The air in Chennai thickened — a humid blanket woven with the scent of marigolds and jasmine. The Khanna household had been a whirlwind since our arrival, but now the energy funnelled toward one thing: the wedding hall. The hall buzzed with a strange mix of sacred chants, laughter, and someone arguing over missing garlands.

I had spent the last two days running around like a logistics officer rather than the groom — supervising decorators, hauling crates of coconuts, barely a second to think.

"Major, you look like you're strategizing a border crossing," my brother Daksh chuckled, nudging me as I surveyed the chaos.

I grunted. "More like evacuating a warzone. Are we sure we need this many garlands?"

My team, ever the masters of blending in, was already at work. Jay was stacking luggage in the back of a tempo. Bala was overseeing the placement of a sound system, muttering about optimal decibel levels. Rey and Maddy were in a spirited debate with a caterer about the precise ratio of ghee to sugar in the laddu batter. Sid, as always, was a silent anchor, efficiently directing the flow of traffic.

"Remember the drill, gentlemen," Rey announced, wiping sweat from his brow. "Operation Matrimony is a go. Phase one: Relocation. Phase two: Survive the aunties. Phase three: Ensure the Major doesn't bolt for the nearest helipad."

"Funny, Rey," I muttered — but a ghost of a smile touched my lips. These idiots. They were my sanity check.

The first day of the wedding began with a brutal assault on my sleep schedule. The sun hadn't even kissed the horizon when a cacophony of temple bells erupted from the main hall. A sharp knock, followed by Sakshi Bhabhi's cheerful voice, sealed my fate.

"Rise and shine, Major! Panditji is waiting for the groom's side for the morning pooja!"

I groaned, rolling out of bed, my stomach protesting the forced fast. The aroma of cloying incense already permeated the air. I dressed quickly, opting for a simple kurta and dhoti — feeling utterly alien in the traditional attire.

I needed to speak with her. Not because it was expected — but because it was necessary.

My brother, always tuned into my wavelength, gave me the opening I needed later that afternoon.

"I'll handle the aunties," he said, nudging me forward. "Go."

I found her on the outer balcony, standing quietly, away from the noise. When I approached, she turned, offering a simple nod — not shy, not cold. Just steady.

And then our eyes met properly.

The recognition hit like a punch to the gut. Those sharp, intelligent eyes. The confident way she held herself. The slight tilt of her chin.

Squadron Leader Kumar.

Of all the women in India my family could have chosen. It was her.

The Air Force officer who had argued with me three years ago during that high-altitude rescue op. The one who had questioned my tactical approach in front of half the command staff. The one who had looked at me like I was some arrogant Army grunt who didn't understand airspace protocols.

I kept my expression neutral, but my mind was racing. Her face gave nothing away — typical pilot composure. But the slight sharpening of her focus told me she knew exactly who I was.

Neither of us said anything about it.

"I wanted to talk," I said carefully. "About something important."

She didn't interrupt. She waited — just like she had during that briefing, letting me speak first.

"I was in a relationship before," I began. "Her name was Anshu. We were serious — but it didn't work. I'm not entirely over her, and I don't want you to walk into this blind. I know families talk, and I didn't want you hearing a distorted version from relatives. I'll do my best. I need time — but I'll work on us." I took a breath. "If you want to back out, I'll understand. I'll take the blame."

She didn't flinch. Her eyes stayed on mine — the same steady gaze that had unnerved me during our professional clash.

When I finished, she raised her hand, stopping any further words. The gesture was familiar — she'd done the same thing when she'd cut through the heated debate between our teams that day.

"I don't want the details, Major," she said calmly — and there it was, the slight emphasis on my rank. "Everyone has a past. What matters is the present — and what we choose to do with it."

She leaned slightly closer. "Just don't think you can cheat on me or get bored and run. I don't believe in divorce. I believe in consequences."

And then she smiled. It wasn't soft or romantic. It was grounded. Reassuring. Almost amused.

"I'll see you at the altar," she said — turning away and leaving behind the scent of turmeric and confidence.

I stood there for a long time, letting her words settle.

Squadron Leader Kumar. The woman who had publicly disagreed with my tactical assessment. The woman who had been absolutely, infuriatingly right about the approach vector for that rescue operation — whose competence I'd grudgingly respected, even while finding her insufferably arrogant.

She was going to be my wife.

My team was worried I'd bolt for a helipad. They had no idea.

This wasn't just a marriage. This was a joint operation with a rival command.