a little at that, mistaking his words for something gentler than they were. 

A soft, innocent smile touched her lips as she replied,
"Yes. My papa loves me so much."

But his gaze—

His gaze didn't soften.

Not even for a second.

The coldness in his eyes remained, sharp and unmoved, making it painfully clear that while her smile was warm and sincere, his patience was hanging by a thread.

"Unbelievable."

The word slipped from his lips in a low murmur, heavy with disbelief and restrained fury. 

He looked at her then—really looked at her—and the glare that followed made her breath hitch in her throat.

"I don't need anyone to buy me a car," he said coldly. "I can afford any car in this world." His voice dropped further, turning sharp and deliberate. 

"But listen to me very carefully now. From today onward, make sure of one thing—you will not touch any of my belongings without my permission. Not my car. Not my things. Not anything. It doesn't matter if you are my wife."

Aanaya felt a chill run through her spine.

For the first time since she had known him—since the wedding, since stepping into this house—she was genuinely scared. 

And why wouldn't she be? Even she knew how much he loved his cars. Everyone did. He didn't just collect them; he cherished them. 

This one, especially, had clearly meant more to him than she had realized. His anger, in that sense, made logical sense.

But the way he spoke to her—

So cold. So distant. So unforgiving.

Right now, Arvind didn't feel like her husband at all. He felt more like her mother—always correcting her, always instructing her, always reminding her of what she should and shouldn't do. 

Except where her mother's scolding came wrapped in familiarity, his words were edged with authority and power, leaving no room for argument.

She lowered her gaze, her fingers curling tightly into the fabric of her suit, nodding faintly without a word.

Soon, the guards returned with another car. 

The damaged vehicle was pushed aside, and the luggage was carefully transferred into the replacement. 

The entire process happened in tense silence.

Arvind didn't look at her again.

He slid into the driver's seat with practiced ease, his movements controlled, precise. 

Aanaya quietly walked to the other side and sat in the passenger seat, her posture stiff, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

 She didn't dare speak. 

The air between them was heavy, filled with unspoken tension and the sharp reminder that she had crossed a line she hadn't even known existed.

As the car started and rolled forward, she stared straight ahead, her heart pounding, realizing one thing very clearly—

Living with him was going to be far more difficult than she had ever imagined.

She kept her eyes lowered or fixed outside the window, anywhere but on him.

This journey—this first drive together as husband and wife—was nothing like what she had imagined in her quiet, foolish daydreams. 

In her mind, it was supposed to be shy, a little romantic, maybe awkward in a soft, sweet way.

 She had pictured herself stealing quick glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking, feeling her cheeks warm, looking away again with a small smile tugging at her lips.

But reality was painfully different.

This wasn't shy awkwardness.
This was suffocating.

The silence inside the car felt thick, almost tangible, pressing against her chest and making it hard to breathe. 

The only sounds were the steady hum of the engine and the faint rush of air passing by as the car moved forward.

 His presence beside her was overwhelming, not because of closeness or warmth, but because of the cold distance he had created.

She couldn't even imagine looking at him now—not even for a millisecond.

The anger still lingered on his face, carved into his sharp features, his jaw set tight, his eyes focused straight ahead on the road. 

There was no softness there, no trace of the man from her thoughts, the man she had silently admired from a single photograph. Right now, he felt untouchable, unreachable.

Her fingers twisted nervously in her lap as guilt slowly settled in.

Maybe she was the one at fault.
No—she was the one at fault.

She should have listened. 

She should have stepped aside and let him drive. 

She had wanted to prove something—to him, to herself—but all she had managed to do was ruin his favorite car and shatter whatever fragile balance existed between them.

A small sigh escaped her lips, so quiet it barely made a sound.

She rested her forehead lightly against the cool window glass, watching the scenery blur past, her reflection faintly visible in the pane. 

The girl staring back at her looked nothing like a newly married bride. 

There was no excitement in her eyes, no sparkle—only regret, nervousness, and a growing realization that her life had taken a sharp turn.

But then, suddenly, something shifted inside her.

The feminist within Aanaya stirred awake, stretching, yawning, and then rising with full force.

Come on, Aanaya. What nonsense are you thinking?
How did you even start blaming yourself for this?

It was not your fault.

It was the fault of that stupid, ridiculous machine standing there like a metal monster waiting to attack an innocent car. 

