The Malhotra estate didn't look like a house.
It looked like a declaration of war.
Bharat stood at the gates, staring up at the sprawling compound that stretched across three city blocks like a small kingdom carved out of concrete and old money. Marble pillars. Manicured gardens. Fountains that probably cost more than his entire neighborhood.
This was where Mira came from.
This was where he'd just married into.
This was where he was going to die.
The thought arrived with the calm certainty of someone reading their own obituary.
A car had picked him up at dawn—black Mercedes, tinted windows, driver who didn't speak. The envelope on the seat contained one item: a charcoal suit, tailored to measurements Bharat had never given anyone.
They'd known his size.
Had probably known it before he signed the contract.
Before he'd even walked into that temple.
The gates opened with a mechanical hum—smooth, expensive, inevitable.
Bharat walked through.
The courtyard was full of people who looked like they'd been assembled from a catalogue titled"Old Money and Older Hatred."
Men in suits that cost more than Bharat's annual income. Women dripping in jewelry that could fund a hospital wing. Everyone beautiful in that particular way that came from generations of selective breeding and cosmetic intervention—faces so symmetrical they looked computer-generated.
And every single one of them stopped talking when Bharat entered.
The silence was surgical. Precise.
Like they'd rehearsed this exact moment of collective judgment.
Bharat kept walking. Head up. Shoulders back. The way his mother had taught him when he was twelve and the neighborhood boys had cornered him for being too smart, too poor, too other.
"Don't let them see you bleed," she'd said. "Even when you're drowning."
Especially then.
A man stepped forward from the crowd—tall, silver-haired, wearing authority like a second skin. Late fifties. Expensive watch. Eyes that looked like they'd signed too many death warrants to bother counting anymore.
Rajan Malhotra.
Mira's uncle.
And, according to the file Bharat had mentally compiled from gossip and Google searches, the family'sde factoexecutioner.
"So."
Rajan's voice was smooth. Cultured. The kind of accent that came from British boarding schools and a lifetime of never being told no.
"You're the beggar."
Not groom. Not Bharat. Not even you.
Beggar.
The word hung in the air like a slap waiting to land.
Bharat met his eyes.
"I'm the husband."
"Husband."
Rajan smiled. It was the kind of smile that made you check if your wallet was still there.
"Is that what you think you are?"
He circled Bharat slowly—shark assessing prey, predator deciding which angle to bite from.
"You signed a contract. Took our money. Wore our name for a night."
"That doesn't make you family, boy."
"It makes youpurchased."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Laughter—soft, polite, vicious.
Bharat's jaw tightened.
"The contract says—"
"The contract," Rajan interrupted, "says you're aproxy. A placeholder. A warm body to satisfy an old ritual nobody believes in anymore."**
He stopped in front of Bharat. Close enough to invade, far enough to maintain plausible civility.
"You think you matter because you signed your name in blood? Please."
"Blood is cheap."
"Lineage is what counts. And you, Bharat Rao..."
He said the name like it tasted bad.
"...havenone."
Bharat felt the anger rising—hot, tight, clawing up his throat.
Not at the insult.
At the truth buried inside it.
Because Rajan was right.
Bharat was nobody. No family name. No legacy. No inherited power. Just a man desperate enough to sell himself to save someone who couldn't save him back.
But—
"I have Mira."
The words came out before he could stop them.
Rajan's smile widened.
"Do you?"
He gestured toward the far end of the courtyard.
"Why don't you ask her yourself?"
Mira stood on the terrace overlooking the gardens.
She was dressed in white silk that looked like it had been woven from frost and moonlight—elegant, severe, untouchable. Her hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. Jewelry minimal but expensive: a single jade bracelet that probably predated the Republic.
She looked like a queen.
Or a prisoner.
Sometimes the two were the same.
She saw Bharat. Their eyes met across the crowd.
For a heartbeat, something flickered in her expression—recognition, maybe, or warning.
Then the mask slammed back down.
Cold. Controlled. A stranger wearing a familiar face.
Rajan clapped Bharat on the shoulder—grip just shy of bruising.
"Come. Let me introduce you to the family."
"All the people who'll be attending your funeral."
The introductions were a masterclass in humiliation.
"This is Bharat. Mira's... consort."
"This is Bharat. The temple's latest charity case."
"This is Bharat. Don't bother learning his name—he won't last the month."
Each introduction delivered with a smile. Each one a small knife slipped between ribs with surgical precision.
Bharat shook hands. Nodded. Smiled when expected.
And memorized every face.
Every insult.
Every person who looked at him like he was something they'd scraped off their shoe.
Because if he survived this—
When he survived this—
He'd remember.
The banquet hall was obscene.
Chandeliers that looked like frozen waterfalls. Tables laden with food that could feed Bharat's entire neighborhood for a week. Servers moving through the crowd like ghosts, silent and efficient.
At the head of the hall, a portrait—oil on canvas, massive, dominating.
An old man. Severe face. Eyes that followed you wherever you stood.
Vikram Malhotra.
Patriarch. Founder. Dead for fifteen years but still running the family like a dictator from beyond the grave.
Beneath the portrait, an altar—traditional, ornate, surrounded by offerings. Incense. Flowers. Small dishes of food that would rot before anyone touched them.
Ancestor worship.
The old way.
Rajan stood before the altar, hands clasped like a priest about to deliver sermon.
"Before we feast," he announced, voice carrying across the hall, "we honor tradition."
"The new groom must pay respects to the founder. Acknowledge the lineage he has married into."
He looked at Bharat.
