The gates of Shivani Villa closed behind me with a sense of finality. I was Ananya, the pawn in my stepmother’s game, traded for financial security to Rohan Verma, the “disabled young master.” The house was a beautiful prison, and my new husband its silent warden. He acknowledged me with a nod, granting me the “freedom” to roam his lonely kingdom. I felt invisible, a ghost in a story where I played a necessary but unloved role. The weight of a lifetime of obligation settled on my shoulders.
Our wedding night was nothing from the stories. There was no romance, only a profound, awkward quiet. As the hours stretched, a simple human impulse broke through my fear: no one should be left without help. I offered to assist him from his wheelchair to the bed. He was heavier than I expected, and as I shifted my weight, my slipper slipped on the polished floor. We crashed down in a tangle of limbs and wedding silks. Embarrassed, I pushed myself up, but my hand, still on his leg, felt a deliberate, slight movement. Not a spasm, but a controlled shift. I met his gaze, and the unspoken truth hung in the air.
That fall shattered the pretense. Later, he admitted the doctors had hope for his recovery, but the loss of his fiancée and friends made him see the wheelchair as a shield from further hurt. He had chosen stillness. In that moment, I saw not a invalid, but a man in a self-imposed exile. So, I decided to be an intruder in his solitude. I brought noise where there was quiet, and light where he preferred shadows. I asked about his work, challenged his pessimism, and, with unwavering patience, became the reason he wanted to try again. Our daily exercises were less about physiotherapy and more about building trust, one shaky step at a time.
When my stepmother arrived to collect her “dividend,” her smugness melted under Rohan’s calm authority. He settled the debt, but more importantly, he gave me a new title in front of her: not a traded bride, but his wife. It was a declaration that reshaped my world. The miracle wasn’t sudden. It was a gradual dawning. One ordinary morning, I found him not in his room, but in the heart of the garden, standing tall. He didn’t need to say he could walk; his proud, tear-filled smile said it all. He opened his arms, and I walked into them—this time, on my own two feet, toward a future we chose together. Our love story began with a literal fall, a stumble that tripped us out of a scripted tragedy and into a beautiful, unexpected life we built for ourselves.
