𝗣𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗢𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗼𝗮𝗱

Chapter 1

The air was thick with the scent of rain as it battered the windows of the mansion, relentless in its fury. Outside, dark clouds swirled ominously overhead, a fitting backdrop for the chaos unfolding within. Inside the opulent banquet hall, the atmosphere was electric with anticipation, yet beneath the surface lay a current of tension that threatened to explode.

Ishaant Dutt stood at the edge of the mandap, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His black sherwani, stitched from the finest silk, felt like a prison, tightening around his chest with every passing moment. The intricate gold embroidery glinted under the chandeliers, mocking him with its brilliance while he stood alone, a solitary figure amid a sea of guests. Rows of family and friends shifted uncomfortably in their seats, their murmurs rising like a tide, yet all Ishaant could hear was the deafening silence of his own despair.

His bride-to-be, Rusha, had fled—vanished without so much as a goodbye. After twelve years of love, sacrifice, and a relentless battle to convince his family to accept her, she had disappeared into thin air. No note, no explanation. Only the crushing silence where her vows should have been, leaving him drowning in a tidal wave of humiliation and disbelief.

The humiliation was unbearable.

In the distance, he heard his mother weeping quietly, her bangles clinking softly as she dabbed at her eyes with a delicate handkerchief. Her sorrow pierced through the festive atmosphere like a knife, an aching reminder of what was lost. Ishaant’s father, stoic as ever, muttered something to the family priest, his lips moving in a silent prayer for a miracle that would not come. But all Ishaant could focus on was the pounding in his ears, the sound of his own heart breaking. The world around him felt like it was collapsing, and he was powerless to stop it.

Images of Rusha with someone else—the office co-worker she’d confessed to liking—flashed through his mind, igniting a burning rage within him. He felt betrayed, but it was more than just that; it was the stark realization that everything he had worked for, the life he had envisioned with her, was slipping through his fingers like sand. The dreams they had spun together, the laughter they had shared, now lay shattered like the delicate glass ornaments that adorned the hall.

And then there was Samriddhi.

In the back of his mind, he recalled that night at the bachelor party—the raucous laughter, the reckless promises made in a drunken haze. Samriddhi and Devansh had laughed with him, vowing that if things went awry, if by some cruel twist of fate he didn’t marry Rusha, they would step in as alternatives. At the time, it had seemed ridiculous, impossible even. They had been young, caught up in the thrill of friendship and a little too much liquor.

But now, standing here, in front of family, friends, and half of Kolkata’s elite, the notion didn’t seem so absurd. Ishaant’s eyes flickered towards Samriddhi, who sat in the second row, her dark rose-pink sundress a stark contrast to the somber mood enveloping the room. Her honey-glazed skin glowed under the soft lights, but her expression remained carefully composed, revealing nothing as she observed the unfolding spectacle.

His voice, low and strained, broke through the whispers that surrounded them. “Samriddhi…”

She looked up, startled, as if hearing her name spoken from his lips in this moment was as surreal to her as it was to him.

Ignoring the sharp intake of breath from his family, the disapproving glares from the guests, Ishaant stepped forward, the weight of his desperation pulling him closer. “You made a promise,” he declared, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and raw vulnerability. “You said if this didn’t work out… you’d marry me.”