Aryan adjusted his tie in the mirror, eyeing himself critically. It was the first day back at the office since the wedding. Normally, he'd be excited—he liked routine, his files, the sense of purpose. But today, he was anything but settled.

Behind him, in the reflection, was Diana. Curled up like a blanket burrito, hair a wild halo, mouth slightly open, breathing deep. Her face was smudged with last night's eyeliner, giving her a rebellious raccoon charm. The thought of leaving her alone in the house made him nervous. Not because she wasn't capable—oh no, she was a literal hurricane—but because she was too capable. Of chaos.

He cleared his throat loudly.

No reaction.

"Diana," he said, louder.

She pulled the blanket over her head. "Nahi jaa rahe ho na tum? Office band karo, aaj national cuddle day hai," she mumbled.

He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. "Diana, I have to go. This is important. Clients. Meetings. Deadlines."

"Ugh, so boring," she peeked out, one eye open. "You're choosing spreadsheets over this face?"

He chuckled in spite of himself. "I'm choosing not to let my company crash and burn. Please behave today. And no—" he narrowed his eyes "—don't try to do anything adventurous."

"Define adventurous," she said, stretching like a cat.

He stood up quickly, afraid that any more time in the room would dissolve his resolve. "Just... don't touch anything. Don't burn anything. Don't adopt a dog. And don't make momos at home."

"That was one time!" she yelled as he walked out, grabbing his laptop bag.

As he got into the car, Aryan texted his younger sister Arya.

"Keep your phone on. Your bhabhi worries me."

Arya: LOL. Godspeed, bhaiya.

Back at the house, Diana got out of bed at around 11 a.m., scratching her head and yawning like a sleepy lioness. She wandered into the kitchen, still in her oversized T-shirt and fluffy socks, only to be met with the intimidating eyes of Savita aunty, the head housekeeper.

"You're up late," Savita aunty said, eyebrows raised.

Diana gave her a sleepy smile. "I'm new here. Jet lag. Husband lag. All kinds of lags."

Savita didn't smile.

"I thought I'd help today," Diana said brightly, opening a cupboard and pulling out random spices. "You know, get into this bahu mode. Maybe make chai?"

Savita rushed forward as Diana uncapped a tin of what she thought was tea leaves but was actually garam masala.

"Arrey madam, nahi! You sit. Please. Don't touch anything," Savita said, snatching the tin from her hand like it was a live grenade.

"But I just want to help!"

"You are newly married. Sit. This is not your job."

Diana blinked. "Okay... wow. Okay, boss lady. I'll just... sit."

She was made to sit on a cushioned chair in the corner of the living room, next to a window. Like she was a decoration. A houseplant. A glorified cushion.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. Then an hour.

She scrolled through Instagram. Took a selfie. Texted Aryan: Your house staff thinks I'm a porcelain doll.

No reply.

She sighed dramatically. Then louder.

Still no one cared.

Eventually, she slumped on the couch like a sulking princess from a 2000s rom-com. She was hungry. Her last meal was a single kaju katli Aryan's mom fed her during the griha pravesh. Her stomach grumbled, demanding vengeance.

She stood up and wandered into the kitchen again like a ghost haunting a place she wasn't allowed in. Savita aunty appeared like a ninja.

"Madam, sit!" she barked.

"But I'm dying of starvation," Diana whined.

"Lunch will be served soon."

"How soon?"

"One hour."

Diana pouted. Her eyes wide, lips pushed out, arms crossed—classic five-year-old energy. She dragged herself back to the couch and turned on the TV. The remote didn't work. She clicked random buttons until she accidentally switched the channel to a religious discourse.

"Perfect," she muttered. "Just what I needed. Satsang and starvation."

Meanwhile at the office, Aryan sat in a meeting room, pretending to listen to his CFO talk about quarterly reports. His mind, however, was elsewhere—like home, where a certain firecracker wife was probably breaking protocol and the peace.

He glanced at his phone.

No calls. No texts. No reports of small fires or structural damage.

That's either very good or very, very bad.

His phone buzzed. Message from Arya.

"Your wife just posted an Instagram story with the caption: 'Held hostage by house staff. No food. Only vibes.' 😂"

Aryan blinked.

He clicked on the story. Sure enough, there was Diana, pouting at the camera, dramatically lying on the couch with a background score of sad violin music.

He groaned and typed:

Aryan: Please behave. I'll be home in an hour.

Diana: I'm dying.

Aryan: You had one job. Sit still.

Diana: I'm not a fern, Aryan. I need sunlight, water, and snacks.

He gave up and shut his phone.

By the time he returned home at 6:30 p.m., Aryan was already bracing himself.

He opened the front door cautiously.

The house was eerily silent.

"Diana?" he called out.

A soft sniffle came from the living room.

He turned the corner—and there she was, wrapped in a throw blanket, hair a mess, eyes wide and exaggerated like she'd been through a war.

"I thought I'd never see you again," she said in a hoarse voice. "Your staff hates me. I wasn't allowed to touch anything. I was imprisoned. I couldn't even make Maggi."

"You don't know how to make Maggi," Aryan pointed out.

"That's beside the point," she hissed.

He knelt in front of her, holding back laughter. "Did they at least give you lunch?"

She looked away. "Two rotis. Plain."

He rolled his eyes. "Why didn't you ask for more?"

"I was too sad to ask."

He sighed. "Come on. Let's go eat something properly."

"Like what?" she perked up immediately.

"Momos?" he suggested.

Her eyes sparkled like stars. "You do love me."

"I'm just trying to avoid a dramatic Instagram story titled 'Neglected Wife Chronicles Part 2.'"

She burst out laughing and threw her arms around him. "You'll never win, Aryan Malhotra."

He hugged her back, gently. "I know."

As he stood, she jumped on his back piggyback-style.

"Diana—!"

"Take me to the momos or perish."

And off they went—husband, wife, one half sensible, one half storm—as the quiet chaos of their married life continued.