𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝟭: 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗚 𝗕𝗥𝗜𝗗𝗘

The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and sandalwood, the mandap glowing in hues of maroon and gold. Guests whispered in excitement, the sound of shehnais and shlokas echoing through the grand haveli. The Thakurs didn’t do small weddings. This was an event—a spectacle.

And Abhay Thakur was the groom.

The eldest son of the Thakur family. A man known for his cold eyes, ruthless decisions, and unshakable pride. But today, beneath the ivory sherwani and the pride of a thousand generations… there lived a storm.

Because the bride he had waited his whole life for… had just disappeared.

“Bhaiya…” came his younger cousin’s voice, hesitant, trembling. “Diya didi… she—she ran away.”

Silence.

A horrifying silence that pierced deeper than any bullet ever could.

Abhay didn’t blink. He stood tall, as if those words hadn’t shattered the last piece of his heart.

Diya Verma. The woman he loved. The woman he had promised his life to. The one he had fought the world for. And she had vanished on their wedding day. Just vanished. No goodbye. No explanation.

Only a letter, scribbled in haste.

> “Forgive me, Abhay. I can’t live this lie anymore. I love someone else. I hope, someday, you understand.”

He crushed the letter in his palm, veins pulsing. His breath was ragged, eyes red, but he didn’t let a single tear fall.

“How dare she,” he whispered under his breath, voice trembling not from pain—but rage. “She thought she could humiliate me?”

Then he turned towards his father & said,"I want a bride." His father said," what are you even saying?" Abhay's expression fully dark & said," Do you want to hear that the bride of Thakur's family escaped from the pavilion."

AT THE MANDAP

****************

A thousand eyes watched him.

And then—someone screamed.

“It’s not her. It’s not Diya walking in the mandap!”

All heads turned. The bride, dressed in Diya’s lehenga, slowly walked in with her face covered by a heavy red veil.

Abhay’s eyes narrowed.

His jaw clenched.

And just like that, the broken groom turned into a calculating man.

He walked to the mandap. Each step louder than the chants. Louder than the truth. And he stood beside the wrong bride. He didn’t lift the veil. He didn’t ask questions.

He just whispered, “Game on.”

---

One Hour Ago…

“Sharanya! You have to wear Diya’s lehenga now. Do you understand? You’re the only one who can save our izzat,” her maa said, eyes red full rage. “If this wedding doesn’t happen, we’ll be ruined.”

Sharanya stood frozen.

Twenty. Naïve. A college student. Diya’s younger  cousin sister. Always in the shadows. Always the quiet one.

“But Maa… I—Abhay ji—he—he didn’t want me.”

“You want to see us die ?! Is that what you want?” her maa screamed.

Tears filled Sharanya’s eyes as they forced the bridal outfit on her. She didn’t even get to say no. She was just… replaced.

Nobody told Abhay.

Nobody asked her.

---

Back to the mandap.

The wedding rituals began.

Abhay never once looked her way. His hands moved mechanically. His silence was frightening.

As the saat pheras circled around them, Sharanya whispered shakily, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut up,” he hissed softly, venom dripping from every word. “You’ve no idea what you’ve walked into, little girl.”

She flinched.

Her heart beat rapidly.

Tears burned behind her lashes, but she bit her lip. Her voice betrayed her innocence, but her soul screamed in fear. Because the man she had married… wasn’t just broken. He was dangerous.

---

Later That Night

AT THAKUR HOUSE

**********************

The room was decorated like a dream. Roses and silk sheets. Candles flickering like promises of a romantic beginning.

But Sharanya sat on the edge of the bed, in her bridal attire, trembling. Alone. Waiting.

The door burst open.

Abhay stepped in, removing his sherwani jacket slowly, deliberately. His eyes met hers—and there was no warmth in them. Only calculation.

He walked to her, each step filled with a deadly silence.

Sharanya stood up instantly. “Please… listen to me. I didn’t—”

“Take off the veil,” he said coldly.

With trembling fingers, she obeyed.

Their eyes met for the first time as husband and wife.

And he smiled. But it wasn’t kind. It was cruel.

“So you’re the new Mrs. Thakur,” he said, circling her like a predator. “Tell me, Sharanya Tripathi… did you know your friend diya was screwing with someone else behind my back?”

She gasped.

He didn't know the truth. She choose not to correct him.

He leaned closer, brushing her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

“You didn’t, did you? That’s alright,” he whispered. “You’ll still pay the price.”

Her lips trembled. “But I—”

“I don’t care,” he snapped. “You’re a Tripathi & her friend. That’s enough. And now, you’re mine. Whether you like it or not.”

He stepped back, unbuttoning his shirt as if he was preparing for war. “You want a happy marriage? Forget it. You’ll get what I give you—when I feel like it.”

She stared at him, broken, confused, too shocked to even cry.

“And one more thing,” he said before walking away. “Don’t ever mistake my name beside yours as love. It’s just a cage.”

Then he shut the door.

And that night, under the wrong veil, she realized…

This marriage was not the beginning of a fairytale.

