Ahan is not just wealthy; he is grounded. He carries his family's name with a quiet humility that makes him well-liked, not resented. He's in the same class as Anaya and has admired her from a distance for a while, drawn to her quiet strength and intelligence.
When the news of her family's very public feud and her subsequent heartbreak spread through the college gossip chain, his admiration turned into a fierce, protective desire to care for her. He didn't see her as "damaged goods"; he saw her as someone who had been treated unfairly and was carrying a weight no one should carry alone.
His proposal isn't a grand, flashy gesture designed to impress. It's quiet, sincere, and happens in a moment of genuine connection—perhaps while studying together in the library or walking back from class.
"Aanya," he might say, his voice soft but firm. "I know what you've been through. I can't even imagine how hard it's been. And I'm not asking you to forget any of it. But please, let me be the one who helps you build something new. Let me be there for you. Not to replace what you lost, but to give you something different... something stable and good."
He offers her a sanctuary. His love is a calm harbor after the storm she has endured.
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Chapter: The Safe Harbor
The university library had become Anaya's fortress. Within its silent, towering shelves, she could almost pretend the outside world—the whispers, the pitying looks, the memory of her father's shattered pride—didn't exist.
Ahan found her there, at her usual table. He didn't swoop in; he approached gently, placing a cup of her favorite tea beside her textbook.
"Thought you could use this," he said, his voice a low, warm murmur that didn't disturb the silence.
She looked up, surprised. "Thank you, Ahan."
He sat across from her, not pushing, just sharing the space. He had been doing this for weeks. A quiet presence. A shared note. A genuine question about a lecture she had aced. He never mentioned the feud. He never said Dakshin's name.
But today was different. He watched her as she stared into the steam rising from her cup, her shoulders slumped with a weariness that had nothing to do with exams.
"Anaya," he began, his tone shifting into something more serious. She met his gaze. His eyes were kind, but held a determined strength. "I know what happened. With your family. And... with him."
A faint flush of shame heated her cheeks. She looked away, but his voice pulled her back.
"Look at me. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. What his family did was cruel. And him... letting you go like that..." He shook his head, not with anger, but with a profound sense of injustice. "He's a fool."
The words were so simple, so bluntly honest, they cut through the complex web of her own grief and confusion.
"I'm not him, Anaya," Ahan continued, leaning forward slightly. "I don't come with that baggage. I don't believe love is something you have to earn once you've 'made it.' I believe it's something you build, together, from where you are." He took a slow breath. "So, let me. Let me be the one who helps you build something new. Let me be there for you. Not to replace what you lost, but to give you something different... something stable and good."
He wasn't offering passionate, dramatic love. He was offering a safe harbor. A partnership. A future built on respect and quiet devotion, not duty and drama.
Anaya looked into his sincere, hopeful face, and then the image of Dakshin's pained, hesitant eyes flashed in her mind. One offered a lifetime of uncertainty and regret. The other offered peace.
Her "yes" was barely a whisper, but it was decisive.
"Okay," she said, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and resolve. "Yes."
Ahan's face lit up with a smile that was pure, unadulterated joy. He didn't kiss her or make a scene. He simply reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand.
As his warm hand covered hers, Anaya felt a door in her heart slam shut, locking away the ghost of her first love. She was choosing sanity over heartbreak, peace over passion. It was the right choice, the smart choice. So why did a part of her feel like she was attending her own funeral?