Then came the sindoor.
The small silver container gleamed in the firelight as Vikram dipped his thumb into the vermilion powder.
This wasn’t a film set. This wasn’t a rehearsal.
This was real. Witnessed by family, world, and the sacred fire itself.
His right hand rose toward her forehead.
Unlike that day on set when emotion had overtaken him, now his movement was deliberate. Calculated. Intent.
His eyes never left hers as his thumb pressed firmly against the center of her hairline, marking a perfect crimson line down the part in her hair.
A full, uncompromising claim.
The sindoor felt warm against her skin, heavier than its physical weight. Her breath caught.
His eyes burned into hers, dark, focused, brooking no misunderstanding about what was happening.
This wasn’t contractual. This wasn’t for show.
This was Vikram Khanna staking a claim before families and gods alike.
When he finished, his hand lingered a moment longer than necessary, thumb pressing one final time at the end of theline. Making sure. Making certain. Making a statement to the cameras, to their families, and most of all to Divya herself.
Mine.
The word wasn’t spoken, but it hung in the air between them, as vivid as the sindoor on her skin.
The ceremony continued. More rituals. More prayers.
Food and music followed as the celebration extended into the evening. Divya’s father smiled with the determined enjoyment of a man committed to cherishing his daughter’s wedding regardless of the circumstances that led to it. Her brother moved through the gathering with his phone, taking countless pictures to share with friends who had been politely distant just days earlier.
Through it all, Vikram remained close to Divya’s side. Not hovering. But present. Possessive in a way the cameras could capture but she couldn’t quite name.
A constant pressure against her awareness that refused to fade into the background no matter how much she tried to focus elsewhere.
Chapter 16
The aarti thali gleamed in Kavita’s hands as the newly wedded couple stood at the threshold of Khanna Sadan. The flames danced in small circles as she moved the silver plate in ritual blessing, light reflecting in her eyes with warm welcome.
Divya stood still, feet aching after hours of ceremony, mind struggling to process the transformation from assistant to wife.
Wife.
The word felt foreign, disconnected from reality.
“Welcome home,” Kavita said, completing the final circle.
Home.
Another word that didn’t fit. This mansion with its marble floors and museum-quality art had never been meant for girls who grew up counting coins for bus fare.
Kavita pointed at the kalash filled with rice. “Step forward with your right foot. Scatter the grains as you enter.”
Divya did as she was told. Rice scattered, grains bouncing against polished marble.
Behind her, women began to sing, traditional mantras that had welcomed brides for centuries. The same songs that might have had welcomed Ishani months ago. The same songs that would have welcomed someone else entirely if Vikram hadn’t drawn that fateful line of sindoor.