Chapter Two #2
"Plans changed." Sidharth's attention was already back on her father, dismissing her. "A month is enough time for proper security arrangements. And for the families to... adjust."
Adjust. As if she were a piece of furniture being moved into a new house.
The dinner continued for another agonizing hour. Business was discussed—territory lines, profit shares, how to handle the smaller families who might try to take advantage of the alliance. Advika picked at her food, each bite tasting like ash.
She felt Rishabh's eyes on her occasionally, assessing, but when she met his gaze, he'd look away. Measuring her threat level, probably. Wondering if she was a spy for her father, a Trojan horse inside Singhania walls.
She wanted to laugh. She had no loyalty to Yash Pradhan. But she'd never convince them of that.
Finally, mercifully, the dinner ended. Contracts were signed—actual contracts, like this was a corporate merger and not a marriage. Advika's signature was required in three places. Her hand shook as she signed, the pen feeling heavy as an anchor.
There. It was done. Legal and binding.
"We'll send a car for you the day before the wedding," Sidharth said as everyone stood to leave. He'd barely looked at her all evening, barely spoken to her directly. "Pack light. Everything you need will be provided."
"I have a business to run," Advika said, finding her voice. "Sinfully Sweet—my bakery. I can't just abandon it."
For the first time, something like interest flickered in his eyes. "You bake?"
"I own a bakery," she corrected, lifting her chin. "One of the most successful in the city."
"Cute." Nisha's voice dripped with condescension. "A little hobby."
"It's not a—"
"You'll have time for your hobbies," Sidharth cut her off, his tone final. "After the security protocols are established. For now, your safety is the priority."
My safety. Or my compliance?
But she didn't say it. Didn't fight. Because what was the point? The contracts were signed. The deal was struck.
She was his now, whether she liked it or not.
The families separated at the restaurant entrance.
Advika watched the Singhanias climb into their luxury vehicles—Sidharth in a sleek black Mercedes, Nisha and Rishabh in a Range Rover.
Mihika appeared from the bar, latching onto Nisha's arm and shooting Advika a triumphant smile before they drove away.
"Well," Abhishek said as their own car was brought around, "that was entertaining. She's going to eat you alive, little sister."
"Shut up," Advika muttered.
"He didn't even look at you," Anjana observed with barely concealed glee. "That's going to be your life now. Ignored. Tolerated. You should get used to it."
Advika said nothing. She stared out the window as they drove through the city, her mind replaying every moment of the dinner. Sidharth's cold indifference. Nisha's hostility. Mihika's possessive touch.
This was her future. A family that hated her, a husband who couldn't be bothered to look at her, a beautiful prison she'd never escape.
The illegitimate daughter, finally useful.
She'd never felt so alone.
One Month Later
The wedding day arrived with brutal efficiency.
Advika stared at herself in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back.
The bridal lehenga was a masterpiece—deep red silk embroidered with gold thread, the intricate patterns catching the light with every breath.
The dupatta was sheer, edged with more gold, draped over her head like a veil.
Jewelry adorned her neck, wrists, ears, fingers—all borrowed from Anjana's collection, because God forbid they spend money on actual bridal jewelry for the illegitimate daughter.
Her makeup was flawless, courtesy of the expensive makeup artist Sidharth's team had sent. Dark eyes, red lips, perfectly blushed cheeks. She looked like a bride from a magazine spread.
But her eyes... her eyes were hollow. Dead.
She looked like she was going to a funeral. Her own.
"You look beautiful," the makeup artist said, her voice gentle. She'd been kind throughout the morning, which had almost broken Advika. Kindness was dangerous when you were barely holding yourself together.
"Thank you," Advika whispered.
The wedding was being held at the Singhania Estate, in the massive gardens that had been transformed into something out of a fairytale. Thousands of flowers, twinkling lights strung between trees, a mandap decorated with roses and jasmine. It should have been beautiful.
It felt like a cage dressed in silk.
A knock on the door. "It's time," Abhishek's voice called.
Advika's hands clenched. In a traditional wedding, her father would walk her down the aisle. Would give her away with blessings and tears. But Yash had informed her yesterday that he had "other obligations" and Abhishek would do the honors.