"Kneel before Vikram Malhotra. Touch your forehead to the ground. Accept your place."
The hall went silent.
Every eye on Bharat.
Waiting.
Bharat looked at the portrait.
At the altar.
At Rajan, standing there with that smug, patient smile—like a hunter who'd just sprung a trap and was savoring the moment before it closed.
Kneel.
Accept your place.
Admit you're beneath us.
Bharat's fists clenched.
He'd knelt before. Too many times. Begging hospital administrators for extensions. Pleading with landlords for mercy. Bowing his head to people who had power and knew he didn't.
But this—
This was different.
This was theater.
Public execution disguised as ritual.
He looked at Mira.
She stood at the edge of the hall, face unreadable.
Watching.
Waiting.
To see if he'd break.
"No."
The word came out quiet. Steady.
Rajan blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"I said no."
Bharat stepped forward. Not toward the altar.
Toward Rajan.
"I didn't marry a dead man. I married Mira. Yourniece. Not your puppet."
"And I don't kneel to portraits."
The hall erupted—gasps, murmurs, a ripple of shock spreading like wildfire through dry grass.
Rajan's smile evaporated.
"Youdare—"
"I dare," Bharat cut him off, "because the contract you're so eager to remind me about? It binds me toher. Not to you. Not to this family's ghost cult."
"I signed my name in blood for Mira. Not for Vikram. Not for tradition."
"So if you want me to kneel—"
He met Rajan's eyes. Held them.
"—you're going to have to make me."
The silence that followed was the kind that precedes violence.
Rajan's jaw tightened. His hand moved—subtle, controlled—toward his pocket.
Bharat saw it.
Recognized the motion.
Weapon.
Or phone.
Either way, bad news.
"He won't kneel."
Mira's voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk.
She walked forward—slow, deliberate, every step measured like she was performing a dance she'd rehearsed a thousand times.
"Because he doesn't have to."
She stopped beside Bharat. Close. Not touching, but close enough it looked like solidarity.
"The contract bindsus," she said, voice cold and clear. "Not him to you. Not me to your petty dominance games."
"He's my husband. Not your subject."
Rajan stared at her.
"Mira—"
"And my husband," she continued, "doesn't kneel to the living."
"Only the dead deserve that honor."
"Vikram is dead. This is a painting."
"I won't have Bharat bow topaint."
The hall held its breath.
Rajan's face went through several colors—surprise, rage, something that might have been fear.
"You're making a mistake," he said quietly.
"I've made worse."
Mira's hand found Bharat's—fingers cold, grip firm.
"Come. We're leaving."
They walked out together.
Through the silent crowd.
Past the portraits and the altars and the people who looked at them like they were watching a execution postponed, not canceled.
Outside, the night air hit like a reset.
Bharat exhaled—didn't realize he'd been holding his breath.
"You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did," Mira interrupted.
She let go of his hand. Stepped away. Distance reimposed.
"If I let them break you on day one, the rest of the trial becomes impossible."
"So that was strategic."
"Everything I do is strategic."
She looked back at the estate—lights blazing, shadows moving behind windows like sharks circling.
"Rajan won't forget this."
"Good," Bharat said.
Mira glanced at him. Almost smiled.
"You're either very brave or very stupid."
"Can't it be both?"
"Usually is."
A car pulled up—different one, same tinted windows.
Mira opened the door.
"Get in. I'll take you home."
"Where's home for you?"
She paused.
"The temple. Always the temple."
"Sounds lonely."
"It is."
She slid into the car.
Bharat followed.
The drive was silent.
Mira stared out the window. Bharat watched the city blur past—neon and shadow, lives being lived in tiny rooms stacked like coffins.
Finally:
"Why did you protect me back there?"
Mira didn't look at him.
"Because if you die, I die. Contract terms."
"That's the only reason?"
"Yes."
But her voice wavered. Just slightly. Like a crack in ice you only noticed when you stepped on it.
"Liar," Bharat said softly.
She turned. Met his eyes.
"We're all liars, Bharat. The only question is what we're lying about."
"And what are you lying about?"
She smiled—sad, bitter, real.
"That I don't care if you live."
The car stopped.
Bharat's building. Crumbling concrete. Flickering streetlights. Home.
"Twenty-nine days," Mira said.
"I know."
"Rajan will come for you. Soon."
"How soon?"
"Hours. Maybe less."
She handed him something—small, cold, metallic.
A knife. Ceremonial. Jade handle.
"Keep this. When he comes, don't fight fair."
"He won't."
Bharat took the knife.
"What will he do?"
Mira's eyes were dark. Hollow.
"Whatever it takes to make you disappear."
"And make it look like an accident."
The door opened—driver's signal.
Bharat stepped out.
Looked back.
"Mira—"
"Don't thank me," she cut him off. "Just survive."
"We're not friends, Bharat. We're... co-defendants."
"In a trial where the verdict's already written."
The door closed.
The car pulled away.
Bharat stood there, knife in hand, watching her disappear into the city's neon-lit throat.
Upstairs, his mother was sleeping.
Breathing steady. Machines humming.
Alive.
Bharat sat beside her bed.
Twenty-nine days.
Rajan coming.
A family that wanted him erased.
And somewhere—
Deep in the temple—
The countdown ticking.
Ticking.
Ticking.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message:
"The beggar kneels. Or the beggar bleeds. Choose wisely. —R"
Bharat stared at the text.
Then at the knife in his hand—jade and steel, cold and sharp.
The question wasn't whether Rajan would come.
Was whether Bharat would be ready.
Or already dead.