Aishweriya's Pov
Every morning began the same way. Wake up at 5:30 AM. Yoga for precisely forty-five minutes. Shower. Apply just enough makeup to look "professional but not trying too hard." Prepare Aaron's breakfast—two eggs, avocado toast, black coffee. Pack his lunch with a handwritten note telling him how much I appreciate him. Check my appearance in the full-length mirror one final time. Smooth any wrinkles from my clothes. Practice my smile until it looked genuine.
It was exhausting being perfect.
But perfection was what was expected. What was demanded. What I had been trained for since childhood.
Today was no different. Except that my hands trembled slightly as I sliced the avocado. The diamond on my left hand caught the morning light, sending fractured rainbows across the kitchen counter. Six carats. Cushion cut. Custom setting. "Only the best for my future wife," Aaron had announced at the engagement dinner, loud enough for everyone to hear, his hand gripping mine just a little too tightly.
The ring felt heavy. Like it was slowly dragging my hand toward the earth's core.
My phone buzzed. A text from Aaron.
Don't forget—dinner with the Millers tonight. 7 PM. Wear the blue dress I bought you. Not the navy one—the azure one. It shows off your collarbone. And do something with your hair. It looked flat yesterday.
I took a deep breath. Texted back:
Of course. Can't wait! ❤️
The heart emoji felt like a lie.
But lies were easier than truth these days.
I finished preparing breakfast just as Aaron came downstairs, already dressed in his tailored suit, his dark hair perfectly styled, his cologne announcing his presence seconds before he appeared.
"Morning," he said, barely glancing at me as he took his seat at the island.
I placed his plate in front of him, leaned in for a kiss. He turned his head so my lips landed on his cheek instead of his mouth.
"You look tired," he commented, scrolling through his phone. "Late night?"
It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
"I had trouble sleeping," I admitted. "Just wedding nerves, I think."
He looked up then, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What's there to be nervous about? Everything's planned to perfection."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. How could I explain that it wasn't the wedding itself that kept me awake, but the future stretching beyond it? A future where I continued my family's wedding planning business instead of pursuing my art. A future dictated by others' expectations instead of my own desires.
Of all the secrets I kept from Aaron, my passion for painting was perhaps the most closely guarded. My canvases hidden in a storage unit he didn't know about. My art supplies concealed in boxes labeled "Wedding Vendor Samples." My dreams tucked away like contraband.
"The venue called yesterday," I said, changing the subject. "They wanted to confirm the flower arrangements for the reception."
This was familiar territory. Safe territory. The Patel Family Wedding Planning business had been my parents' pride for twenty years. The business they expected me to take over. The business Aaron had pushed me to commit to fully once we were married.
"Good," he said, attention already back on his phone. "And you submitted the final guest count to the caterer?"
"Three hundred and fifteen," I confirmed.
He nodded approvingly. "Perfect. My father confirmed the judge will be there. And Senator Michaels. The connections we'll make at this wedding..." He trailed off, a satisfied smile playing at his lips.
Not our wedding. The wedding. As if it were a business transaction. Which, in many ways, it was.
Aaron finished his breakfast, checked his watch, and stood. "I've got to run. Big case today." He kissed my forehead—a brief press of lips against skin—before grabbing his briefcase.
"Don't forget dinner with the Millers," he called over his shoulder. "And wear the azure dress."
"I won't forget," I promised.
And then he was gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of his cologne and the faint impression of his expectations hanging in the air.
I sank onto the barstool he'd vacated, suddenly exhausted despite the day having barely begun.
How had I gotten here?
I remembered exactly how I'd gotten here.
I'd followed the path laid out for me since birth. Been the perfect daughter. The perfect student. The perfect Indian-American success story.
My parents had immigrated from Mumbai in the 1980s, bringing little except their determination and their talent for creating beautiful weddings. What had started as helping friends in the community plan traditional ceremonies had blossomed into one of the most sought-after wedding planning businesses in the city. "Patel Perfect Weddings" was known for seamlessly blending cultural traditions with modern American sensibilities.
I'd grown up surrounded by tulle and roses, by mehndi artists and caterers arguing over spice levels, by brides both tearful and radiant. I'd learned to fold napkins into swans before I could tie my shoelaces. Could recite appropriate wedding readings in both English and Hindi before I'd mastered long division.
It was a good business. A respectable business. A business that had put me through college and given my parents the American dream they'd sacrificed so much for.
But it had never been my dream.
My hidden passion had always been art—bold, expressive paintings that captured the emotional complexity I was never allowed to display in real life. Canvases where I could scream in color when my voice was expected to remain soft and agreeable.
"Art is a hobby, not a career," my father had said dismissively when I'd tentatively mentioned art school. "The business is your future, Aishwarya. Your security. Your legacy."
So I'd majored in business administration instead. Had worked in the family company every summer and holiday. Had learned everything from vendor negotiations to cultural protocol for blended ceremonies.