It was a sentence.

And Abhay Thakur was her punishment.

---

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that presses against the chest like a weight, suffocating and cruel.

Abhay Thakur stood with his back to the door, his broad frame blocking the soft golden light filtering through the decorative bulbs draped across the headboard. The room was grand-fitting for a wedding night. Roses scattered across the floor, candles flickering along the corners, a bed adorned in red satin and petals. Everything was perfect.

Except the bride.

Not the one he had planned to marry.

Not the one he had waited for.

But the one who stood behind him now-fragile, nervous, and innocent. Her name trembled in his mind like a memory he never wanted to hold on to.

Sharanya.

Her sister's replacement.

His punishment from fate.

Abhay slowly turned around.

Sharanya stood near the dresser, her hands clutched tightly in front of her stomach, fingers nervously twisting the edge of her lehenga.

Her head was slightly bowed, eyes occasionally flickering up to look at him before darting away like a frightened doe. She was dressed beautifully, no doubt-but nothing about her screamed 'bride'. She looked... misplaced. Like a puzzle piece forced into a place it didn't belong.

She didn't deserve this room. Or him. Or his bitterness.

But here they were.

"Remove your jewelry," he said coldly, loosening the collar of his sherwani.

Her eyes shot up to his, wide and hesitant. "W-what...?"

Abhay's expression remained unreadable. "You heard me."

She gulped, fingers trembling as they reached up to unclasp her necklace. The sound of each ornament being removed echoed louder than necessary in the heavy silence. The payal. The earrings. The bangles. Piece by piece, she set them aside on the dresser, her breath uneven.

Abhay watched her.

Not lustfully. Not lovingly.

But curiously.

As if trying to make sense of why someone like her-so soft, so untouched-was now married to someone like him. A man built on grudges and betrayal. A man who still saw another face when he closed his eyes.

He stepped closer.

Sharanya stiffened.

"Why are you afraid?" he asked, voice lower now. "Did someone tell you I would hurt you tonight?"

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

He kept walking, until they were just inches apart. He could hear her breathing now-sharp, uneven. She stood so still, as if one wrong movement would shatter everything.

"Tell me something," he said, tilting his head, "did you know? That your friend was betraying me behind my back?"

Her eyes shot up in panic. "No! I-I didn't-"

He smiled bitterly. "Of course not. You're too innocent for that, right?"

Sharanya's voice dropped to a whisper. "I didn't know anything, Abhay ji... I swear."

He stared at her.

At her quivering lips. Her glassy eyes. The soft curve of her cheek where a stray curl clung to her skin. She was beautiful-but not the kind that screamed for attention. Hers was a gentler kind of beauty. The kind you'd miss in a crowded room but never forget once noticed.

He leaned in.

Slowly.

His hand came up, brushing lightly against her cheek as he tucked that curl behind her ear. She didn't move. Didn't blink. Only her lips moved, slightly parted, the words already forming in her throat.

Their faces were barely a breath apart when she whispered-

"Please..."

And just like that, he stopped.

The word-gentle as it was-hit him like a bullet.

He pulled back instantly. As if that single word had drawn a boundary around her that he had no right to cross.

Without another look, Abhay turned away and strode toward the bar counter at the side of the room. He grabbed a wine bottle, poured the drink into a crystal glass with a rough hand, and downed it in one go.

The burn in his throat felt better than the ache in his chest.

He poured another.

The glass in his hand trembled as the anger began to rise-the kind that came not from Sharanya, but from himself. From what was stolen from him. From the betrayal, the humiliation, the unanswered questions.

He could feel the tension in his wrist, his grip tightening around the glass. It cracked faintly under the pressure, his veins pulsing with the need to shatter something-anything-to bleed the rage out.

He lifted the glass, ready to slam it down, ready to hear the crash that might just quiet his mind-

But then...

She moved.

Sharanya walked up behind him slowly, like a breeze touching fire, not afraid of the burn.

He didn't turn. He couldn't.

But he felt her hand on his arm, soft and warm. Her fingers wrapped gently around his wrist. He froze.

And then-she kissed him.

Just like that.

No warning. No seduction.

Just a soft, tentative press of her lips on his shoulder blade.

It wasn't possessive or desperate. It was unsure. Nervous. Honest.

Abhay blinked.

The glass almost slipped from his hand, but this time, not from rage-from surprise. Her touch had rooted him in place in a way anger never could. He slowly turned to face her.

Sharanya's cheeks were red. Her eyes, glassy with something she didn't understand herself. But she didn't step back.

She looked up at him and whispered, "You don't have to pretend I'm her."

The words landed like a knife between his ribs.

He stared at her, breathing heavily. This girl, who had every reason to hate him for the way he'd treated her, had somehow managed to see through the cracks in his armor. And instead of running, she chose to stand there.

With him.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

He raised his hand and brushed his knuckles against her cheek, so softly it barely counted as touch.

"I'm not a good man, Sharanya," he murmured.

"I know," she said quietly. "But right now, I'm not asking you to be one."

---

𝙏𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙚𝙙...