The anklets chimed — not like music, not like celebration.

But like warning bells tolling from the gallows.

Aarohi sat still, a statue sculpted in devotion, beneath a canopy of fluttering marigolds and rose petals. The fragrance clung to her throat, sweet but choking, like something decaying beneath a beautiful mask. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, fingers clasped so tightly the knuckles had turned white beneath the henna. Her eyes remained lowered, hidden under the weight of a crimson veil that shimmered with golden threadwork — each stitch, a cage bar spun from tradition.

Her lehenga caught the light like flame — regal, radiant, blinding. She looked like a queen.

But she felt like a prisoner dressed for execution.

Around her, the chaos of festivity blurred into a dizzying haze. The pandit’s Sanskrit chants rose and fell like waves she couldn’t swim in. Silver cutlery clinked against porcelain on the buffet tables nearby. Gossip crackled through the crowd in hushed tones, snakes slithering behind silk sarees and forced smiles. A photographer barked instructions with the efficiency of a war general. “Tilt the head slightly. Perfect. Eyes down. Beautiful. Don’t move.”

And through the noise, the lights, the flowers and fire — a single, desperate thought clawed at the walls of her mind:

> “What am I doing here?”

She knew. Of course, she knew.

Saving her father. Saving her family.

Paying a price no one else dared to offer.

Her father — once proud, now hollowed out by loans and failed ventures — had placed her name on a contract inked in helplessness. Not as a bride, but as collateral.

And Prithvi Rathore had merely collected what was owed.

There had been no proposal. No slow unfolding of affection. No hesitant hope blooming between exchanged glances.

Only two carefully staged public dinners.

One stiff family visit.

And across the table, a cold, calculating man who smiled like he was already signing the receipt.

“You’ll be safe,” her father had said, voice cracking under the weight of shame.

“He’s successful. Respected.”

“You won’t even need to work,” her mother added, mistaking silence for agreement, as if stripping her of independence was a gift.

But no one had asked what she wanted.

No one had noticed the scream she had tucked into the pit of her stomach and sealed shut with lipstick and eyeliner.

The priest’s voice pierced through again, steady and unwavering. The ritual had begun.

Prithvi stood, adjusting the collar of his embroidered sherwani with a quiet grace that looked like control but felt like indifference. His hand extended toward her — not in invitation, but instruction. In his fingers, he held the end of the sacred cloth, meant to tie their destinies together.

Aarohi’s fingers trembled as she reached out, the bangles on her wrists rattling like distant chains.

The cloth was tied. The fire burned.

And one by one, they circled it — taking the sacred pheras, the ancient steps of promise. The priest’s voice chanted vows older than time: to love, to protect, to cherish, to walk together in all things.

But with each step, Aarohi felt herself splintering.

The ground felt like ash beneath her feet. Her soul — silent. Her breath — brittle.

And Prithvi never looked at her once.

When the sindoor was drawn across her hairline, the red bled like blood across her scalp. She flinched — not from the touch, but from the finality.

A woman in the crowd clapped, thrilled.

“So beautiful! Like a goddess!”

Aarohi didn’t feel divine.

She felt buried.

Like something precious being sealed away.

---

Wedding Night

The door shut behind her with a soft click — barely a sound, and yet it echoed like a lock snapping into place.

The bedroom looked like a palace suite — velvet drapes sweeping the walls, golden sconces throwing soft light across rich tapestries, vases filled with roses that had already started to wilt at the edges. Everything gleamed. Everything was too perfect. Too intentional. Like a stage.

But no warmth lived here.

Aarohi stepped into the silence like one steps into water — uncertain, breath held.

She sat at the edge of the oversized bed, the mattress barely dipping under her slight frame. Her lehenga still clung to her like armor she couldn’t remove. The dupatta itched at her scalp. The bangles on her wrists had grown colder with every passing hour, their cheerful tinkling now sounding like mockery.

Her eyes didn’t move from the floor.

Her ears caught it first — the metallic click of the door handle turning.

Her heart skipped, then stuttered.

Prithvi entered with the precision of a man who owned the space. He unfastened his watch slowly, placing it on the table with care. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer congratulations or awkward jokes or even a moment of hesitance.

He simply looked at her and then he reached for the pallu of her saree like he was unwrapping a gift. Not a person.

She whispered, “Please… can we talk?”

He laughed. Drank from a glass.

And then, with a voice as emotionless as a courtroom verdict, he said,

“Let’s not pretend we’re here for love, Aarohi.”

She swallowed, but it caught halfway down.

“You’re mine now,” he continued, not harsh, not loud — but certain. “I gave your father a way out. This is the return.”

His words weren’t cruel.

But they were empty of anything remotely human.

No tenderness. No curiosity. No attempt at closeness.

Just transaction.

He stepped closer

Aarohi’s breath caught in her chest like a trapped bird. Her spine straightened. Her body turned to stone.

She could not find her voice.

She could not run.

She could not protest.

“Do you understand?” he asked, his face inches from hers. The light behind him cast shadows across his sharp features. He looked carved from granite.

She nodded.

Once. Barely.

And then —

He reached for her.

Not kindly.

Not gently.

Rough. Entitled. Uninvited.

He stopped listening.

She didn’t scream. She tried to fight. But then, she froze.

Like girls do, sometimes. When no one has taught them how to say no —

Because saying no never mattered anyway.

That night, she bled.

Not because she was a new bride.

But because something inside her cracked so loud, she had never heard silence the same way again.

Her body recoiled, but she made no sound. She closed her eyes.

And somewhere — somewhere so deep inside that even she could not trace it — Aarohi Sharma died.

What rose in her place was someone new.

Aarohi Prithvi Rathore.

Silent.

Scared.

And shackled.

--------------

So?? How did you liked the 1st chapter? Do tell me in the comments and please vote for the chapter.

ALSO, I'll be really grateful if you can Tell people around you about my story.... I'm new here and I just love to write and I promise I'll give my best to keep you entertained

1. Did Aarohi have a choice? What would you have done in her place?

2. Do you think Prithvi is evil — or just a product of power and privilege?

3.Can a relationship that begins like this ever grow into something real? Or is it doomed from the start?

4.What do you think is going on in Prithvi’s head? Is he just cold — or is he hiding something too?

5. Will Aarohi ever speak up for herself? What moment could break her silence?

6. What kind of love story could be built on ashes like these?