The palace bloomed with gold that morning. Trumpets blared, silk banners draped from marble balconies, and the courtyard shimmered under strings of flowers. It was supposed to be Rajveer's day — his laughter echoed faintly from the far side of the courtyard where his bride's procession was arriving. Yet, in the shadows of celebration, another wedding was being stitched in silence.
Aayat sat in a room full of women, her heart pounding faster than the dhol beats outside. The mehndi on her hands had darkened overnight, mocking her with its brightness. Gold bangles clinked as they slid up her wrists, heavy necklaces weighed against her collarbone. The bridal red they draped on her shoulders didn't feel like silk — it felt like chains.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Kohl-lined eyes, vermillion lips, a bride everyone would admire. But inside, she felt like a prisoner dressed for display.
This isn't me… this isn't my life, her heart whispered.
The door opened and Ishika slipped in, her face pale beneath her smile. She squeezed Aayat's hands, whispering,
Ishika: "I tried, Aayu. I begged them. But Rajmata… she won't hear a word. They've decided."
Tears burned Aayat's eyes, but she forced herself to nod. Her voice came out like broken glass.
Aayat: "For Papa… I'll do it. Only for him."
The mandap was blazing with light. Gold cloth rippled overhead, flames crackled in the havan kund, and sacred chants filled the air. On one side, Rajveer's wedding glowed with festivity; on the other, hers was hidden, quieter, yet just as binding.
She walked forward slowly, each step heavy as if her feet carried the weight of her fate. The anklets tinkled, the veil brushed her face, and whispers rose as the guests turned to look.
At the far end, he stood.
Anirudh Singh Rathore. The prince. Her groom.
His sherwani was embroidered in gold, his posture regal, but his face was carved from stone. No smile, no flicker of warmth. Only shock lingering in the depths of his eyes — the same shock she carried in her heart. He hadn't asked for this either.
Their eyes met for the briefest moment, and Aayat's breath caught. There was no tenderness there, no kindness. Only intensity, dark and unreadable, a fire that frightened her.
She sat beside him. The priest's voice rose, chanting mantras, tying knots neither of them had chosen.
The rituals blurred — the kanyadaan, the pheras, the sindoor pressed into her hairline. Each felt unreal, as though her body was moving but her spirit lagged behind. When Anirudh's hand brushed hers to place the mangalsutra around her neck, her skin shivered at his touch.
The necklace settled against her collarbone like a seal of destiny.
Around them, conch shells blew, relatives clapped, Rajmata's lips curved in satisfaction. But inside, Aayat's heart whispered a different vow.
This isn't love. This is surrender. And yet… there is no escape.
As the fire died down, the priest's final blessing echoed.
Priest: "From this moment forth, you are bound — husband and wife, king and queen in destiny."
Aayat lowered her gaze, her eyes stinging. She didn't see Anirudh's expression, didn't dare. All she knew was that the path of her life had been rewritten in the flames of the mandap.
And as the palace roared with celebration for two brothers married on the same day, Aayat felt the silence in her heart louder than all the music in the world.