The car slowed to a halt. The air between them was thick, heavy with unspoken words and the weight of inevitability. He pushed the door open and stepped out with calculated ease, his movements slow but deliberate. Walking around the car, he pulled open her door. She sat there, unmoving, her shoulders slumped in quiet defeat, eyes cast down as though the world itself had crumbled around her.

He extended his hand toward her. There was a moment of hesitation—just the briefest flicker of resistance—before she finally placed her trembling hand in his. Without a word, he helped her out, shutting the door behind her with finality. The car drove away, leaving them standing at the threshold of the temple premises. The air carried the scent of incense and marigolds, mingling with the distant echoes of temple bells.

He led her inside, his stride unwavering, his presence imposing. She followed, her steps small, hesitant, almost disappearing behind the broad silhouette of the man who dictated her fate. The interior was dimly lit, bathed in the warm orange glow of the setting sun filtering through the cracks of wooden panels. The walls bore the weight of tradition, adorned with intricate carvings and age-old artifacts that bore witness to countless ceremonies before this one.

He came to a stop, turning just enough to glance at her. She still refused to meet his gaze, staring at the floor as if it held the answers to her silent suffering. With a single nod, he summoned the women standing nearby—women who had been appointed to prepare her.

“Get her bathed. Ready her for the marriage.”

His voice was low, firm—an order, not a request. She remained still, as though his words had not reached her. His gaze darkened. His patience, already threadbare, thinned even further.

“Make it fast. I don’t have all day.”

With that, he turned and strode away, leaving her in their care. The women hesitated, exchanging glances before stepping forward.

“Come, dear,” one of them said gently, taking her hand. “Let’s get you bathed.”

“I’ll do it myself.”

There was no room for argument in her tone. The woman nodded and gestured toward the bathing area.

Once inside, she pressed her palms against the cold stone basin, her fingers trembling. Her lips quivered, but she bit down hard, willing herself to hold it in. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek. She swiped it away angrily. She has to collect herself for this.  There us no way out.  

A knock at the door startled her.

“Ma’am? Do you need my help?”

Her breath hitched. A bitter laugh threatened to escape. Help? Did she dare to hope?

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Help me escape this marriage.”

Silence. A deafening, suffocating silence. The weight of it pressed down on her chest. And then—

A loud, resounding bang against the door made her jump.

“Don’t pull the strings, Asha.”

His voice slithered through the wooden barrier, dark and unyielding. Shocked she looked at the door.  She thought he had left.  

“Their heads will be served to you if they even consider it.”

Her breath caught. She squeezed her eyes shut, nails digging into her palms.

“You know what I’m capable of.” A chilling pause. “Don’t make me prove it.”

The air turned suffocating, the walls closing in.

“UNDERSTOOD?”

Her body jerked at the sharpness of his tone.

“Y-yes.”

“Good. You have ten minutes. If you’re not out by then, I’ll come in myself.”

The threat lingered even after his footsteps receded. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to move, washing away the remnants of her defiance. Eight minutes later, she stepped out, draping a towel over her chest.

He was there. Standing just beside the doorway, arms crossed, his presence dominating the space. His gaze, sharp as a blade, raked over her. She refused to look at him, moving past him as though he were nothing more than a shadow.

The women took over as they seated her on the chair as they began to smoke her hair woth dhoop.  With her head bowed down she took a glance at him and looked away on finding him still standing there.  After few seconds he left the place.  Mean time they began to drape a white saree with a reddish golden border with delicate golden thread designs on it.  They worked in practiced silence, weaving jasmine into her hair, applying Alta to her hands. Her fingers twitched, but she let them do as they pleased. Her will had long since been stripped away. When a lone tear dared to escape, she wiped it away before anyone could see.

This was her reality now. There was no fighting it. If she had to endure it, she would do so without breaking. She will give her self away to him and endure as much as she can untill she revieves the call from the god.  Till then he can toss her body as he wishes.  

\*\*I'll endure it all.  \*\*

He had touched her before, without her consent. Now, at least, there would be a name to it. A legal claim to the ownership he had already taken. Perhaps that would make it hurt less.

Perhaps.

He returned within minutes, only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight before him.

The golden ornaments shimmered under the soft lighting, catching the glint in her downcast eyes. The bridal finery clung to her frame, transforming her into something ethereal, almost otherworldly. A small tilak was carefully pressed between her brows, and a delicate maang tikka (hair line pendant) was placed on her forehead, its chain disappearing into her neatly parted hair. A chorus of red and gold bangles clinked as they were gently forced up her wrists, encasing her hands in tradition. A gentle clatter echoed as red and gold bangles were slid up her wrists, each one settling into place like a seal of tradition. A light set of necklaces followed, the clasps softly clicked behind her neck, their weight settling against her collarbone. The look was minimal—elegant, understated.

One of the women leaned forward to apply a stroke of red lipstick, but she pulled away ever so slightly, a flicker of rebellion in her eyes.

She looked reluctant, visibly stiff, giving subtle resistance with each step of the beautification ritual. Her discomfort didn’t go unnoticed by him.

"Leave it," he said quietly, but the authority in his voice made the women freeze mid-motion.

They hesitated, but then stepped back, nodding.

“She doesn’t need any of that.”

His gaze never wavered from her, drinking in the sight of her stripped bare of embellishments. To him, she was more breathtaking in her raw, untouched state. The layers of makeup only masked what he already saw—flawless vulnerability, reluctant strength, and a beauty that didn't need adornment.

His eyes darkened, emotion swirling in their depths—something unreadable, intense. He didn’t speak further, but his silence carried weight, more telling than any words.

He had seen her dressed as a bride. But now, he was seeing her.

He stepped forward, dismissing them with a mere flick of his wrist. They obeyed without hesitation, retreating to the corners of the room.

His hand extended toward her, palm up, commanding yet expectant. A silent demand.

Her gaze flickered to his outstretched hand, but instead of taking it, she stood on her own, sidestepping him.

His fingers curled into a fist, veins tightening against his skin. His jaw locked, but he said nothing.

“Walk with me.”

She didn’t move.

“Wait.”

He stopped, slowly turning back to face her, waiting.

Her lips parted, words teetering on he edge. But nothing came.

The silence between them was suffocating, an unspoken battle of wills.