The day of her wedding
The city was dressed in gold. Strings of marigolds swayed in the warm wind, and the bells of the temple rang as if the gods themselves were blessing the union of two pure souls. She—Anaya—looked like a dream. Her red bridal saree shimmered as she smiled shyly at her groom, Raghav, the man who had once brought her sweets outside the orphanage gates and promised her a forever she thought she’d finally found.
Her heart was steady, beating with anticipation of freedom, love, and a family she could finally call her own.
But fate had another script.
The heavy doors of the temple burst open.
The air stilled. Men in black suits walked in, surrounding the hall with military precision. Whispers rose like smoke: “It’s him… The Devil of the East… The King of Shadows…”
And there he stood—Arjun Rathore, the man whose empire ran on blood, power, and fear. Tall, cruelly handsome, with eyes darker than a moonless night, he looked at her not as a stranger but as a possession already his.
Without sparing anyone else a glance, he walked straight to her. The sindoor plate in her hands shook violently, nearly spilling, as his gaze pinned her in place.
“Anaya,” he spoke her name like a vow, a prayer, a curse all at once. “You were never his.” His voice thundered across the hall. “You were always mine.”
Before anyone could react, his men dragged Raghav away. Her cries broke the silence, sharp and desperate, but no one dared move against Arjun Rathore.
And in front of gods, guests, and shattered dreams—he filled her parting with his own hands, marking her as his bride.
Her tears streaked down her face as he leaned close, whispering so only she could hear:
“I’ve waited too long, little dove. Not even death will take you away from me.”
