Page 32 of Glass Jawed

Lucian

I don’t know what I did. She’s not speaking. Hell, I’m not even sure she’s breathing .

She’s in full autopilot after I said the words— I love you.

Sure, I’ve said it before. But this time... it was different. Vulnerable.

So naturally, I dared to hope.

Right up until her mother appeared behind me.

“Oh good, you’re here!” Her mom yells, already walking toward us with the world’s heaviest fruit basket wrapped in gold mesh. It looks like it weighs more than my emotional baggage.

Before I can process anything, I instinctively rush forward and take it from her.

Aarohi still hasn’t spoken. Or blinked. I’m starting to worry.

“Hello, ma’am!” I manage politely.

“Lucian, beta ! You’re here. How are you?” she beams, but then her eyes laser in on my rental SUV like she’s just spotted a free Uber XL.

She turns back and shouts toward the house, “ Raaaaj ! We’re okay. We have an SUV here!”

I blink. Once. Twice. What just happened?

She opens the passenger door and gestures for me to place the fruit basket inside. I... comply. Because saying no to Indian aunties is how people die.

That’s when I notice the chaos: five cars, open trunks, a dozen suitcases lined up like a military deployment. What in the family road trip hell is happening?

“Um... ma’am?” I try again. “What—”

“Oh, call me Keerti, beta ,” she chirps just as a man who looks suspiciously like the older, grayer version of Aarohi walks out with the calm menace of someone about to hijack my car.

He surveys the SUV and grins. “Yeah... this will work.”

“Hi, sir. I’m Lucian,” I say, extending a hand like a good future son-in-law-slash-captive chauffeur.

He shakes my hand with fatherly gusto. “I’ve heard of you from my Kiki! And I’m Raj. No sir-wir nonsense, okay?”

I’m smiling, nodding, still completely lost, when Aarohi suddenly resurrects from her catatonic state.

“What?!” she shrieks. “You call them Raj uncle and Kiki aunty ! Don’t— don’t call them by their names!”

I nod. “Yes. Right. Uncle. Aunty. Of course.”

“Oh Rohi, stop being so dramatic,” Keerti scolds her. “Raj! Go get the red and purple suitcases.”

And Aarohi’s father—Raj—sprints. Like he’s on a mission. Like my car is a getaway vehicle and we are 60 seconds from departure.

“What is happening?” Aarohi breathes, looking around like she’s in a simulation glitch.

“Hush!” her mom says, swatting her away like a mosquito. “Lucian beta , open the dicky.”

The what?

“She means the trunk,” Aarohi mutters between gritted teeth. Then louder: “Don’t you fucking dare , Lucian!”

Her mom gasps, scandalized. “Language, Rohi!”

“Mom, what are you doing ?! This is not our car!”

Raj is back with the luggage, whistling. I watch as he collapses my back seats with pro-level efficiency and starts loading up like he’s done this a thousand times.

In a trance, I help with the second bag. Because apparently... I work here now?

Aarohi is practically vibrating with horror. “ No, no, no! Mom! Dad! Lucian is not— he’s not —he’s not our driver !”

I raise a hand to intervene, possibly defend my dignity, but then I pause.

“...It’s fine,” I say.

Why? I don’t know. Trauma bonding? A cry for help?

Either way, I double down. “Really. My car is at your service.”

Aarohi chokes. “What?”

Keerti clasps her hands together like I just cured arthritis. “See? Such a sweet boy!”

And just like that, I think I’ve been roped into a weekend getaway with the woman I love and her entire family.

I have no idea what’s in store.

But judging by the third suitcase Raj is now dragging over...

It’s going to be one hell of a ride.

Ishi—who I’m now absolutely certain is Aarohi’s cousin—comes prancing toward us with a half-melted cone of ice cream and the casual chaos of a hurricane in a sundress.

“Oh hey again, Lucifer ,” she greets me flatly.

“ Ishi! Ishi, help.” Aarohi is borderline pleading now. “They think his car is the wedding party car!”

Ishi lets out a laugh-snort combo that could probably be weaponized. “Oh, they do. That’s adorable .”

Suddenly, the panic makes sense. The suitcases. The fruit baskets. The blinding optimism in Raj Uncle’s eyes.

