Page 87 of Protect my Heart
The pen rests heavy in my hand, though it's light in weight. Paperwork, signatures, and names that once meant only a contract. It's strange—how something that started out so hollow has come to mean everything. I glance at the table. Our divorce papers lie flat on the polished wooden surface, and beside me, Aarav sits like he’s about to sign up for a birthday party instead of a legal separation.
The room is quiet. Too quiet. Maa and Mumma sit beside us, both wearing identical expressions—curious, watchful, and a little cautious. There’s tension in the air, unspoken but loud, thick like the unshed words clinging to all four corners of the room.
I reach out for the pen again, swallowing the odd lump forming in my throat.
That’s when I feel Aarav’s hand—under the table, sliding gently between my thighs, his fingers warm against my leggings just above my knee.
My breath catches. This idiot. I glance at him, eyes narrowing in warning. He’s already watching me, lips twitching in amusement as if he knows exactly what he’s doing. Which, of course, he does.
The other hand—the obedient one—signs the paper with a flourish.
“Done!” he says, way too cheerfully for someone who just ended a marriage. “We’re officially divorced now!”
Maa shoots him the look. The one that would make CEOs tremble. Aarav, of course, grins wider. Mumma chuckles softly beside her. “Never in my life did I think I’d see someone be so happy while getting divorced.”
She turns to Maa, lips twitching with amusement. “What all these kids make us witness, haan?”
Maa just shakes her head, but a small smile plays on her lips too. “At least they are being idiots together, Rekha. Come on.” She reaches out and gently clasps Mumma’s hand, and they both stand to leave.
But just before stepping out, Mumma turns to me. “We’re going home. You come in ten minutes, okay?”
I nod, trying not to look like I’m internally panicking over the way Aarav’s thumb is still brushing lazy circles on my thigh. Once they’re gone, I swat his hand away and shoot him a glare.
“Have you completely lost it?”
He just leans back in his chair like he hasn’t been seconds away from making me combust in front of our mothers. “What? I was celebrating.”
“Celebrating?”
“Yes,” he says, leaning closer, voice dropping a little. “Now that the fake marriage is legally done, I can marry you for real." He leans in, placing a kiss on my cheek; my eyes close involuntarily. "Properly. With pheras. Sindoor. Mangalsutra.Vows. All of it. And this time…” His hand finds mine under the table, squeezing it tightly. “...this time, I’m going to do it in front of the whole damn world so they know I belong to you, Mrs. Malhotra.”
My stomach does a stupid flip. My heart stumbles a little. I hate how good he is at this. At making me feel like I’m the only thing that exists in his orbit.
“Are you always this dramatic?” I whisper.
“Only when it comes to you,” he says simply, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “And don’t act like you’re not already dreaming about the mehendi and the sangeet and what color your wedding outfit will be.” He chuckles.
“I am not—” I start, but he raises a brow, and I sigh, defeated. “Okay, maybe a little.”
He laughs, a deep, happy sound that fills the room, and something in me softens, settles.
Yesterday at dinner, Maa had announced that it’ll be six months to our marriage next month and proposed the idea of re-marrying us with all the rituals they missed out on. I expected someone to protest, but no—everyone had agreed almost instantly.
Especially Shivani bhabhi. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her that excited, practically glowing even more than usual. She kept saying things like, “Finally! I can plan a wedding!”
Meanwhile, Rudraksh Bhaiya looked like he was being forced into battle.
“You’re eight months pregnant, Shivani! Can you please not bounce like a five-year-old?” I love seeing Bhaiya so stressed; he is so caring towards Bhabhi, it makes my heartswell. Considering he is the most domineering man I know, it's a sweet and hilarious sight.
Bhabhi had gasped, all wounded pride and narrowed eyes. “Are you calling me bratty?” Which led to Badi Maa glaring daggers at Bhaiya until he looked like he wanted to sink into the ground.
Chaos, as usual. But the happy kind. The warm, fuzzy, family kind.
Aarav pulls me out of my thoughts as he stands and stretches. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I was thinking maybe this time I should wear a sherwani that matches your lehenga.”
“I haven’t picked my lehenga yet.”
“Oh, please.” He steps closer. “You’ve been mentally designing it since last night. I saw you zoning out during dinner.”
