Chapter 9
The grand mandap that had once stood in the courtyard lay burnt to the ground, a grim reminder of the bloodshed from the night before. The guests had fled, the celebrations had halted—but the wedding would still happen.
Because Agastya Singh Rathore had decided it would.
And no one defied Hukum.
Especially not his bride.
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Anvi sat in her room, dressed in her blood-red bridal lehenga, staring at the floor as Choti Maa adjusted her dupatta.
Everything inside her screamed to run.
But the doors were locked. The guards had doubled.
And her own family had abandoned her.
Her father had sent a message earlier—the Oberois would not be attending the wedding.
Cowards.
They had sold her to a devil and now refused to even look at the consequences.
A sharp knock at the door made her breath hitch.
The air turned cold.
Choti Maa stood, smoothing Anvi’s lehenga before stepping away.
And then—he entered.
Dressed in an ivory sherwani with gold embroidery, his dark hair slightly disheveled, his sharp jawline set in a way that told her—he was done playing games.
Her heart pounded as his gaze locked onto her.
She was his.
And tonight, he would seal that truth in fire and sindoor.
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The temple was eerily silent as she was dragged to the mandap.
Her wrists were cold, her pulse erratic. The weight of her jewelry felt like shackles.
She stood beside Agastya, her hands trembling as the priest began the wedding chants. The sacred fire burned between them, the scent of ghee and sandalwood thick in the air.
But all she could feel was rage.
This wasn’t love. This wasn’t a marriage.
This was a war.
And if Agastya thought she would surrender, he was wrong.
She turned to him, her voice steady, fiercely defiant.
"I will never accept this marriage."
The priest gasped. The guards shifted uncomfortably.
Even Choti Maa looked worried.
But Agastya?
He smiled.
A slow, dark, merciless smirk.
And then, before she could move—
He grabbed her chin, tilting her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"You don’t have to accept it, Pari."
His voice was a whisper, but it carried more weight than the temple walls could hold.
"You only have to live with it."
And then, before she could stop him—
He smeared sindoor into her hairline.
Not gently. Not reverently.
Possessively.
Anvi gasped, her world tilting.
The red powder burned against her scalp, a brutal symbol of what had just happened.
And then came the final blow—
He picked up the mangalsutra—the very same one she had thrown into the fire yesterday.
A new one. Stronger. Heavier.
And he fastened it around her neck himself.
Anvi couldn’t breathe.
It was done.
She was now Mrs. Anvi Agastya Singh Rathore.
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The moment they reached his wing of the mansion, Anvi snapped.
She ripped the heavy gold dupatta off her head, her hair cascading in a wild mess as she turned to face him.
"You ruined me!" she shouted, voice breaking.
Agastya stilled, his expression unreadable.
She stepped closer, rage burning in her chest. "You think this means I’m yours? That just because you put sindoor in my hair, I’ll fall at your feet?"
Silence.
Then—he laughed.
Low. Deep. Unhinged.
"Oh, Pari…" He stepped toward her, his presence drowning her.
"Fall at my feet?"
His fingers traced the edge of her dupatta—the one that still carried his scent.
"No, jaan." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I only need you to understand one thing."
Her breath caught as he backed her against the wall.
His fingers slid to her mangalsutra, his touch deliberate.
"You may fight me."
"You may hate me."
"But in the end, Pari…" His forehead brushed against hers, their breaths colliding.
"You will always be mine."
Anvi’s chest heaved, her pulse hammering in her ears.
She wanted to push him away. She wanted to scream, to fight—but he was too close. Too dangerous.
And worse?
For one fleeting second…
She couldn’t tell if she wanted him to step away.
Or to pull her closer.