(And folks, I told you last night — you don't drag a crying bride in red lehenga into your bachelor pad and expect to wake up to sunshine and peace. Nope. What you wake up to is chaos disguised as breakfast.)
Shubham opened his eyes to the sound of utensils clanging. For a terrifying second, he thought he was still in office — boss shouting, deadlines clattering. But no. He was in his room.
And someone was in his kitchen.
He sat up, hair wild, pillow crease stamped on his face. The events of last night came back like corrupted files slowly repairing:Bridge. Bride. Slap. Proposal. Ghost joke. Wife lie.
"Oh God," he muttered. "She's still here."
Yes. She was. In his shirt, sleeves rolled up, standing by the stove like she owned it. The red lehenga was folded neatly on his chair, shimmering like an artifact.
And there she was, cooking. Like she'd done this forever.
The smell of parathas filled the room. Actual parathas. Not Maggi. Not burnt rice. Shubham's soul almost left his body.
"You— you can cook?" he asked, still half-asleep.
She didn't look up. "Better than you."
Fair point.
(Speaker: Oof. Straight to the ego. Developers can debug life itself but can't make a round chapati. Balance in the universe restored.)
Before he could say anything, a knock came. Then another. Then three more.
Shubham froze.
The door creaked open. Neighbor Aunty entered like a queen entering her palace, followed by two more gossip-enthusiasts from down the hall.
"Arre wah! New bride is already cooking! So sanskaari!" Aunty's eyes sparkled.
Shubham choked. "Wait—no—this isn't—"
Too late. The rumor had mutated. By evening, the entire building would know Shubham Kumar, software developer, had secretly married a mysterious beauty in red.
One aunty even whispered, "Such a quiet boy, who knew he had so much romance in him?"
Romance. Ha. If only they'd seen the slap.
After the audience finally left, he collapsed onto the chair. "Great. Just great. Now I'm officially married in this building. Next week, they'll ask about kids."
She didn't answer. She just set a plate in front of him. Hot parathas, pickle, curd.
He stared. His chest tightened strangely. He had survived years on noodles and cold tea, and now someone was serving him breakfast like it was normal.
He ate in silence. She ate with him. Two strangers pretending to be husband and wife because the world demanded a label.
After breakfast, Shubham checked his phone. 27 missed calls. From his boss.
His soul left his body again. "Shit."
The girl looked up. "Office?"
He groaned. "Yes. And if I'm late, I'll be debugging till retirement."
He ran to get dressed. White shirt, black pants, hair barely combed. Laptop bag slung.
Before leaving, he looked at her. Standing there, tidying his mess, like she had always been part of his flat.
"Lock the door after me. Don't open it for anyone except me."
She nodded. Quiet, calm. Too calm.
He hesitated. Wanted to say something. Anything. Maybe explain why he lied. Maybe apologize again. Maybe confess that he'd secretly admired her in the office marketing floor, always from a distance, never with courage.
But instead, he just said, "There's WiFi. Password is… bugfree123."
(Speaker: Smooth, Romeo. Really poetic. Forget roses and sonnets, give her WiFi. Every girl's dream.)
And with that, Shubham left.
Cliffhanger → Office hell awaits. And the girl? Left alone in a stranger's home, in a stranger's shirt, with a stranger's WiFi.