One final insult. One last reminder that she'd never been a real daughter.
She stood on shaking legs, the heavy lehenga weighing her down. The door opened, and Abhishek leaned against the frame, looking her up and down with that familiar mocking smile.
"Ready to be a Singhania?" he asked.
No. Never. I'll never be ready.
But she said, "Let's get this over with."
They walked through the Singhania mansion—and it was a mansion, not just an estate. All marble floors and crystal chandeliers and artwork that probably cost more than her bakery. Everything screamed old money, power, legacy.
Everything she'd never be part of, not really.
The garden was packed. Hundreds of guests, all standing as she appeared at the entrance. Advika recognized some faces from the underworld elite, others from high society. The merge of two worlds—criminal and legitimate—all here to witness this unholy alliance.
And at the end of the aisle, under the flower-draped mandap, stood Sidharth.
He wore a cream sherwani with gold embroidery that complemented her lehenga. It should have looked ridiculous on him, traditional clothes on a man who screamed modern power. But somehow, he made it work. He looked like a king from another era, dark and dangerous and utterly compelling.
His eyes found hers across the distance, and Advika's breath caught.
There was no warmth in that gaze. No joy. Just the same cold assessment she'd seen at the restaurant, like she was a problem to be solved, an asset to be acquired.
She wanted to run. Wanted to gather her heavy skirts and flee into the night, consequences be damned.
But Abhishek's hand was firm on her arm, guiding her forward, and the eyes of three hundred guests tracked her every step. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
The walk down the aisle felt eternal and far too short all at once. She was aware of everything—the whispers of guests, the flash of cameras (because of course the press was here, documenting the alliance for tomorrow's papers), the oppressive weight of jewels and silk and expectation.
And then she was standing beside Sidharth under the mandap, and Abhishek was placing her hand in his with a smirk before retreating to his seat.
Sidharth's hand was warm, his grip firm but not painful. She couldn't look at him. Couldn't bear to see that indifference up close.
The pandit began the ceremony, his voice rising and falling in Sanskrit shlokas that Advika barely understood.
The rituals passed in a blur—the kanyadaan that should have been performed by her father but was done by Abhishek with visible reluctance, the tying of their garments in the gathbandhan, the sacred knot that bound them together.
Her hands trembled as they performed each ritual, guided by the pandit's instructions. Sidharth's movements were precise, mechanical, as if he were signing business documents rather than participating in a sacred ceremony.
Then came the pheras—seven circles around the sacred fire that would seal their marriage.
"Come," Sidharth said, the first word he'd spoken to her directly since she'd arrived at the mandap. His voice was low, controlled, devoid of emotion.
He led her around the agni, their hands still tied together by the gathbandhan. One circle. Two. Three. With each round, the pandit chanted mantras, speaking of promises and duties and eternal bonds.
Four. Five. Six.
Advika's vision blurred. The smoke from the sacred fire stung her eyes, or maybe those were tears. She blinked them back furiously. She wouldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of all these people who were watching her fate being sealed.
Seven circles completed.
They were married now. Bound by sacred vows and witnessed by fire and gods and three hundred guests who couldn't care less about the bride's breaking heart.
The pandit called for the sindoor ceremony—the final seal of marriage.
Sidharth picked up the small container of vermillion powder. His face was impassive as he turned to her, his amber eyes meeting hers for just a moment. In that brief glance, she searched desperately for something—hesitation, regret, even satisfaction. Anything human.
She found nothing.
His fingers were steady as he parted her hair, the touch impersonal despite its intimacy. The sindoor felt heavy as he applied it to her parting, the red powder stark against her skin—a brand marking her as his.
Mrs. Advika Singhania.
The guests erupted in applause and cheers. Flower petals rained down on them, released from somewhere above. Music began playing—celebratory, joyous, utterly at odds with the emptiness Advika felt.
She was married.
To a stranger.
For the rest of her life.
The pandit blessed them, speaking words about happiness and prosperity and children. Advika heard none of it. She was too busy trying to remember how to breathe, how to smile, how to pretend this was anything other than a funeral for the life she'd wanted.
