Arnav Singh Raizada
The creak of the door opening could practically rouse the entire Raizada mansion from slumber.
"What the hell, Aman," I murmur as quietly as possible as he nudges the main door ajar.
"I didn't mean to," he whispers back. "And don't worry, your sleeping beauty won't stir even if you blast the Dolby stereo next to her. She's passed out, not merely dozed off."
I grit my teeth at his deliberate teasing, stealing a glance at the woman in my arms. My wife. Khushi.
She clings to my shirt, while I cradle her as though she were a fragile doll I must shield from the outside world.
Hari Prakash enters the living room, rubbing his eyes, only for them to widen at the sight of Aman and me returning home late at night, with a woman in my arms. Clearly, he hasn't recognized her.
"What?" I scowl at him. “Biwi hai meri!”
