The wedding morning broke in a riot of color and sound.
Dhol beats thundered through the house. Women laughed as they adjusted bangles and dupattas. The air was thick with incense, flowers, and expectation. Everything was exactly how it was supposed to be.
Until a scream tore through it all.
“She’s gone!”
The music faltered. Laughter died mid-breath.
Avya was standing near the doorway when chaos erupted. People surged toward the bridal room, voices overlapping, panic spreading like fire. Inside, the room was unmistakably empty.
Naira’s lehenga lay crumpled on the bed. Jewelry was scattered across the dressing table, bangles abandoned, makeup untouched. The window stood open, curtains fluttering gently, mocking the disaster it had witnessed.
Naira had vanished.
Relatives wailed openly. Servants rushed out in every direction, shouting her name. Someone knocked over a tray of sweets; it shattered, syrup bleeding across the marble floor like an omen.
Her father stormed into the room, his face contorted with rage and humiliation. “This is disgrace!” he roared. “Do you have any idea what this will do to our family?”
Her mother collapsed onto the bed, sobbing into her hands, rocking back and forth as if denial might undo reality.
Avya watched it all in silence.
She had known.
Then a voice cut through the hysteria, sharp and unmistakable.
“Riaan Malhotra is here.”
The hall stilled.
Every head turned.
Riaan entered like a storm forced into human shape. His sherwani was flawless, ivory and gold, every fold perfect. But his eyes—his eyes burned cold, stripped of warmth, stripped of illusion.
“What happened?” he asked.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
No one answered at first. Fear had stolen their words. Finally, an uncle stepped forward, hands trembling. “She’s… she’s gone. We can’t find her.”
Riaan’s jaw tightened. Just once.
“On our wedding day,” he said quietly.
The words carried. Deadly.
Excuses followed—overlapping, desperate. Someone blamed cold feet. Someone blamed immaturity. Someone begged for time.
Riaan heard none of it.
His gaze moved across the hall—over bowed heads, shaking hands, broken pride—until it stopped.
Avya.
She stood perfectly still, arms at her sides, eyes steady. Not shocked. Not confused. Watching.
“She ran away,” Riaan said, his voice low. It wasn’t a question. “Didn’t she?”
Avya met his gaze without hesitation. “She chose freedom.”
A gasp rippled through the hall.
“You should respect that.”
The silence that followed was violent.
Riaan took a step toward her. Fury sharpened his features, his restraint cracking. “Freedom?” he repeated softly. “Or betrayal?”
Avya didn’t flinch. “The truth is,” she said evenly, “she was never yours.”
Whispers exploded. His family pleaded for patience. Her family begged for forgiveness, promises spilling from trembling lips.
Riaan said nothing.
And that silence was far worse than rage.
Because silence meant he was thinking.
It meant decisions were already forming—cold, precise, irreversible.
When he finally moved, it was sharp and deliberate.
Straight toward Avya.
And in that moment, as the distance between them closed, Avya understood something with chilling clarity.
Naira hadn’t just run from a marriage.
She had ignited a war.
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