And I'd painted in secret. Small acts of rebellion captured in pigment and canvas.
When I met Aaron at a charity gala where our company had designed the centerpieces, he'd seemed like a dream come true. Handsome. Successful. From a "good family," as my mother would say. He'd pursued me with flattering intensity. Had seemed genuinely interested in the wedding business.
Too interested, as it turned out.
"It's the perfect setup," he'd said one night, six months into our relationship. "My connections in the legal world, your family's business. We could expand. Target high-end clients exclusively. Triple your parents' revenue within five years."
I'd smiled and nodded, the way I always did when Aaron spoke of our future. But something cold had settled in my stomach that night. The realization that he saw me as a business opportunity first, a partner second.
By then, though, our families were already intertwined. His mother had taken mine shopping at exclusive boutiques. His father had introduced mine to his golf club. They'd given my parents the social validation they'd worked toward for decades.
How could I walk away from that? How could I hurt my parents that way?
So I'd said yes when he proposed. Had worn the too-heavy ring and smiled for the photographs. Had agreed to take over the family business full-time after the wedding. Had pushed my art further into the shadows.
Had convinced myself that security was a fair trade for happiness.
I glanced at the clock. I had a consultation with a bride in an hour—the daughter of one of Aaron's law partners. Another strategic alliance. Another performance of the perfect wedding planner.
My phone buzzed again. A text from Priya, my childhood best friend and the only person who knew about my art:
SOS. Need to talk to you. Can you meet at the studio tonight?
The "studio" was what we called my secret storage unit. The place where I kept my paintings. The only place I felt truly myself these days.
I hesitated, thinking of the dinner with the Millers. Aaron would be furious if I canceled. But Priya never used "SOS" lightly.
I texted back:
Can't tonight. Dinner with A's colleagues. Tomorrow morning?
Her response was immediate:
Too important. Meet me at Java Stop before your consultation. 10:30.
My stomach tightened with anxiety, but I texted back a quick agreement.
I spent the next hour preparing for my consultation—gathering fabric swatches, flower options, and menu samples. The mechanical nature of the work was almost soothing. This, at least, I knew how to do perfectly.
Priya was already waiting when I arrived at the coffee shop, her expression uncharacteristically serious.
"What's wrong?" I asked, sliding into the booth across from her.
She pushed a folded newspaper toward me. "Page six."
I opened it with trembling hands, immediately spotting what had alarmed her. A photograph of one of my paintings—a striking abstract that I'd titled "Captivity"—featured prominently in an article about an upcoming gallery show.
"The mysterious new artist known only as 'AP' has captivated critics with her raw, emotional works," the caption read. "Gallery owner Marcus Chen calls the collection 'a breakthrough exploration of cultural identity and feminine rage.'"
I looked up at Priya in horror. "How—"
"I submitted your portfolio," she admitted, her expression both defiant and apologetic. "To the Chen Gallery's emerging artists competition. You won, Aish. They want to feature your work. A whole show."
"You had no right," I whispered, panic rising in my chest. "If Aaron sees this—if my parents—"
"When are you going to stop living for everyone else?" Priya demanded, leaning forward intensely. "You're brilliant, Aish. Your work is brilliant. And you're about to marry a man who doesn't even know this fundamental truth about you."
"It's not that simple," I protested.
"It is that simple," she insisted. "You're not happy. Anyone with eyes can see that. This engagement, the business—it's slowly killing you."
"You don't understand the pressure—"
"I understand that you're throwing away your life to please people who should be supporting your dreams, not crushing them." She reached for my hand. "The gallery opening is three weeks from now. It's a sign, Aish."
"A sign of what?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"That it's not too late to choose a different path."
The consultation with the bride went smoothly, my professional mask firmly in place despite the turmoil inside. I smiled and nodded as she described her vision—a vision suspiciously similar to what her future mother-in-law had outlined in our preliminary meeting.
"And of course," she concluded, "we'll need to make sure the ceremony reflects both our cultures while still being... accessible."
I recognized the code word. Not "too ethnic." Just enough of my heritage to seem diverse without making anyone uncomfortable.
"Of course," I agreed, making notes. "We can incorporate subtle elements that honor tradition without overwhelming the aesthetic."
The bride looked relieved. "That's exactly what we want. Aaron spoke so highly of your ability to balance these things."
Of course, he had. Aaron loved to showcase me as the perfect example of assimilation. Ethnic enough to be interesting. American enough to be acceptable.
After the consultation, I found myself driving not to the office, but to my storage unit. To my sanctuary.
The paintings greeted me like old friends—vibrant, honest expressions of everything I couldn't say aloud. Anger. Desire. Ambition. Fear. Joy. All the emotions I carefully filtered in my daily life, exploding across the canvas in defiant color.
And there it was—"Captivity." The painting from the newspaper. A woman in a beautiful cage, reaching through the bars toward a horizon only she could see.
I'd painted it the night after Aaron proposed.
My phone buzzed. My mother reminded me about the final seating arrangements for the wedding.
