The private jet's cabin, all sleek leather and polished mahogany, felt stiflingly small to Danish Ahmed. Freshly arrived from New York, the billionaire businessman and notorious playboy was in his family's sprawling ancestral home in Mumbai for his younger brother, Maan's, wedding. He was twenty-eight now, the golden boy of the family, a man who commanded boardrooms and bedrooms with equal ease.
He had expected the usual fanfare, the endless rituals, and the forced smiles. What he hadn't expected was the bride.
The Bride's Face
The mehndi ceremony was in full swing, a riot of color, music, and laughter. Danish, dressed in a sharp sherwani, stood by the periphery, feigning interest in a conversation with a distant relative, his eyes drifting. Then, he saw her.
The bride, seated on a cushioned dais, was an ethereal vision. She wore a deep emerald green lehenga, the heavy gold embroidery catching the light. Her hands, adorned with intricate henna, were delicate. But it was her face that made Danish's breath hitch, a gasp he swallowed with a sudden, painful jolt.
It was Anaya.
Not the pixelated, sweet face he remembered from grainy video calls seven years ago. This Anaya was a woman, fully bloomed. Her skin was like cream, her eyes, framed by dark kohl, were large and expressive. Her nose was small and perfect, and the curve of her lips—the very lips that had once spoken words of pure, innocent love—was now softened into a shy, dazzling smile. She was, as he thought, a magnificent angel. The Anaya he had lost was beautiful; this Anaya was breathtaking.
Anaya. The only girl he'd ever truly loved, even if their love was a secret confined to the digital realm.
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