This isn’t just a road trip—this is a wedding exodus.

A wedding.

Wait. Whose wedding?

Ishi clocks my confusion instantly, because apparently she’s psychic. She waves the cone like a wand. “Bride here, hi. Is this your car?”

“Ishi!” Aarohi screeches.

“It’s a rental,” I blurt at the same time.

“Stop shouting!” Raj Uncle shouts from somewhere behind the fruit. There are now, by my estimation, ten more people in the yard—none of whom seem even remotely alarmed that a strange white man is being roped into a convoy like he’s part of the wedding logistics team.

I extend a tentative hand to Ishi like I’m trying to befriend a rabid raccoon. “Hi. Uh—congratulations on your wedding.”

She squints at me like I’m made of lies and baggage. “Thank you, Lucifer . Didn’t know you were a polite guy.”

Behind her, Aarohi makes a strangled sound. “Fuck this!” she snaps—and bolts into the house.

I blink.

“So... uh. Ishi, right?”

She raises a brow. “Ishi ka . Not Ishi for you.”

“Right. Noted.” I nod solemnly.

She licks her cone, still glaring. “Looks like you’re in the wedding now.”

Before I can formulate a protest, Kiki Aunty reappears like clockwork, this time armed with yet another glimmering fruit basket. She thrusts it at me with all the gentle subtlety of a human trebuchet.

“Oh Lucian beta ! Go get the other baskets from inside. Ishi, help him!”

I widen my eyes. “More baskets?”

“At least three more,” Ishika says, smirking as she leads me inside like a prison warden.

Inside the living room, I see a mountain of wedding paraphernalia. Baskets. Ribbons. A suspicious number of boxes. I’m immediately sweating.

“My wedding’s in ten days,” she explains, plucking a basket off a stool. “Both mine and Vikram’s families are going to this giant farmhouse three hours away. Lots of mosquitoes. I’m guessing you’re taking a few aunties in that SUV of yours.”

“I... am,” I reply, smiling.

“Good.” She grins wickedly. “Hope you like Indian music and unsolicited marriage advice.”

And just like that, I realize something terrifying.

I might be in Aarohi’s family wedding convoy.

“I love Indian music!” I declare with the enthusiasm of someone auditioning to not get deported.

Ishika raises a brow, clearly unconvinced. “I’m guessing it’s not just the music you... love .” She gestures toward the basket in my arms with the tip of her ice cream cone, smug as hell.

“I do love your cousin, Ishika,” I admit quietly as we walk back toward the SUV. “I don’t know what Aarohi told you but—”

“She hasn’t. But Kash had some choice words,” she says with a shrug. “So I’m guessing you fucked up?”

I nod solemnly. “Yeah. I did.”

She hums in response, not surprised in the least. “Where’s the other guy? The... other Lamebrain ?”

Despite everything, I chuckle. “Liam. He’s still in Canada, holding down the fort. Someone has to manage the company while I’m on... emotional sabbatical.”

“Oh? You’re a businessman?” She eyes me as if trying to figure out what kind of businessman cries in rented SUVs and schleps fruit baskets like an unpaid intern.

“Yeah. Liam and I co-founded a pet healthtech company. I’m the CEO. He’s the COO.”

She squints, licking her cone with suspicion. “Then why isn’t he here? Like you are. Trying to win back Kashvi?”

I pause at the trunk, shifting the basket around so I can maybe still squeeze my own bag in later. Assuming I even remember to check out of my hotel. Assuming I survive this journey. Assuming I’m not sacrificed halfway through to appease some deity of awkward tension.

“I... I’m not here to win Aarohi back,” I finally say, weakly.

Ishika laughs directly in my face. “You’re an idiot.”

One hour later, my SUV is packed to critical capacity. I’ve lost count of the suitcases. I’m pretty sure one of the baskets is actually just filled with steel tiffins. And I still need to have space Tina Bua, Romi Uncle, their son, and Aarohi.

Shit. I’ll need to check out of the hotel, grab my bag, all while trying to stay within this massive wedding convoy.

I’m now sitting in their living room with Raj Uncle and Kiki Aunty, sipping hot chai like I’m not mentally spiraling. They’re lounging on the couch like they don’t see me dying inside—because they absolutely don’t.

