The mandap burned with sacred fire, flames dancing patiently—waiting for a bride who would never come.
Priests murmured uncertainly, their chants faltering as whispers rippled through the hall. Guests shifted, confused, uneasy. This was not how weddings unfolded. This was not how rituals were meant to breathe.
Then Riaan moved.
He seized Avya’s wrist and dragged her forward.
His grip was iron. Unyielding. Possessive.
Gasps broke out like cracks in glass.
“Riaan!” his mother cried, rushing forward. “This is madness! Stop this at once!”
He didn’t turn.
His gaze remained locked on Avya—as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. “This marriage will happen,” he said, voice cold enough to freeze blood.
Avya stumbled once, then steadied herself. Her spine straightened. Her chin lifted.
“I am not her replacement,” she said, every word edged with ice.
Riaan’s eyes darkened. “No,” he growled quietly. “You’re her accomplice.”
A murmur swept through the crowd.
“And you’ll answer for it.”
Before anyone could stop him, he shoved her before the priest.
The old man’s hands shook as he opened the sacred texts. The chants resumed—uncertain, fractured, as though even the mantras protested what was unfolding.
Avya stood still.
Not pleading. Not resisting.
Watching.
Riaan took her hand and forced it into his. His fingers were warm with fury, trembling with restrained violence. He dragged her around the sacred fire, each step heavy, deliberate.
One round.
Two.
The flames reflected in Avya’s eyes, sharp and unblinking.
Vermillion touched her hairline, smeared red against her will.
The mangalsutra was clasped tightly around her neck, the chain biting into her skin like a shackle.
With the final chant, the priest whispered, “It is done.”
Riaan leaned in, his voice rough, barely contained. “Now you’re mine.”
Avya looked at him.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t fight.
She didn’t beg.
She let the silence stretch—long enough to suffocate every expectation in the room.
Then she moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Her hands rose to her throat. Fingers calm. Steady. She unclasped the mangalsutra and placed it gently beside the fire—as if returning something that never belonged to her.
A collective gasp erupted.
Before anyone could speak, Avya lifted her palm and wiped the sindoor from her forehead in a single, unforgiving swipe.
Red smeared across her skin.
The hall froze.
Someone cried out. Someone fainted. Someone dropped a tray of flowers.
Avya said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
Her back straight, her steps measured, she turned away from the mandap. Each footstep echoed louder than any vow that had been forced from her lips.
She walked through the stunned crowd, past broken traditions and shattered pride, without looking back.
Behind her, Riaan stood frozen before the sacred fire—fists clenched, jaw tight, rage simmering beneath the surface.
He had thought he could bind her.
Claim her.
Punish her into submission.
But as Avya disappeared from the hall, one truth burned brighter than the flames between them.
He had not taken a wife.
He had declared war.
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