[ This Book is under editing]
Niharika Verma is a stunning semi-classical dancer who wants nothing more than to travel the world, but the shackles of her dreadful past keep her grounded. On the other end, Asia's well-known businessman and CEO of Ra...
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The priest’s voice echoed through the night, his chants weaving through the flickering flames of the holy fire. The scent of burning ghee and fresh marigolds filled the air, blending with the whispers of the gathered guests. The mandap, draped in red and gold, stood as a silent witness to a marriage neither the bride nor the groom had wished for.
Niharika stood at the edge of the sacred space, her feet frozen despite Anushka’s gentle push forward. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to turn and run, but her mother’s trembling hand on her wrist held her back. Divya Ji’s eyes, filled with silent pain and resignation, begged her to comply.
"Bhai, your bride has arrived. The wait is over now," Aarav’s voice rang out, cutting through the thick tension.
All eyes turned toward her, but Niharika's gaze found only one—Maanveer’s.
He was already seated by the fire, his face carved in stone, unreadable. The glow of the flames cast sharp shadows across his chiseled features, his eyes dark, piercing. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, a quiet battle waging between them. His gaze flickered over her bridal attire—her red and green lehenga, the delicate gold embroidery, the bangles stacked high on her wrists, the sindoor yet to be applied but already weighing heavy on her soul. She looked breathtaking, a goddess draped in silks and sorrow.
But she was not smiling.
Maanveer’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted for the briefest second before he masked it once more.
Niharika swallowed, forcing herself to move. With slow, reluctant steps, she approached the mandap. Anushka helped her sit beside Maanveer, but even as she lowered herself onto the cushion, her heart refused to settle.
The ceremony began. The priest’s voice wove through the air, reciting the sacred mantras. The flames crackled, casting their glow over the unwilling couple. Maanveer sat stiffly beside her, his gaze unwavering, not once betraying any hint of emotion.
Tears blurred Niharika’s vision as she lowered her gaze to her lap. This was supposed to be a day of joy, of celebration, of dreams fulfilled. Instead, it was the death of every hope she had ever dared to nurture.
Her parents sat nearby, their faces pale, their grief silent but suffocating. Vivek Ji’s hands trembled as the priest called for the Kanyadaan. The moment he had once dreamed of, a father’s most sacred duty, now felt like a curse. With hesitant hands, he placed Niharika’s delicate fingers into Maanveer’s larger ones. Their hands touched, skin against skin, but no warmth passed between them. Only cold acceptance.
