Asha’s POV****

Lifting my head, I saw him. Unlike me, wrapped in traditionals, he stood in a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into black pants. His hair was combed back, though a few strands had fallen forward, softening the sharpness of his features. He looked so composed, so unaffected, while my world was shattering.

“A-Apart from keeping my dignity,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper, “do I get anything from this marriage?”

He exhaled deeply, slipping his hands into his pockets. His gaze, dark and unreadable, settled on me.

“Yes… Anything you want—except for not touching you.”

My stomach twisted. I swallowed hard, my fingers clutching the edge of my saree.

“I-I have conditions,” I whispered hesitantly.

His lips curled into a smirk, his expression unreadable.

I very well know I have no place to keep conditions. Would it matter in any way? He is still going to marry me even if my conditions weren't met. But I still pushed my luck, hoping that he would at least have a little bit of courtesy for forcing me into this marriage.

He pulled his hands out, glanced at his watch, then shoved them back into his pockets. “Say it.”

I hesitated, my fingers trembling.

“I… I shouldn’t be locked inside. I should be allowed to go out. And… and my choices should be considered, even if just a little. I don’t want to be forced into everything.”

My voice wavered, my eyes glistening with unshed tears. He stared at me, his gaze unwavering, his expression unreadable.

“You want freedom?”

Yes. That is what I want to ask. But the word ‘freedom’ would make him refuse straight away, wouldn’t it? Such words don’t align well with people like him.

“Yes,” I murmured.

He exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching.

I knew it. Men like him didn’t like words like ‘freedom.’ He could make this harder for me. Would he? Probably. But I had to try.

“Okay.”

My breath hitched. I blinked at him, startled.

He agreed? Just like that? No conditions?

But I reminded myself—he wasn’t a man who gave things freely. If things didn’t go his way, he’d twist words, bend meanings, and make sure everything served him. He always did.

“Anything else?”

I swallowed thickly. “D-Don’t… don’t hit me.”

His face changed, just for a second. Something flickered in his eyes—guilt? Regret? His jaw clenched as he turned away, pacing. His fingers curled into his hair as he took a deep, unsteady breath.

For several moments, he stood there, unmoving, as if processing what I had just said. Then, as if pulling himself together, he walked back to me and stood firm, his expression unreadable.

His voice, when he spoke, was steady. Firm.

“I won’t. I will never hurt you. I promise.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe those words so badly for my own assurance.

“And? Anything else?”

I hesitated.

“D-Don’t touch me.”

His lips twitched in amusement. “Out of the syllabus. Now walk.”

“Wait,” I pleaded softly.

He stopped, barely holding onto his patience.

“Can we… can we not do th—”

“Will you walk, or should I carry you over my shoulder?”

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill. His sigh—low and resigned—echoed louder than any words as he grasped my wrist and pulled me forward. There was no gentleness in his touch, only urgency, as if dragging me toward a destiny I never chose.

The wedding rituals unfolded like a slow-motion nightmare, each moment stretched and surreal. The sacred fire crackled in front of us, casting shifting shadows across our faces as the priest chanted ancient mantras. Smoke curled into the air, stinging my eyes, mingling with unshed tears that burned behind my lashes. My chest tightened under the crushing weight of inevitability.

Each step around the fire felt like walking toward a life sentence. Every sacred word, every whispered prayer, felt like another nail hammered into the coffin of my freedom. The vermilion powder trembled in his fingers before he pressed it to my hairline, and in that moment, a part of me faded away. As the mangalsutra (nuptial chain) settled against my skin, a cold chain around my neck, a silent sob clawed its way up but never escaped.

I wasn’t ready.

I don’t think I ever could be.

To him, this was routine—a formality, a duty. An obligation to be ticked off a list. But to me? It was everything. The end of who I was. The beginning of a life I never asked for.

When it was over, he took my hand again—mechanical, detached—and led me to the waiting car. The cheers and chatter of the crowd dulled to a distant hum. I slid into the back seat, spine rigid, hands clenched in my lap as the engine roared to life. The world outside the window blurred into streaks of color, but the storm inside me only sharpened.

When it was over, he led me to the car. The world outside blurred as we drove away, my hands clenched in my lap.

****

His voice broke the silence.

“Finally. That wasn’t hard, was it? You made a fuss for no reason. Now we can live our life rightfully as husband and wife. Isn’t it?”

I flinched at his words, my fingers curling tightly into my lap. My throat burned as I held back another sob. He turned slightly toward me, and when I didn’t respond, he smirked in satisfaction. My gaze dropped, my lashes damp, my lips trembling.

A heavy sigh escaped him as he rested his elbow against the car window, rubbing his fingers over his face in exasperation.

“You won’t stop crying, will you? Didn’t I agree to your conditions already? Why would you still be upset? I even said I’d treat you well after marriage. What more do you want now?”

I bit my lip, my chest rising and falling unevenly as I stared out of the window. The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red, yet everything felt cold and distant.

“I… I don’t like you.” My voice was small, barely above a whisper, but heavy with emotion.

He didn’t hesitate. “I’ll work on that.”

A shiver ran down my spine at the ease with which he spoke. As if it didn’t matter that I despised him. As if my feelings were nothing more than a minor inconvenience that he would eventually smooth out.

“I… I don’t want to talk,” I murmured, my throat closing up.

Silence stretched between us. His gaze lingered on me longer than I could bear, his eyes dark, unreadable. Then, with a short nod, he finally spoke.

“Rest. It’s a long journey. I’ll wake you up for lunch.”

The quiet mechanical whir of the seat reclining sent my heart pounding faster. I stiffened, instinctively pulling my saree tighter around me, as if the fabric could shield me from everything—him, this marriage, this new reality that I never asked for.

I turned away from him, my body curling in on itself as exhaustion and grief overwhelmed me. The weight in my chest grew heavier, and silent tears slid down my face, soaking into the fabric of my saree.

Sleep was the only escape left to me.

And even that wasn’t enough.