Between the sharp, sticky heat of Delhi and the occasional, stolen breeze of an overworked ceiling fan, I sit, staring at this man—this impossibility of a man—who somehow, against all odds, against every carefully crafted plan, is mine. And honestly? It has all been a scam. A very well-orchestrated, brilliantly executed, straight-out-of-a-con movie that the universe somehow pulled off without me realizing. Because me? Married? To him? Srijan wasn’t supposed to happen. And certainly not like this. Not this fast. Not this effortlessly. Not this completely. But here’s the thing: I might be the storm, but he—he is the stillness in its center. Somewhere between our opposing quirks and our perfectly-aligned humor, between our stubborn debates and the way he softens when he looks at me, I realized—I was doomed. Because Srijan? He is the one thing I never saw coming. And the only thing I now know I can’t live without.