Then Aaron, checking that I remembered dinner with the Millers.
Then my father asked if I'd confirmed the meeting with their accountant about transferring the business into my name after the wedding.
Each text another bar in the cage.
I stood surrounded by my art—the only truly authentic thing in my life—and made a decision.
I called Marcus Chen, the gallery owner.
"I was wondering when you'd call," he said without preamble. "Your work is extraordinary."
"Thank you," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "But I need to know—the show. Could it be anonymous? Could I keep my identity private, at least for now?"
A pause. "It's unconventional, but yes. The mystery might even generate more interest."
Relief flooded through me. "Then I'd like to proceed."
"Excellent," he said. "We'll need you to come in next week to discuss arrangements."
I agreed, ended the call, and checked the time. Just enough to go home and change before dinner with the Millers.
The azure dress. Not the navy one.
Dinner was exactly as expected. Bob Miller talked extensively about his partnership prospects. His wife discussed their recent renovation. Aaron steered the conversation toward his latest courtroom victory. I smiled and nodded and asked appropriate questions at appropriate intervals.
It wasn't until dessert that the conversation shifted dramatically.
"I hear the Chen Gallery has quite the exhibition coming up," Mrs. Miller remarked. "Something about an exciting new artist. Very mysterious."
I nearly choked on my crème brûlée.
"Oh?" Aaron replied politely. "I hadn't heard."
"Marcus Chen is a client of mine," Bob Miller explained. "Said he's never seen anything quite like this artist's work. Raw. Emotional. Powerful."
"Sounds interesting," Aaron said dismissively. "Though I've never quite understood modern art. Seems like anyone can splash paint on a canvas these days and call it profound."
The Millers laughed obligingly. I forced a smile, though something sharp and painful twisted in my chest.
"Will you be attending the exhibition?" Mrs. Miller asked me directly.
"I'm not sure," I stammered. "With the wedding planning..."
"That reminds me," Aaron interjected smoothly, "Aishwarya is taking over her family's wedding planning business after our honeymoon. We're expecting significant expansion in the coming year."
"How wonderful," Mrs. Miller exclaimed. "Though I'm surprised. I thought you had an artistic background, Aishwarya."
I felt Aaron stiffen beside me. "What gave you that impression?" he asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp.
Mrs. Miller looked momentarily confused. "Didn't you mention once that Aishwarya studied art in college? I could have sworn..."
"Business administration," Aaron corrected before I could speak. "With a minor in marketing. Perfect for the wedding industry."
I sat frozen, the lie washing over me like cold water. I had never told Aaron about my art classes—the ones I'd taken in secret, paying with money I'd earned from side jobs. The ones that had kept me sane during those years of business courses.
How many other lies stood between us? How many fundamental truths remained unspoken?
"Of course," Mrs. Miller said smoothly. "My mistake."
The conversation moved on, but I remained shaken. Aaron's hand found mine under the table, squeezing just a little too hard—a warning, not a comfort.
Later that night, as Aaron slept beside me, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. The gallery show was three weeks away. The wedding, four weeks. The official transfer of the business, five weeks.
The path before me was clear and suffocating. A life planned by others. A business I respected but didn't love. A marriage based on appearances and advantage, not passion or partnership.
I thought of my paintings locked away in that storage unit. Of the colors and emotions I kept hidden. Of the artist I might become if given the chance.
I thought of Aaron, who had never once asked what I wanted. Who saw me as an acquisition, an asset, a reflection of his own success.
I thought of my parents, who loved me but had never truly seen me. Who had mapped out my life without considering that I might have a different destination in mind.
My phone lit up with a text. Priya again:
Did you decide?
Such a simple question. Such an impossible one.
I stared at the screen for a long moment, then typed back:
Yes. I'm doing the show.
Her response was immediate:
Thank god. First step. Next step: Tell him the truth before the wedding. All of it.
I turned off my phone, my heart racing. Telling Aaron the truth would mean the end of our engagement. He would never accept something as unstable, as unpredictable as an artistic career. Would never forgive me for the deception.
But continuing this charade would mean the end of me. Of the person I truly was beneath all the perfect smiles and perfect plans.
In the darkness of our bedroom, I removed the heavy diamond ring and placed it on the nightstand. Without its weight, my hand felt strangely light. Unburdened.
I looked at Aaron's sleeping form—handsome, successful, completely certain of his place in the world. He would recover from losing me. Would find another suitable partner to complete his perfect life tableau.
But I would never recover from losing myself.
In the morning, I would have hard conversations. Would face disappointment and anger and perhaps even rejection. Would dismantle the perfect illusion I'd spent years constructing.
But for now, ringless and resolved, I allowed myself to imagine a different future. One where I stood in a gallery surrounded by my work. Where I painted truth instead of performed perfection. Where I built a life that reflected my soul, not others' expectations.
And for the first time in years, I felt something unfamiliar stirring in my chest.
Hope.