"Some love stories begin with stolen glances.

Ours began with stolen choices."

---

The mandap smelled of marigolds, ghee, and destiny.

Somewhere between the heavy clinking of gold bangles and the faint hum of shehnai, Sanya Singh felt her throat dry — and not because of the heat from the sacred fire.

Her lehenga was heavy, but the air around her was heavier.

Her eyes stayed low, trained on the crimson borders of her dupatta, but her mind was everywhere.

What was she doing here?

She had dreamed of freedom, of campus mornings and library afternoons… not of sitting cross-legged on a stage with a stranger by her side.

A stranger who was now her husband.

---

Yuvraj Singhania sat to her right, spine straight, eyes forward. The man looked like he’d been carved from the same stone as the temple pillars — unmoved, unreadable, unshakable. His cream sherwani fit him perfectly, his jaw was tight, and his gaze stayed fixed on the priest’s hands as if he could avoid looking at her altogether.

At thirty, he was far from the boyish grooms she had seen in her friends’ weddings. He had a certain weight to him — not of wealth, but of life. A man who knew responsibility too well.

Their first meeting had been barely two weeks ago — an awkward conversation in her father’s living room, where her family spoke more than she did. He’d asked her nothing personal. She’d said nothing worth remembering.

And now, here they were, about to tie their lives together in front of a hundred people.

---

"Kanyadaan," the priest announced, and her father stepped forward. Sanya’s chest tightened.

The ritual felt less like giving away a daughter and more like passing a fragile parcel from one owner to another.

Her hands trembled when Yuvraj’s fingers brushed hers for the first time, accepting the ceremonial gift she had unwillingly become. His touch was cool, brief, and firm — a banker’s handshake disguised as a wedding vow.

---

The mangal phera began. They circled the sacred fire, each step echoing in her ears like a drumbeat she couldn’t escape. The priest’s chants blurred into background noise. All she could hear was her own breathing and the sound of her anklets against the wooden floor.

When it was time for the sindoor, Yuvraj finally looked at her.

It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t cruel — it was… assessing. As though he was silently telling her, This is going to be hard for both of us.

The pinch of vermilion touched her parting, and just like that, the world shifted. She was no longer Sanya Singh. She was Sanya Yuvraj Singhania.

---

Applause followed. Aunties whispered. Cameras flashed. But her chest felt hollow.

The ceremony ended. Guests swarmed around them with congratulations neither of them truly felt. She smiled because she was supposed to. He nodded because that’s all he ever did.

When they finally sat in the backseat of the decorated car, away from the noise, the silence between them was louder than the band outside.

She clutched her dupatta. He loosened his collar.

After what felt like hours, his voice broke the stillness.

"You’re nervous," he said.

It wasn’t a question.

She looked out the window. "Aren’t you?"

A faint pause. "No. But I think… you are."

And for the first time, his tone had the smallest hint of softness.

---

She didn’t know if she could survive this marriage.

He didn’t know if she could survive him.

But somewhere between the marigolds and the silence, a story had begun.

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