The receiving line was torture. Guest after guest congratulated them, kissed her cheeks, told her how lucky she was. Lucky. As if being sold to secure peace was luck.
Sidharth remained at her side throughout, his hand occasionally resting on her lower back—proprietary and impersonal at once. He accepted congratulations with the same controlled demeanor he'd maintained throughout the ceremony, as if this were just another business deal successfully closed.
Maybe to him, it was.
The reception was held in the mansion's ballroom, another testament to excess and power. Advika smiled until her face hurt, accepted congratulations from people whose names she didn't catch, played the role of the blushing bride.
But inside, she was screaming.
Nisha watched from across the room with barely concealed hostility. Rishabh was more polite, toasting them with what might have been genuine good wishes. Mihika was there too, her eyes following Sidharth with open longing, her smile brittle every time she looked at Advika.
And Sidharth noticed none of it. Or pretended not to.
"Time for the first dance," someone announced, and before Advika could protest, she was being ushered to the center of the dance floor.
A slow song began playing—something romantic and utterly at odds with their reality. Sidharth's hand settled on her waist, his other hand clasping hers, and they began to move.
He was a good dancer. Of course he was. Probably had lessons as a child, groomed for high society even as he was being trained to rule the underworld.
"You're stiff," he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Relax. They're watching."
"Hard to relax when you're dancing with a stranger," she replied, matching his quiet tone.
His hand tightened fractionally on her waist. "We're married now. Not strangers anymore."
"A few rituals and some sindoor don't make us less strange to each other."
She felt him sigh, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. They were close, closer than they'd been even during the ceremonies. She could smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that made her head spin. Could feel the solid warmth of him, the controlled power in every movement.
Her body responded despite her mind's protests. Heat pooled low in her belly. Her skin tingled where his hand rested on her waist, even through layers of silk. She was hyperaware of every point of contact, every shift of his body against hers.
This was dangerous. This attraction she couldn't control, couldn't explain.
"You'll adjust," Sidharth said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Everyone does."
The words should have been reassuring. They felt like a threat.
The song ended, and Advika stepped back immediately, putting necessary distance between them. Her skin still burned where he'd touched her, and she hated it. Hated this traitorous body that responded to a man who looked at her like she was nothing.
The rest of the reception passed in a blur. More photos, more well-wishes, more pretending. By the time the last guest left, Advika was exhausted down to her bones.
"Come," Sidharth said, appearing at her side. "I'll show you to our room."
Our room. The words sent ice and fire warring through her veins.
She followed him through the mansion, up a grand staircase to the second floor. The master bedroom was at the end of a long hallway, double doors opening into a space bigger than her entire apartment above Sinfully Sweet.
The room was masculine—dark woods, leather, minimal decoration. A massive bed dominated the space, and Advika's eyes skittered away from it immediately.
"Your things have been unpacked," Sidharth said, gesturing to a walk-in closet. "If you need anything, press the button by the nightstand. Someone will come."
He spoke like he was giving a hotel tour, not welcoming his wife to their bedroom.
"Where will you sleep?" Advika asked, hopeful.
His eyes met hers, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of something that might have been amusement. "In my bed. With my wife."
"We don't have to—"
"We're married, Advika." He shrugged off his sherwani, revealing a fitted white kurta underneath. The casual domesticity of the gesture felt wrong. "People will expect... evidence. Eventually."
Her face flamed. "Evidence?"
"Not tonight," he said, his tone dismissive. "You look exhausted. But eventually."
Eventually. The word hung between them like a threat and a promise.
Sidharth moved to the bathroom, leaving her alone in the bedroom that was now hers. That would be hers for the rest of her life.
Advika sank onto the edge of the massive bed, still wearing her bridal lehenga, the sindoor heavy in her hair parting, the mangalsutra weighing down her neck. She stared at the unfamiliar room, the unfamiliar life, the unfamiliar future stretching endlessly before her.
This was it. This was her life now.
Mrs. Advika Singhania.
And there was no going back.