I turn toward the aisle—and I swear, for a fraction of a second, my breath falters.
She’s walking in slowly, her arm hooked in Digvijay’s. The maroon of her lehenga gleams under the chandelier lights, rich and deep like old wine. Heavy zardozi embroidery shimmers with every tentative step she takes. The dupatta, edged with gold, frames her like a halo. And then my eyes find her face.
She didn’t ditch the glasses.
Thank God. Those black-rimmed specs perch delicately on her nose, softening the sharpness of the bridal makeup, making her look…real. Grounded.Her.There’s something about that—about the refusal to mask every trace of who she is that hits me square in the chest.
She doesn’t like change,I realize. And for some reason, that makes me want to protect her even more.
I rise from the mandap before anyone can stop me. The priests murmur in confusion, but I don’t care. All I can see is the slight tremor in her steps, the stiffness in her shoulders. She’s scared. She’s trying to hide it, but fear has a way of slipping through the cracks.
When I reach her, I extend my hand. My palm is open, steady. An unspoken promise.
She halts, her gaze lifting to mine. Big, kohl-lined eyes—God, they’re beautiful—lock on to me, searching, questioning. Digvijay glances at me, a faint smile on his lips, as if he is satisfied, but it doesn’t seem to appear that he is satisfied that his sister is marrying into a good family. It seems political, but I say nothing. He places her hand in mine.
The moment her fingers touch my skin, I feel it. The tremor. The chill. She’s terrified. And I don’t blame her. This marriage isn’t the stuff of fairy tales; it’s a deal sealed in tradition and necessity.
I curl my fingers gently around hers and smile—slow, deliberate, meant only for her. A silentI’ve got you.
We walk to the mandap together, her steps faltering only once. When she sits beside me, I notice the way she tugs at her dupatta nervously, her breaths uneven.
The chants begin again. The priests recite mantras in voices that echo through the marble hall. Around us, the crowd hums with whispers, cameras clicking relentlessly, documenting every angle, every gesture. But all I can focus on is the way her hands clutch each other tightly in her lap.
I lean in, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “You’re doing good, Kunwarani-sa.”
Her head jerks slightly, eyes widening at the title. I grin because I meant it—to ground her, to remind her that from this moment, she isn’t alone. She belongs here.
“It’s going to be okay,” I murmur again. “I’m with you. Take a deep breath, okay?”
She nods almost imperceptibly, lashes fluttering as she exhales slowly. Her shoulders loosen just a little, and something warm unfurls in my chest.
The ceremony moves forward—tying the mangalsutra, smearing the vermilion in the parting of her hair. Each ritual feels heavier than the last, not because of what the world expects from us, but because of what I want to give her: reassurance that this isn’t a cage.
And then her stepmother, Rajmata Gandhari, swoops in when it’s time for thegathbandhan—tying her dupatta to mine. She tugs the fabric harshly, her nails digging into Poorvi’s shoulder as she hisses under her breath, “Smile, for God’s sake. The press is watching. Don’t embarrass us.”
Poorvi’s chin dips, shame clouding her expression. Something primal in me snaps. My jaw tightens so hard it aches, and before I can stop myself, I lean down again, my voice a low growl against her ear.
“Do what you want, Poorvi,” I say, each word sharp with promise. “You’re my wife. No one dictates my wife.”
Her head tilts ever so slightly, eyes darting to mine in disbelief. And maybe something else—a flicker of relief?
The mantras rise to a crescendo, fire crackling in thehavan kundas we take the seven sacred steps. With each round, I steal a glance at her, memorizing the way the maroon fabric sways, the way the gold ornaments catch the light, the way her glasses slip down her nose and she pushes them up absentmindedly.
By the time the last mantra fades, the air feels heavier, charged. It’s done. She’s mine. Not in the possessive sense, but in a way that makes me vow silently to shield her from every single thing that scares her.
The photographers swarm in as we rise. Flashes blind me for a second, and instinctively, I look at her. Her smile is faint, brittle around the edges. She’s trying, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
Without thinking, I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. My palm presses firmly against her upper arm, a squeeze meant to anchor her, to sayYou’re doing so damn good.She stiffens for a beat, then leans ever so slightly into me, and something in my chest eases.
As the cameras click, I lower my head, catching her profile framed by the dupatta. Her specs glint under the lights, and for some reason, I can’t stop staring.
She doesn’t know it yet.
But from this moment on, she’s never going to stand alone.
Not while I’m breathing.
CHAPTER 7
