The Marriage of Power

The moment Gagan whispered her reluctant “yes,” a strange, unsettling light flickered across Ridhansh Singh Rathod’s arrogant face. His eyes gleamed with something dark and impenetrable—a glimpse of a plan so intricate that no one could possibly decipher what brewed within the shadowed corridors of his mind.

He did not look like a man in love.

He looked like a hunter who had finally trapped his prey.

Without a trace of sympathy, he watched as Gagan’s fragile body swayed and collapsed into unconsciousness. Calmly, almost mechanically, he revived her. When her half-lidded eyes fluttered open, he merely snapped his fingers.

Snap.

At once, two stylish, modern women entered the room carrying a large professional kit—a hairstylist and a makeup artist. Without sparing them a glance, Ridhansh pointed toward the broken figure of Gagan seated before him.

“Fifteen minutes,” he ordered coldly. “Prepare her like a bride. I want her ready and standing before me. No delays.”

He turned and walked out, not waiting for acknowledgment. Everything was unfolding exactly as he had scripted.

The women worked swiftly and efficiently. Within fifteen minutes, they bathed her, dressed her in a fresh red silk lehenga, dried and styled her damp hair, and applied flawless makeup. When they were done, Gagan looked breathtaking—like a porcelain doll carved to perfection.

Beautiful.

And lifeless.

She was still in shock. The decision she had just made had pushed her onto a road whose destination she could neither see nor comprehend.

Soon, they led her into the grand living hall.

Ridhansh was waiting.

His eyes rested on her for a brief second. Draped in red silk and a delicate chunari, she looked every bit a princess—sharp features, kohl-lined eyes blurred with unshed tears, trembling crimson lips. Her swollen eyes only added to her fragile beauty.

But Ridhansh’s gaze did not soften.

He stepped forward and extended a document toward her.

“Sign this. No questions. Hurry.”

Gagan did not move.

Her silence ignited something cold and dangerous in him. He strode forward and gripped her shoulders harshly.

“Baby doll,” he warned in a low voice, “I do not repeat myself. Sign the paper. Now.”

Her trembling hands took the document.

It was a marriage certificate.

Fresh tears blurred her vision. The pen felt impossibly heavy in her fingers.

Ridhansh scoffed at her tears.

“You can cry later. You’ll have a lifetime for that. Right now, decide whether your lover breathes or not. His time is running out.”

At the mention of Kriyansh, her resolve shattered. A tear fell onto the paper, smudging the ink as she signed.

He immediately placed another document before her.

And another.

She signed everything without reading, without thinking—like a puppet whose strings had already been pulled.

Once done, Ridhansh grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the exit.

Gagan resisted weakly. “I agreed. First give me the antidote—”

“We marry here,” he interrupted coldly. “He lives there. Move.”

He dragged her into the central hall.

The scene had transformed entirely.

Fifteen to twenty armed bodyguards stood aligned against the walls. Two lawyers in black coats waited near a table. Three senior police officers stood present—silent witnesses to power.

Everything had been prearranged.

Gagan noticed none of it. Her mind held only one image—Kriyansh fighting for breath.

“Darshit,” Ridhansh commanded.

A young man who had been standing like a shadow stepped forward instantly.

“Get two copies of these. Give them to the lawyers.”

Darshit nodded and disappeared.

Ridhansh then led Gagan to a small mandap erected hastily in the corner. A pandit sat waiting nervously.

Ridhansh fixed him with a lethal stare.

“Twenty minutes. Only essential mantras. Not a second more.”

A bodyguard stepped forward and cocked his gun deliberately.

He leaned toward the trembling priest.

“If this wedding exceeds twenty minutes, your skull will be shattered in twenty-one.”

The pandit swallowed in fear. He glanced helplessly at the police officers, but they avoided eye contact. In front of wealth and influence, even authority bowed its head.

The mantras began—hurried, shortened, mechanical.

No rituals of joy.

No sacred vows.

Just a legal ceremony executed under threat.

Gagan stood through it all like a lifeless statue.

Within twenty minutes, it was done.

One of the lawyers stepped forward. “Congratulations, Mr. Ridhansh Singh Rathod. And congratulations, Miss—”

Ridhansh cut him off.

“My wife. Mrs. Gagan Rathod. Gagan Singh Rathod.”

His tone left no room for correction.

“Collect the documents from my assistant. We’re done.”

He seized her hand again and led her outside.