Nandini Verma was 18 when she penned her first story, a tale of passion, betrayal, and revenge. It was a masterpiece, poised for publication. But on the night she was to share her brilliance with the world, tragedy struck. Her abusive father, a figu...
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The soft, distant sounds of laughter and music filled the air, blending with the fragrant scent of marigolds and jasmine. The mansion was aglow with lights, every corner decorated with vibrant colors that seemed to reflect the joy in the air. It was the night of my wedding— OUR wedding. One night I thought it would never come. And yet here I was, standing in front of the mirror, dressed in a traditional sherwani, gold embroidered on white.
For a man like me, accustomed to commanding respect and instilling fear, tonight felt oddly different. The tension in my muscles wasn’t the usual edge of control I carried—it was anticipation. My little swan was finally becoming mine in every way possible. The moment I had waited for, guarded so fiercely, was here. Nandini, the woman who had turned my world upside down and tamed the beast within me, would be my wife by the end of this night.
I adjusted the royal turban on my head, the ruby at its center catching the light. My eyes flicked to the mirror again, studying the reflection. No trace of the cold, calculating man remained. Instead, a faint smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, one that only surfaced when I thought of Her.
“Yash, it’s time,” Rakshit’s voice broke through my thoughts. He stepped into the room, dressed immaculately, his usual smirk replaced with something more genuine. I could tell he was happy for me, for us. “The guests are waiting, and more importantly, SHE's waiting.”
As I made my way down the long hallway, the sound of drums and shehnais echoed louder. The traditional Indian wedding was in full swing, and the entire palace was filled with our closest family and allies. I walked through the throngs of people, my eyes scanning the crowd, but only one face mattered tonight. And she was about to step into my world as my wife.
The courtyard outside was a spectacle in itself. My baraat had been an event to remember—grand, full of life, with men on horseback and an entourage of dancing guests. The drums played louder, announcing my arrival as the groom. I could see the excitement in everyone’s faces, and even though the focus was on me, my thoughts were entirely on her.
I mounted the grand horse, a white stallion dressed in gold and red, and my procession began towards the wedding venue. The drummers played their rhythm, while the dancers and relatives joined the celebration with traditional moves. There was something about this moment, with the sky turning a deep orange, that felt like a shift in destiny.
As I approached the entrance to the mandap, the place where the sacred ceremony would take place, I felt a strange calm settle over me. Everything had led to this moment—the battles, the betrayals, the near-deaths. And yet, here I was, ready to begin a new chapter with the woman who had seen through the darkness and found the man beneath.
The mandap was beautifully decorated with flowers, strings of marigold and red roses cascading down from every corner. A small fire burned in the center, ready to witness the sacred vows we would exchange. The priest had already begun chanting the mantras, his voice a steady hum amidst the celebration.
