I was the man who swore he would never settle down. The man who laughed at marriage. The man who believed love was just a transaction dressed up in emotions.
And now I was getting married to the same woman who had given me nothing but betrayal.
Damn it.
My chest tightened as I adjusted my cuffs. The fabric of my sherwani suddenly felt suffocating, like a costume forced onto me. I wanted this to be over. That was it. Nothing poetic. Nothing noble. I just wanted it to end. I couldn’t risk my uniform. Years of hard work, my reputation and my career. One accusation was enough to destroy everything I had built. And she knew that, she knew exactly where to strike.
My plan was simple. I would marry her then, the moment I got a chance I would divorce her. And I would make sure she regretted ever trying to trap me. Because that’s what this was. A trap. She had done that for money, for status and for security. Whatever the fuck she thought she would gain from this.
I used to think she was different but I was wrong. I never thought she could be this greedy and she could fall this low just for money.
I shook the thought away and looked around. The hotel lobby was decorated like something out of a royal wedding. Crystal chandeliers. Marble floors polished so clean they reflected the lights above. Staff members moved around like silent shadows, making sure everything was perfect.
My father had booked the entire luxury venue. He had even invited a few of his business partners. Because of course he had. Why did it feel like he was happy? The thought sat heavy in my stomach. Maybe he liked seeing me like this. I was forced into something I never wanted. Maybe he never wanted my happiness in the first place. Or maybe this was his way of fixing me. Of forcing me into becoming the man he always wanted me to be.
The “responsible” son. The “respectable” husband. The “correct” heir. I swallowed hard.
God, I missed Mom. If she were here things would be different. She would have fought for me. She would have listened before judging. She would have believed me even if the entire world stood against me. I could almost hear her voice telling me to breathe. To stay calm. To not let anger decide my future.
My throat tightened.
For a second, I wanted to walk out. I wanted to just disappear, leave everything behind, but I couldn’t. Not anymore. Because too many eyes were watching me, they had too many expectations from me. So I straightened my shoulders, adjusted my sherwani and walked toward the mandap like a man walking toward a sentence he had already accepted.
My eyes shot up the moment she stepped through the door. She wore a deep red lehenga, the fabric heavy with embroidery, and a golden veil draped over her face, hiding her expression but not her presence.
The gold shimmered under the lights, loud and proud like everything in this wedding. My jaw tightened. My father probably sent all those expensive clothes and jewelry. Her poor family could never afford this kind of luxury. Not in a hundred years and I knew she must have dreamed of this moment: the wealth, the attention, the status. Finally, it was all coming true for her.
The thought made something bitter curl inside my chest. She was greedy. A liar. A manipulative woman.
I looked away angrily, clenching my fist so tightly my knuckles hurt. I felt her sit beside me, close enough that I could sense the warmth from her body, but I never looked at her, not once.
The priest began the rituals, chanting in a steady, sacred rhythm. I followed every instruction silently: stand, sit, repeat, offer, promise like a puppet being pulled by invisible strings.
Because this wasn’t about me. This was about my father. His reputation. His so-called image.
I felt Kavya’s hand brush mine. It was hesitant, almost careful but I pushed it aside coldly. Not roughly enough for others to notice. Just enough for her to understand.
My chest felt tight sitting next to her. Like I was trapped in a room with no air.
Hours later, after what felt like slow, calculated torture, the rituals finally ended. The priest pronounced us husband and wife, his voice echoing like a final verdict. Husband and wife. The words felt foreign and wrong.
When no one was watching us, I leaned toward her, my voice low and sharp enough to cut. “I really wish you had chosen another man,” I clenched my teeth. “Because you messed with the wrong man, Kavya. Really.” I felt her body jolt slightly.
Then she let out a long, slow sigh and said nothing. She looked strangely calm. She wasn’t even looking at me like I had tried to ruin her life. Like I had almost destroyed her. For a few seconds, she stayed silent. Then she turned to me, her eyes empty of emotion.
“I’m glad I chose you, Saurav,” she said evenly. “At least you were sexier than the other rich guys I tried to trap. Most of them were fat or ugly.”
My jaw locked. “So this is your family business?” I said bitterly. The words tasted poisonous on my tongue. Kavya didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t defend herself immediately. She just watched me like she was waiting and expecting me to say something worse.
“Don’t assume too much,” she muttered finally, turning her face slightly away.
The distant sound of wedding guests laughing and clinking glasses drifted through the hallways. Life was moving outside this moment: celebrations, blessings, fake smiles, expensive perfumes, gold, noise.
Everything my father cared about.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my fists to unclench.
“Let’s make one thing clear,” I said, my voice low and controlled. “This marriage is just for names and appearances. You stay out of my life, I stay out of yours. You get the money, the status, the lifestyle you want.”