War Of A Queen

چوتھا باب

"There are plenty of ways to die, but only love can kill and keep you alive to feel it." ― Leo Christopher

Unlike what I had thought, Salaar's family was more than prepared for my arrival. The Khan Haveli was adorned with an extravagant array of decorations, as if heralding the arrival of a cherished guest rather than a captive bride. Glittering lights intertwined with fragrant garlands of marigolds adorned every arch and doorway, their beauty a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within me.

As I was escorted to a room by one of the maids, I couldn't help but notice the meticulous attention to detail in the preparations. It had been an hour since our arrival, and the opulence of the surroundings only deepened my sense of foreboding.

Thirty minutes later, my mother-in-law, Bahaar Begum, entered the room with a commanding presence. She handed me another red lehenga, this one even more elaborate than the last. The fabric was rich and heavy, embroidered with intricate gold threads that shimmered under the light. It was a dress befitting a princess, not a prisoner.

"Change into this," she instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. Her eyes held a mixture of curiosity and cold calculation, as if she were assessing my worth and potential compliance. There was no warmth, no motherly affection, just a chilling formality that made my skin crawl.

With trembling hands, I accepted the lehenga and retreated to the adjoining bathroom. As I changed, my mind raced with the weight of my situation. The lavish preparations were nothing more than a façade, a gilded cage to mask the horror of my reality. I felt like a pawn in a grand game of chess, moved and manipulated at the whims of those more powerful.

When I emerged, draped in the heavy lehenga, I could feel the eyes of the household staff on me. Their whispers echoed in the corridors, their expressions a blend of sympathy and curiosity. I wondered how many of them knew the truth, how many understood the terror that lay beneath the surface of this gilded spectacle.

As I stepped into the hallway, the grandeur of the haveli seemed to close in on me, each step a reminder of my new reality. The walls, adorned with portraits of stern-faced ancestors, seemed to watch me with judgmental eyes. I felt like an intruder, an unwanted presence in this house of shadows and secrets.

In the grand hall, Salaar awaited, his cold green eyes locking onto mine the moment I entered. He stood tall and imposing, his demeanor exuding a confidence that sent chills down my spine. His smirk was a silent reminder of the power he wielded over me, a cruel mockery of the fear that gripped my heart.

"You look beautiful," he said, his tone dripping with insincerity. "Like a true Khan bride."

I swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. This was my new reality, a nightmare from which there was no waking. But as I stood there, wrapped in the oppressive weight of tradition and expectation, I resolved that I would not be broken. Salaar may have control over my circumstances, but he would never control my spirit.

A sudden commotion from the entrance drew everyone's attention. My heart lurched as I saw a group of men, led by an older man wearing a pagri, stride into the hall. It was my grandfather, the patriarch of the Khan dynasty. His presence commanded respect, his eyes a cold, unyielding blue that matched the icy demeanor of his grandson.

"Zara," he said, his voice deep and authoritative. "Welcome to the Khan family."

His words were laced with an ominous finality that sent a shiver down my spine. I looked at Salaar, who watched the exchange with a smug satisfaction. This was a game to him, a display of power and dominance. But to me, it was a prison sentence, a life bound by the chains of tradition and duty.

"Thank you, Dada ji," I replied, my voice barely more than a whisper. The formal address felt foreign on my tongue, a stark reminder of the chasm that now separated me from my former life.

As the ceremony continued, I felt a growing sense of despair. The traditions and rituals that once held meaning now felt like a noose tightening around my neck. My grandfather spoke of honor and duty, of the importance of upholding the family's legacy. But all I could think of was the price of that legacy, the sacrifice of my freedom and happiness.

Finally, it was time for the Nikah ceremony. Salaar took my hand, his grip firm and possessive. His eyes bore into mine, a silent warning not to defy him. The Qazi began the recitation, his voice a solemn drone that echoed through the hall.

"Zara, do you accept Salaar Sikandar Khan as your lawful husband?" the Qazi asked solemnly.

My lips trembled as I whispered, "Qubool hai."

"Do you, Salaar Sikandar Khan, accept Zara Ahmed Khan as your lawful wife?" the Qazi continued.

Salaar's voice was firm and unyielding, "Qubool hai."

The Qazi repeated the question two more times, each repetition driving a nail deeper into my heart. With each "Qubool hai," the finality of my situation became more apparent, leaving me feeling more trapped and helpless than ever.

The room erupted in applause as the ceremony concluded, but the sound felt hollow and distant. I was a puppet on a string, performing a role that had been thrust upon me. Salaar leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, "Remember, Zara. You are mine."

The words sent a chill down my spine, but they also ignited a spark of defiance. I would not be broken. I would find a way to reclaim my life, to break free from the chains that bound me. As I looked into Salaar's eyes, I vowed that I would fight, no matter the cost.

The night was far from over. The celebrations continued, a grand feast laid out in the sprawling courtyard of the haveli. But I felt like a ghost, drifting through the festivities with a hollow heart. The laughter and chatter of the guests felt like a cruel mockery, a stark contrast to the storm raging within me.

As the night wore on, I found a moment of solitude in the garden. The cool night air was a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the day. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath as I tried to gather my thoughts.

"Zara," a voice called out, soft and hesitant. I turned to see my cousin Anabia, her eyes filled with concern. She approached me cautiously, her hand reaching out to touch mine. "Are you okay?"

I shook my head, tears welling up in my eyes. "No, Anabia. I'm not okay. I don't know how to do this."

Anabia pulled me into a hug, her embrace warm and comforting. "You're not alone, Zara. We will get through this together. I promise."

Her words were a small comfort, a glimmer of hope in the darkness. I clung to her, drawing strength from her presence. No matter how bleak the future seemed, I knew I had allies, people who cared about me.

As the night drew to a close, I returned to my room, exhausted and emotionally drained. Salaar was waiting for me, his expression unreadable. He watched as I undressed, his eyes never leaving my form. The intensity of his gaze made my skin crawl, but I refused to show any fear.

"Get some rest," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Tomorrow is a new day."

I nodded, slipping into the bed with a heavy heart. As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I couldn't shake the feeling of dread that hung over me. But amidst the fear and uncertainty, a resolve began to form. I would not be a passive victim in this story. I would fight for my freedom, for my happiness.

And so, as the first light of dawn broke through the window, I made a silent vow to myself. This was just the beginning. I would find a way to reclaim my life, no matter the cost. Salaar may have won the battle, but the war was far from over.

Hey everyone 

I hope you guys are alright don't forget to vote and comment it means a lot to me ❤Ily all so much 💖

byeeee