A Second Chance Romance

Pakhi Verma

A 23 year old girl who was an orphan, She had only a grandmother as her family but she wasn't fond of Pakhi.

A girl with brown eyes, sweet smile and good heart.

But what happens when she unknowingly collides with her future brother-in-law on her engagement day and fell for him, hoping he is her fiance?

Ansh Chauhan

29 year old married man, who loves his wife, Vanya Chauhan —so much. Worships the floor she walks on.

He had a life of everyone's dream but it shattered when his wife left him just after giving birth to their child.

Prologue

The air smells of marigolds and incense, heavy with festivity, yet Pakhi Verma feels like a stranger in her own skin.

At twenty-three, she has returned to a country she hardly knows, a country that had slipped away from her memory the same way her parents’ laughter had—fading into fragments too fragile to hold. An orphanage had become her childhood, cold walls and shared beds shaping her into someone who learned early how to silence her tears. Love had been a rare thing—fleeting smiles from the caretakers, a pat on the head on birthdays, an occasional gift from visiting donors.

Her grandmother had been alive all these years, but the woman had never visited, never written. When Pakhi was little, she used to imagine her grandmother’s arms—soft, warm, the kind that smelled of spices and old saris. She had dreamt that one day she would be claimed. But when the day came, years later, it wasn’t love that summoned her. It was obligation.

“You are of age now,” the letter had read. Your father had dreams for you. This marriage is part of them.

Dreams. A word too fragile to be tied with the weight of duty. But Pakhi had folded the letter neatly, kissed her father’s name on the yellowing paper, and agreed. She told herself she was doing it for him—for the memory of a man she barely remembered, but loved all the same.

Now, standing beneath chandeliers that scatter golden light across the polished floor, she feels the pulse of nerves against her ribs. The crowd buzzes with laughter, a hundred voices rising and falling in waves, but she is a small boat drifting, uncertain where she might anchor.

Her lavender dress brushes her ankles as she moves. A color chosen not by her but by her grandmother’s attendants—elegant, modest, presentable. Her face is brushed with light makeup, her hair swept into a simple bun. She looks every bit the obedient bride, but inside her chest is a quiet storm.

At the entrance of the hall, she collides with someone.

The world tilts. A fall threatens her balance, but before she can stumble, strong arms close around her, steadying her with startling ease.

For a heartbeat, her breath lodges in her throat.

Brown eyes meet storm-grey ones.

The chandeliers fade, the music dims, even the laughter blurs into nothingness. There is only the weight of his gaze, fierce and steady, pulling her in as though she has always belonged there.

He helps her upright, his touch brief, fleeting, almost reluctant. Then distance slips between them, as quick as the spark that had closed it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice smooth as poured silk. “I wasn’t looking. Are you okay?”

Pakhi swallows, her lips parting, but words tangle somewhere in her chest. If his eyes have unsettled her, his voice undoes her entirely. Warm, addictive, like something she could get lost in.

She blinks, and he is already gone.

Her heart slams hard enough to hurt. She presses her hand to her chest, cheeks burning, whispering too late, “Okay…”

“Pakhi!” her grandmother’s voice pierces through the haze, sharp and commanding. “Come and meet your in-laws.”

The spell shatters. The music returns, the laughter grows louder, and Pakhi inhales sharply, grounding herself. One step. Then another. She forces her feet to carry her forward.

Her mind paints cruel images—stern faces, calculating eyes, whispers about her orphaned past. But what she finds is nothing like the dramas she once feared.

Smiles greet her. Blessings fall over her like rain. Her soon-to-be mother-in-law cups her face gently, planting a kiss on her forehead before circling her with a protective gesture, warding off the evil eye. Servants are handed notes, sweets are distributed, and the weight on Pakhi’s chest eases slightly.

She hadn’t expected warmth. She hadn’t expected to be accepted so easily.

And then Vanya appears.

Her laughter is music, her presence dazzling—like sunshine spilling into a shaded room. Beautiful, lively, endlessly warm, Vanya seems to claim Pakhi instantly, as though she has been waiting years for a younger sister.

“So,” Vanya teases, nudging her shoulder, “my only nanad is a shy one, hmm?”

Pakhi blushes, ducking her head, but a reluctant smile slips onto her lips. It has been so long since someone teased her with affection.

“You’ll see, I’ll spoil you,” Vanya continues, looping her arm with hers. “My devar is already nervous about you, but I’m more excited. Finally, I’ll have someone to gossip with.”

Her words spark something reckless inside Pakhi. She hasn’t met her groom yet, hasn’t even glimpsed his face, but her heart whispers one dangerous hope—what if he is the man from earlier?

Vanya’s eyes twinkle mischievously. “Come, I’ll take you to him.”

Pakhi’s stomach flutters violently. Each step up the staircase feels heavier, as if her very future is waiting at the end of the corridor. Her palms dampen against the folds of her dress, and she whispers a silent prayer.

When they stop, Vanya’s face lights up with uncontainable joy.

Like a child running to her favorite person, she hurries down the hall, arms already reaching.

“Pakhi, meet him—Ansh Chauhan!”

Pakhi’s world stops.

Because the man standing there, smiling with quiet charm, is him.

The storm-grey eyes. The voice she had already carved into her heart.

Her lips part, but no words come. Her blush betrays her silence, heat rising from her throat to her cheeks.

But before she can let her hope breathe, Vanya slips her arm through his and beams.

“He’s my one and only husband.”

Ansh’s smile deepens as he presses a kiss to Vanya’s forehead. The gesture is tender, full of love, unshakably certain.

And in that instant, Pakhi’s fragile hope shatters into silence.