Ambivalence

Marked As His

Aaradhya's POV

As I walked onto the balcony, I saw Sharvansh sitting there, the photographer capturing his every move. His gaze shifted towards me, and he casually remarked, "Let's get it done. I need just five or six pictures."

The photographer chimed in, directing us, "Mam, please stand in front of the Prince and keep one arm over his shoulder. And Prince, wrap your arm around her waist."

I positioned myself as instructed, standing a foot away from him. The photographer then requested, "Please step closer, mam."

Yaha pure body me bhuchal macha hai aur isko aur chahiye. Hey Matarani, kahi Mera Dil ab bahar hi na aajaye.

(A whole tornado was going inside my body, and he wants more. I swear my heart will jump out of my chest.)

I couldn't help but think that the earth had just shifted beneath my feet, and Sharvansh seemed insatiable for more. Hey matarani, what if my heart jumps out of my chest right here?

Following the photographer's guidance, I took a tentative step closer, lifting my arm to place it over his shoulder. But my heart was in turmoil as his fingers brushed against my bare waist, sending a shiver down my spine. I felt as though I had forgotten how to breathe, my breath caught in my throat.

"Mam, look at his face," the photographer urged.

Oh, dear mother goddess, I might faint before the wedding at this rate.

As if he sensed my hesitation, I felt a gentle push under my chin, guiding my gaze to meet his. Those eyes, those mesmerizing blue eyes, held an almost otherworldly allure. He truly was the man of my dreams. His sharp nose exuded an air of confidence, his strong jawline spoke of determination, and his thin pink lips... I couldn't help but imagine how they might feel against mine.

My reverie was abruptly interrupted by the flash of the camera. Startled, I took a step back, intending to create some distance between us, only to be yanked back closer to him in one swift motion. The few inches that had separated us were obliterated in an instant, my chest pressed against his midriff, my fingers instinctively clutching the fabric of his kurta, his breath teasing my face. I was momentarily lost in the intensity of the moment, afraid that if I looked up, he might kiss me.

"Great, now let's change the pose," the photographer suggested, breaking the spell. The photographer's next instruction left me even more flustered.

"Prince, place one leg on the railing, with the other touching the floor. Mam, you'll sit on his lap."

It was an unbearable proposition, and while I struggled with my discomfort being so close to him, Sharvansh seemed unperturbed, merely complying with the photographer's directions. After all, he wanted this facade of a perfect, love-filled marriage, despite the reality being far from it.

"I don't understand why you're doing this," I couldn't help but voice my confusion and frustration.

His response was indifference personified.

"Fine, keep this in mind: this relationship will end in six months, and I hope to never see your face again in this lifetime," I stated firmly, finally expressing the pent-up anger I had been harboring. With that, I got up and remarked, "I think you've got enough pictures. I'm tired of all these functions."

Returning to my room, I couldn't help but find myself staring at the engagement ring. I was so infuriated with Sharvansh that I wanted to throw it away, but something held me back. The ring was a reflection of his eyes, forming an intimate connection that was difficult to sever. Setting the ring aside, I changed into a loose t-shirt and shorts, seeking comfort and solace in more casual attire.