Aryan Malhotra was thirty-two, successful, composed, and still — painfully — single.

He wasn't a monk. He didn't chant mantras at sunrise or meditate in the Himalayas. In fact, he lived in a slick Gurgaon apartment, wore tailored suits, and ran a multimillion-dollar logistics company. But when it came to women, Aryan was an endangered species: untouched, untested, and utterly unprepared.

Ever since he was old enough to understand the mechanics of attraction, he had done everything in his power to avoid it. If a woman so much as brushed his arm in a crowded elevator, he would straighten like someone had fired a gun. College crushes? None. Office romances? Avoided like GST paperwork. He was the kind of guy who used "Ma'am" even when talking to a twenty-year-old intern.

His mother, naturally, had had enough.

"Tu toh Buddha ho gaya hai, Aryan," she said one evening, arms crossed over her chest as she glared at him across the dinner table.

"I'm thirty-two, not sixty," he replied, eyes still on his laptop screen.

"Same thing. In our family, everyone was married by twenty-six. Your father and I already had you by then. What are you waiting for? A girl to fall from the sky?"

"She'd run back the minute she met you," Aryan muttered.

But the message was clear. The time had come. And so, like every desperate Indian family since Shaadi.com was invented, Mrs. Malhotra opened the matrimonial floodgates.

Profiles were browsed. Biodatas were dissected. Photos were zoomed in on until Aryan swore he could see the girl's pores.

And then came her profile.

Diana Mehta. Twenty-two. Born in London. Half-British, half-Indian. The daughter of industrialist Arvind Mehta and his British wife, Sarah. She had studied fashion management, ran her own styling consultancy, and — according to her bio — liked "travel, tequila shots, and tearing patriarchy apart."

"Achi lag rahi hai na?" his mother had asked, pointing at the photo where Diana wore a bright red lehenga and winked at the camera.

"She looks... confident," Aryan said cautiously.

Which was Aryan-speak for she's going to eat me alive.

Still, when his mother suggested he meet her in Delhi, he agreed. Not because he was excited. Not because he thought it would go anywhere. But because somewhere deep down, he was tired of avoiding the question.

And so, he found himself sitting stiffly at a quaint Delhi café on a mild Sunday morning in April, nervously checking his watch.

And then she walked in.

A black saree. Not the simple kind your aunt wears to a pooja. This one shimmered with a subtle sheen, hugging her waist just enough to make him look away. The pallu was tucked sharply over her shoulder, revealing a toned midriff and a navel piercing that glinted in the light.

Aryan instinctively took a sip of his coffee — and immediately regretted it when she smiled.

That smile. It was mischievous, like she knew exactly how out-of-place he felt, and was enjoying every second of it.

"Hi," she said, sliding into the chair opposite him. "Aryan, right?"

He nodded, trying very hard not to stare.

"Nice to meet you," he offered politely.

"Likewise," she said. "Though I must say, you look exactly like your profile picture. Slightly more nervous, maybe."

He chuckled awkwardly. "This is... new for me."

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "You've never done a rishta meeting before?"

"No."

"Ever dated?"

He hesitated. "Not really."

Diana grinned. "Not really, or not at all?"

"Not at all," he confessed, flushing slightly.

She let out a low whistle. "Wow. Pure vegetarian, are we?"

Aryan choked. On air. Then fumbled with his glass of water.

"I didn't mean— I just—"

Diana laughed. "Relax, Aryan. I'm not here to corrupt your soul. Yet."

He stared at her, unsure whether to laugh or flee.

"So," she continued, propping up one stilettoed foot on the leg of her chair, "why the sudden interest in getting married?"

"My mother," he said honestly. "She thinks it's time."

"And you agree?"

"I think... maybe it's time to stop running."

Diana tilted her head, studying him. "Interesting."

He was about to ask what she meant, when curiosity got the better of him.

"And you? You're just twenty-two. Why are you getting married?"

She didn't miss a beat.

"My dad got tired of me changing boyfriends every four weeks. Says I swap them like I swap my nail art. So here we are."

Aryan stared.

She sipped her iced Americano with the elegance of a Bond villain.

"I'm sorry?" he croaked.

"I'm kidding," she said sweetly. "Well, sort of."

"You... change boyfriends that often?"

"Don't look so scared. I don't bite unless invited."

Aryan stared down at his coffee like it might offer him divine protection.

"So what are you looking for, Diana?"

She looked him dead in the eye.

"Someone stable. Safe. Clean. Like a brand-new white kurta. And you, Aryan Malhotra, scream dry-clean only."

He blinked. "Is that a compliment?"

"Absolutely," she said, smiling. "I'm done with boys who wear muscle tees and think foreplay is sending fire emojis. I want someone who'll ask me if I had lunch, not if I'm 'up.' You get what I mean?"

He nodded slowly. "I think so."

"Good. Because honestly, my mother is just excited I'm finally meeting someone who won't end up in my Instagram story as 'Another mistake, moving on'."

He couldn't help it. He laughed. And she smiled like that was exactly the goal.

Over the next hour, they talked about everything — business, family, travel. Aryan discovered she had lived in three countries by the time she was twelve. That she once dyed her hair green on a dare. That she hated coriander with the fire of a thousand suns.

She discovered he still played chess with his dad every Sunday. That he hated mangoes. And that he had a habit of reading Wikipedia pages of random topics when he couldn't sleep.

"Like what?"

"Last night? History of escalators."

Diana burst out laughing. "You are such a nerd. I love it."

By the end of the meeting, Aryan's shoulders had relaxed. His smile came easier. And when Diana stood to leave, she looked down at him with a raised brow.

"Well, Mr. Malhotra. If nothing else, I think I've convinced you I'm not boring."

"That... you have," he admitted.

She picked up her clutch and leaned a little closer.

"Careful, Aryan. If you keep looking at me like that, I might make it a habit."

He opened his mouth. No words came out.

She laughed. "Text me. Or don't. Either way, I'll pretend I'm not checking my phone every five minutes."

And just like that, she was gone.

Leaving behind the scent of her perfume, the echo of her laugh — and a very, very confused Aryan Malhotra.