Page 127 of Cherish my Heart

She catches me staring at her across the room, and instead of shying away, she just smiles. That same smile that makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, my life will never be cold again.

EPILOGUE 2

ADITI

2 YEARS LATER

I always thought I’d be the calm bride. The composed, unbothered, “I’ve got this” bride.

But right now, standing under the mandap, I can feel my palms sweating beneath the intricate henna and the heavy chooda, my heart thudding louder than the shehnai.

I'm not nervous about marrying Abhimaan. God, no. That part feels like breathing. It’s everything else—the way Maa keeps adjusting my dupatta every five minutes, Badi Maa’s emotional sniffles from the front row, and Rudraksh Bhaiya, who just mouthed “you’re dead” at Abhimaan for making me wait this morning because he “had to fix his safa.”

I bite back a smile, my eyes finding Abhimaan’s across the sacred fire. He’s… unfair. How can someone look like that in a cream sherwani and a white safa when I’m here trying not to trip over twelve kilos of lehenga?

Maa catches me smiling and gives me that “focus on the mantras” look. I straighten up instantly. But then Harsh, sitting just behind Abhimaan, makes an exaggerated “aww” face and winks. I nearly laugh aloud, earning a confused glance from Dadu.

Speaking of Dadu—my 78-year-old grandfather is currently in charge of supervising the photographer. He’s barking orders like it’s a military operation. “Beta, light from the left! And make sure my Aditi’s smile is in frame, not just her nose!”

Bade Papa, on the other hand, is holding the puja thali with the concentration of a bomb squad member. Aarav, my very annoying brother, keeps making faces at me from across the mandap, and Anika gently smacks his arm every time. “Behave,” she mouths at him.

Then there’s Rudrani—who’s been assigned the role of “petal thrower.” She’s taking it very seriously, pelting us with marigold petals every chance she gets. One actually lands in my mouth mid-mantra. I cough, Harsh laughs, and Abhimaan gives me the faintest smirk, as if to say, “You’re mine even with flower petals in your teeth.”

And then—Kajal and Radha.

They’re sitting together, of course, both grinning like idiots, whispering to each other, and very obviously plotting. I can practically feel Kajal’s smirk from here. She mouths, “Hot husband,” while pointing discreetly at Abhimaan, and Radha tries to stifle a laugh, failing miserably.

I glare at them—well, as much as a bride can glare while keeping her “demure daughter” face on. Kajal just flashes me a thumbs up like she’s approving my life choices, while Radha gives me a mock wipe of tears, mouthing, “Proud of you, babe.”

Abhimaan notices me struggling not to roll my eyes, his gaze flicking briefly to them and back to me. One brow lifts, amused, as though he knows exactly what my friends are up to. Great. Just great.

And then… the pheras.

We walk around the fire, the priest chanting, the family watching, the world slowing down. Abhimaan’s hand brushes mine, fingers catching for just a second—a silent, secret promise. My chest feels warm, but not from the fire.

When it’s time for the mangalsutra, my heart hammers. The black-and-gold beads rest cool against my collarbone as his fingers clasp it. I swear I hear Rudraksh Bhaiya sniffle, though he’ll deny it later.

And the sindoor—that moment feels like the air holds its breath. He leans in, filling the parting of my hair with the vivid red, and I catch his eyes. There’s no teasing smirk this time. Just… love. Pure and unguarded. My own eyes sting.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Radha clutching Kajal’s hand, whispering something that makes them both teary-eyed. Kajal notices me looking and mouths, "Don’t you dare cry yet," while dramatically miming mascara running down her face. I nearly lose it.

When the priest announces us as husband and wife, the whole place bursts into applause. Harsh whoops loudly, Bhabhi dabs her eyes, and Rudrani starts showering petals like she’s been saving the entire stash for this exact moment. Kajal whistles—yes, whistles—in the middle of it all, earning a scandalized look from Badi Maa, while Radha claps harder than anyone, eyes shining.

After the rituals, we’re seated for the vidai. I knew this part would be hard, but I didn’t expect Bade Papa to be the one who breaks first, his voice cracking as he blesses me. Maa’s tears fall silently, her hug tight and lingering. Aarav tries to act cool, but his hug says otherwise.

Kajal squeezes my hand before I leave, whispering, “Go make the world eat their words, boss lady.” Radha hugs me tight, murmuring, “Be happy. And don’t forget, you still owe us girls’ night updates.”

Through it all, Abhimaan’s hand stays firm in mine, a quiet anchor. He leans close, his voice low so only I hear, “Ready to come home, Mrs. Malhotra?”

I look at him—this infuriating, patient, steady man who once refused to tell me what he wanted to talk about just so he could fire me into starting my own business—and I smile.

“Only if you promise me one thing,” I say.

“What?” he asks, eyebrow lifting.

“That you’ll keep making my life this loud, messy, and beautiful.”

He grins, squeezing my hand. “Always.”

And just like that, under a rain of petals and a thousand noisy blessings, we step into forever.

“I love you,” I mutter.

“As Rudrani says,” Abhimaan smiles softly at me, “to the moon and back, darling.”