And since when did you become this quiet? This submissive? This scared little version of yourself who keeps shrinking at every sharp word?

Seriously, Aanaya, get a grip.

Since when did you let a man—who met you properly barely a day ago—start dictating your confidence, your tone, your personality? Who gave him that authority? And what was that nonsense about not touching his things without permission?

Excuse me?

Of course, you can touch his things. You are his wife. Not some outsider. Not a guest. 

His wife. 

And honestly, if she wanted to get technical, she could touch him without his permission—so who did he think he was, laying down such dramatic rules?

And scolding her in front of the guards?
Really?

That was crossing a line. A thick, bold, neon-colored line.

Her lips pressed together as her thoughts began racing faster, fueled by irritation rather than guilt now. 

Her spine straightened ever so slightly, and the heaviness in her chest transformed into something far more familiar—defiance.

Just wait, husband ji.

She promised herself silently, eyes narrowing as she stared out of the window, no longer seeing the road but imagining a future scene instead. 

Once she went to her parents' house, once she had time to breathe, to recharge, to regain her footing—things were going to change.

She would teach him a lesson.

A proper one.

She would make sure he ended up like those dramatic male leads in serials—regretful, restless, completely shaken—begging her on his knees, realizing exactly who he had underestimated. And even then? Oh no. Forgiveness wouldn't come easily.

Not until he took back every sharp word.
Not until he acknowledged her properly.

The thoughts of the great Aanaya Revankar Kulashresth continued spiraling in her head—bold, dramatic, stubborn, and unapologetically hers—slowly stitching back together the confidence she almost lost.

Yes.

That was more like her.

Meanwhile, Arvind kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, the road stretching endlessly before him.

Somewhere deep down, he knew—very clearly—that he shouldn't have shouted at her. He wasn't blind to that fact. 

But when it came to his car... his patience evaporated. 

That car wasn't just metal and machinery to him; it was his favorite, his first real indulgence, something he had earned with years of discipline and control.

 And she had literally damaged it, despite how many times he had tried to stop her, despite how clearly he had said no.

That thought alone was enough to make his jaw tighten again.

Still, his eyes flicked to the side for just a second—and he frowned.

There she was.

Frowning cutely.

Her lips were moving as if she were murmuring a whole speech under her breath, pouting every few seconds, her nose scrunching up dramatically like a displeased kitten. 

One moment she looked offended, the next deeply wronged, and the moment after that—dangerously thoughtful.

Oh, he knew that look.

She was definitely thinking. 

And judging by the intensity on her face, none of those thoughts were in his favor. 

If thoughts could curse, he was pretty sure she had already sentenced him to at least three lifetimes of doom.

He exhaled slowly.

Yep. She's mentally roasting me alive.

Smartly, he decided to ignore her for the time being and focus on the road. 

Experience—very limited, but still—told him that she was like a sealed pressure cooker. Let it whistle on its own, or it would explode at the worst possible moment. 

So he let her be, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, pretending he was deeply invested in traffic signs and lane discipline.

Besides, his cold, introverted nature wasn't exactly built for initiating conversations—especially awkward ones. 

Talking first felt unnecessary. Uncomfortable. Almost like admitting defeat.

And then, his inner feminist woke up.

Why is it always the man who has to start the conversation?
If men and women are equal, then why can't women say sorry first?

After all, this time she was at fault.

She was the one who insisted on driving. 

She was the one who nearly killed his clutch. 

And she was the one who decorated his beloved car with a designer scratch. 

The least she could do was apologize—properly.

And don't even get him started on that apology.

"I'll ask my dad to buy you a new one."
Seriously?

What did she think of him? That he couldn't afford a car? That everything could be fixed with money? 

Mrs. Typical rich, father-spoiled brat behavior—golden spoon in her mouth, solutions in her wallet.

 No emotions, no understanding—just replace, replace, replace.

His lips twitched slightly.

She doesn't even know how to apologize properly.

Fine.

He made a decision then and there, silently, firmly, almost like signing an internal contract.

She would apologize first.

Only then—and only then—would he admit that maybe, just maybe, his tone had been a bit harsh.

Until that moment?

Cold silence it was.

He straightened his posture, eyes locked back on the road, completely unaware that the pressure cooker beside him was heating up nicely, preparing a blast that might just rival the sound of his poor, scratched car.