Aarohi still hasn’t come downstairs.

Which makes sense. If I were her, I wouldn’t come downstairs either.

Not when the man who broke your heart is sipping chai on your family couch, watching your relatives shove suitcases into his rental.

The house is a whirlwind.

People are running around everywhere—grabbing last-minute bags, shouting for missing shoes, yelling over which snacks made it into which suitcase. A few of them pause to ask who I am, and apparently, I’ve already been assigned multiple identities.

From Lucian beta to Rohi’s friend to, at least twice now, Rohi’s boyfriend.

I tried correcting them at first. It didn’t stick. So now I just smile and nod like a seasoned imposter.

“How’s your company doing?” Raj Uncle asks, casually massaging his wife’s shoulders like he’s not melting my heart with this public display of affection.

I’m momentarily stunned. This is the kind of love Aarohi grew up around—loud, unapologetic, constant. And I suddenly feel very, very small.

“It’s, uh... good, Uncle,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m on a leave of absence, but my team’s managing things.”

“You’re on a what ?”

The beautiful voice behind me is sharp enough to slice through drywall. I flinch and turn.

Aarohi is glaring.

“I...”

“Never mind,” she mutters and disappears into the kitchen.

“Aww, dekho Raj,” Kiki Aunty coos, nudging her husband. “He’s looking at her so sweetly.” (Look Raj.)

Shit.

I didn’t even realize I was full-on ogling their daughter. At least my expression registered as sweet and not obsessed . I need to get a grip. Reign it in.

Because at this rate, Aarohi isn’t just going to kill me—she’ll bury me in the backyard with the wedding leftovers.

??????

It’s close to 9 p.m. by the time we arrive.

The farmhouse isn’t what I expected—it’s bigger.

More like a miniature kingdom carved into the outskirts of Delhi.

Two sprawling mansions stand on either side of a lush, landscaped courtyard, their exteriors glowing under ambient fairy lights.

Between them, workers are setting up a massive tent, stringing lights into the trees and lining the grass with wooden poles and draped fabrics.

Apparently, one mansion is for the bride’s side— our side , I guess. The other for the groom’s. And this place? It could host a small nation.

The drive here was long and awkward. Aarohi didn’t speak a single word to me.

She spent the entire three hours chatting with her Tina Bua and Romi Uncle in the back seat.

Their teenage son was glued to his phone, headphones in, oblivious to the very visible tension ricocheting off my skin.

And me ? I just drove. Quietly. Breathing slowly.

Concentrating on driving on the wrong fucking side of the road.

Now, we’re here.

The convoy of cars rolls in, headlights cutting through the dusk as trunks pop open and bags are unloaded. The groom’s side is arriving too—dressed smartly, laughing loudly, waving to familiar faces as they’re welcomed with sweets and marigold garlands.

I keep myself busy. Carrying bags. Hoisting boxes. Nodding along as Ishika explains the week ahead—mehendi, haldi, cocktail, sangeet, wedding, reception. A full-blown Punjabi wedding .

She’s polite, maybe even kind, but her eyes never fully soften when they meet mine. Fair enough.

I’m reaching into the trunk for another duffel bag when I hear it.

A squeal .

I freeze.

Aarohi .

I recognize the pitch—excited, high, impossibly joyful. My heart kicks once, stupidly hopeful, until I hear the thunder of feet pounding across stone. I turn my head.

She’s running.

Full sprint.

But not toward me .

No. Why would she?

She’s hurtling straight at him.

Advik.

The same guy whose hand was in her hair that night. The one I saw kissing her. The one who got to touch her while I stood there like an idiot with my heart crumbling.

Ishika goes for the man next to him, throwing her arms around his neck. Must be the groom—Vikram.

And Aarohi?

She practically leaps into Advik’s arms.

His face lights up. He catches her easily, spinning her once before settling her against him, and she’s already talking a mile a minute—laughing, giddy, her hand lingering on his chest like she’s done it a hundred times before.

Fucking fuck.

He’s in the wedding.

Of course he is.

And that’s when it hits me.

This was the stupidest decision I’ve ever made.

Because now—if I stay—for the next two weeks...

I have to watch the woman I love smile like that— for someone else.