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Aaravika
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The soft clang of anklets and the weight of a heavily embroidered red lehenga reminded me that this wasn’t a dream—it was my nightmare walking me to the altar. My brother, Parth, held the red shawl above me as we walked toward the mandap, and three others held its edges. My cousin, my brother, and the surprise addition—Tanvik.

He wasn’t supposed to be here, or at least I didn’t expect him to. Vayran’s best friend should’ve been a reflection of him—arrogant, dominant, unkind. But Tanvik was the exact opposite, a warm-hearted man who made the impossible request of calling me his sister. It didn’t even take a heartbeat for me to agree. I’d always craved an elder sibling to shield me from the world, especially from my father’s taunts. At least now, in this charade of a marriage, I had one ally.

But there was something unsettlingly familiar about him, like he was a shadow of someone from my past I couldn’t quite place. I shook off the thought as we approached the mandap, keeping my head low. The veil covered my face, but it couldn’t mask the nervous energy coursing through me. My palms were cold, my breathing unsteady, and my heart? It was pounding so loudly I feared everyone could hear it.

But then I made the mistake of glancing up.

He was there—my soon-to-be husband. Vayran Singh Chandravansh, dressed in ivory and gold, his sharp features glowing under the soft lights. He was an angel fallen straight from heaven, but I wasn’t naive. I knew the truth. He was no angel. He was the devil himself, wrapped in divine robes. And yet, when our eyes locked through the thin fabric of my veil, I felt my breath hitch. There was something magnetic about his gaze, something that made my carefully constructed walls tremble.

Before I knew it, we were standing for the varmala. This tall "Burj Khalifa" of a man bent down slightly, just enough for me to throw the garland over his neck. His lips curved into a faint smirk as he placed his own garland around my neck, the weight of his gaze making my cheeks burn. Thank God the veil hid my face. The crowd erupted into cheers and flower petals rained down on us, but my mind was stuck on the way he was looking at me. Why was he watching me so intently now, when he hadn’t spared me a glance during our engagement? What game was he playing?

We sat down for the rituals. My brother, Shruti, and Tanvik hovered nearby, cracking jokes that had me biting my lip to suppress laughter. Tanvik’s humor was surprisingly sharp—he felt like family already. When the priest called for the elder brother to step forward, Tanvik took charge. My heart warmed at the sight, even as the weight of what lay ahead settled in.

Then came the vows—the seven sacred promises that sealed the union.

As we rose to circle the sacred fire, I stumbled slightly, my legs numb from sitting. My heart sank when I realized how difficult this would be. The heavy lehenga, the veil, and now the fast pace Vayran was setting. Of course, Mr. Perfect had long legs to match his arrogance. But then, something unexpected happened. He slowed down, matching my pace. My heart betrayed me again, fluttering at the small, unspoken act of consideration.

Each vow felt like a cruel joke as the priest recited them. Protect each other. Be loyal. Stand by each other’s side in happiness and sorrow. I repeated the words, my voice shaky, knowing full well that we would break every single one. This marriage was a transaction, a deal brokered by our fathers. Nothing more, nothing less.

We completed the rounds and sat on our seats.

Finally, the priest handed him the mangalsutra. He leaned in close, his breath warm against my cheek. “Breathe,” he whispered, his voice low and teasing.

“Don’t lose it yet—I tend to take breaths away.”

I froze, the world spinning as his words sank in. My lips parted in shock, but no sound escaped. He pulled back just as Shruti lifted my veil, holding it delicately so it wouldn’t mess with my makeup. The crowd watched intently as Vayran reached forward, his fingers brushing my skin as he clasped the black-and-gold necklace around my neck.

And then came the sindoor.

Shruti carefully held a handkerchief under my nose, ensuring the powder wouldn’t ruin my makeup. Vayran’s fingers brushed against my hairline as he applied the vermillion, his gaze locking with mine. For a split second, his hard expression softened, something tender flickering in his eyes. My breath hitched. But as quickly as it appeared, the softness vanished, replaced by the cold, calculated man I knew him to be.

A gasp escaped me as a tiny speck of sindoor fell on my nose. The superstition rang in my head immediately—if the sindoor falls on the bride’s nose, her husband will love her endlessly. I wanted to laugh at the irony. Love? From this man? Impossible.

This man didn’t know how to love.

The priest declared the ceremony complete. We were now husband and wife. Just as I exhaled in relief, his voice cut through the air, soft and menacing.

“Welcome to the predator’s world, Mrs. Aaravika Vayran Singh Chandravansh.”

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Now be ready for their stunts on each other😂
As it is just the starting of hatred ab aage dheko hota hai kya😏🤌
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