Aashvi's POV

I wasn't sure how long I stood there after Mahira's formal little introduction. Maybe a second. Maybe an eternity. Time felt like it had folded in on itself the moment our eyes met—sharp, steady, unapologetically direct.

And then, just like that, the spell broke.

"Would you like to have dinner?"

His voice was smooth—low, deliberate, like it didn't matter if I said yes or no because he'd already decided this was happening. His words weren't coated with charm or pretended sweetness. They were just... there. Bold. Direct.

I blinked, thrown off by the simplicity of it. "Excuse me?"

"Dinner," he repeated, slipping his hands into his pockets like this was the most normal thing in the world. "Tomorrow. I'll pick you up."

I stared at him, part of me waiting for a smirk, a wink, something to suggest he was joking. But no. This was real. This was him. A man who probably never needed to ask twice.

Before I could think it through, I shot back, "Is this part of the package Mahira sold you on? Meet the girl, have dinner with the girl, marry the girl?"

His lips quirked slightly—not a smile, just a flicker of amusement like my sarcasm was an inside joke we were both in on. "Not exactly."

Not exactly? What did that even mean?

"I'll pick you up at eight," he added, as if my answer didn't matter. Then, with the same effortless arrogance, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, words lodged somewhere between my throat and ego.

______________________________

The car ride home was suffocating—not because of the traffic, but because of my mother.

"You have no idea how hard I worked to convince Mahira to even consider you," she started, her voice sharp with purpose. "Do you know how many women would kill for this opportunity? Mahira doesn't pitch girls like you to men like him unless she sees potential."

Girls like me. The phrase stung, even if I pretended it didn't.

"Agastya Rathore isn't just some rich guy, Aashvi. He's a billionaire. Old money. Legacy. And he asked you to dinner," she continued, her voice gaining momentum like a train with no brakes. "You'd better not screw this up."

I stared out the window, my reflection flickering against the glass. I wanted to snap back, to say something cutting, but my thoughts were a tangled mess of emotions I couldn't untangle fast enough.

What was I supposed to say? That my gut was screaming that something felt off? That beneath Agastya's polished exterior, there was something I couldn't quite name—something that made my skin prickle, not in fear, but in warning?

But at the same time...

He seemed so real.

Not the fake, charming kind of real most men wore like a mask. No. He was solid, unapologetic, and irritatingly grounded. That kind of presence didn't come easy. It wasn't taught. It just was.

And that's what unsettled me the most.

_____________________________

When I got home, I kicked off my heels, letting them land wherever they pleased, and collapsed onto my bed. The ceiling stared back at me, quiet and indifferent while my mind ran circles around itself.

Why would someone like Agastya Rathore want to marry someone like me?

It wasn't insecurity. It was logic. He could have anyone. Models. Heiresses. Women with last names that came with more weight than mine. And yet, here I was—on his radar for reasons I couldn't wrap my head around.

I groaned, frustrated with myself, and rolled over. I needed a distraction. Something—anything—to pull me out of this mental spiral.

I started rummaging through my closet, looking for an old notebook where I'd drafted plot ideas for my next romance novel. My hands dug through a pile of scarves, forgotten trinkets, and random chaos. That's when I felt it.

A small, dusty box shoved in the corner.

I pulled it out, frowning slightly as familiarity crept in like an old song you haven't heard in years.

The box of letters.

Letters I'd written to my future husband.

I didn't even remember the last time I'd touched it. Maybe it was out of habit. Maybe hope. Or maybe because somewhere deep down, I'd believed in the idea of love enough to write those words.

I opened the box.

The letters were still there, neatly folded, some yellowed at the edges. I picked one up, my name written in my own handwriting like a message from a past version of me. The ink was slightly smudged, as if even sixteen-year-old me had been a little too dramatic while sealing it.

I unfolded the paper, bracing myself for the cringe.

Dear Future Husband,
Hi. I don't know if you're reading this sitting next to me someday, or if I'm alone, laughing at how ridiculous this is. But here goes nothing.

I hope you love late-night drives. And rainy days. And the kind of music that makes you feel like your chest might explode. I hope you're the kind of person who doesn't think love is boring or overrated because I've spent half my life writing about it like it's the most important thing in the world—even though I've literally never been in love.

I hope you get annoyed when I steal your hoodies but secretly love it anyway. I hope you argue with me about pointless things, like which pizza topping is superior, just so you can watch me get worked up (fair warning: it's always going to be extra cheese). I hope you make me feel safe, but never small. I hope you kiss me like it's the last time, even when it's not.

Also, I really hope you don't think I'm weird for writing this because honestly, I was supposed to be studying for my math exam, which I'm probably failing anyway, but here I am, writing to you instead. Priorities, I guess. Wish my luck for my pre boards lol.

P.S. You have to love cats. Not "they're okay" kind of love. I'm talking about the "I'd build them a tiny castle" kind of love because, spoiler alert—I will have at least two, maybe three. Or five. Who's counting?

-With all the teenage wisdom I clearly possess,
Aashvi (future cat mom with a supermodel body, occasional drama queen, and hopefully your favorite person someday)

I let out a shaky breath, the edges of the letter trembling slightly in my hands.

I'd written this thinking love would be simple. That someday, someone would come along and fit into my life like the missing piece of a puzzle. Not someone like Agastya Rathore—a man who felt like a puzzle all on his own.

Why would someone like him want someone like me?

I didn't have the answer.

But as I traced the faded ink, I realized something even more unsettling.

I don't think he's anything like the man I wrote these letters for.

_____________________________

AND THAT'S A WRAP ON CHAPTER 6!

Okay, but let's talk about it—Agastya inviting her to dinner like it's no big deal??? The audacity. The calculated charm. The "I'll pick you up" without even waiting for a yes?! I'm screaming.

And then there's Aashvi—finding that box of letters like fate was sitting in the corner going, "Plot twist, babe."

Do you think she's overthinking Agastya, or is her gut onto something? 👀
Also, how cute was 16-year-old Aashvi writing to her future husband?? (Honestly, I feel like we all did this at some point... or was that just me?)

Drop a "💌" if you felt that emotional punch with the letter,
a "😳" if Agastya's dinner invite had your heart glitching,
and a "🚩" if you're getting suspicious because SAME.

Let's blow up the comments—I NEED to hear your theories!
(And yes, I'm lurking. Always.)