Before the Vows
DHRUV
The corridor outside her room is silent. I stop just short of the carved archway, press my palms together, and exhale slowly. My heartbeat is steady, but my mind feels like it’s trying to catch up with what just happened.
She said yes.
Sitara Singh Shekhawat—bride left waiting, laughter hidden behind tears—said yes to marrying me.
I should feel nervous, maybe even afraid, but instead there’s this strange calm sitting in my chest, like everything that’s happened today was always meant to lead here. Not because of duty or scandal, but because somewhere deep inside me, I’ve always known I’d choose her.
I turn down the corridor that leads to the royal lounge. My mother and sister are waiting there—I sent word that I needed to speak to them before the ceremony.
The doors open soundlessly.
My mother, Rajmata Jyotika, sits near the window, her posture as graceful as ever, fingers wrapped around a porcelain teacup.
Her silver hair glows faintly under the chandelier, the same soft glow she’s carried all my life.
My sister, Yagini, lounges across the sofa, scrolling through her phone, half-draped in a silk dupatta that’s definitely not staying on her shoulder for more than two seconds.
They both look up the moment I walk in.
Yagini grins first. “There he is. Our walking headline.”
I groan inwardly. “Don’t start, Choti.”
“Oh, I already have,” she says, straightening up with mock seriousness. “Do you have any idea what the media outside will be calling this? ‘A Royal Rescue.’ Oh, or ‘King Marries Princess Left at Mandap.’ It’s like a bad movie.”
“Then it fits,” I mutter dryly, walking toward the sideboard. My throat’s dry; I pour myself a glass of water just to buy a few seconds.
Ma sets her cup down with a quiet clink. “You don’t look surprised.”
“I’m not.”
She studies me for a long moment. “You decided quickly.”
“Because there was no decision to make,” I answer, meeting her gaze. “It felt right.”
Ma’s expression softens in that way it does when she’s proud but trying not to show it too much. “You always were decisive. Even as a child, you’d pick a toy, and while the others were still choosing, you’d already have built something out of it.”
Yagini groans dramatically. “Please don’t tell the ‘toy story’ again, Ma. We get it, he’s the perfect son.”
“Hardly,” I say, taking the seat opposite them. “Perfect sons don’t give their mothers heart attacks by announcing they’re getting married in three hours.”
Ma smiles faintly, unoffended. “At least you’re marrying. I’d almost given up hope.”
I blink, surprised by her teasing tone. “You say that like I’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”
She arches an elegant brow. “You might as well have. Thirty years old and still deflecting every rishta I’ve shown you.”
Yagini grins. “That’s because he already liked someone, Ma.”
I close my eyes briefly. “Choti.”
She feigns innocence. “What? It’s true. Everyone knows you have a soft spot for her. You can’t hide that golden retriever face when she’s around. Which, by the way, no one would believe considering you are the grumpiest man ever.”
I lean forward, voice low. “You are never mentioning that again. Especially not in front of her.”
Ma chuckles, hiding her amusement behind her cup. “You like her, then?”
The word like feels too small, but I nod. “I always have.”
Yagini squeals like a ten-year-old. “I knew it!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can we please behave like adults for at least one conversation?”
“Adults?” she echoes. “Says the man who just turned someone else’s wedding into his own.”
“Enough,” Ma chides gently, though she’s smiling too. “Let your brother breathe.”
Yagini huffs but falls silent, flopping back onto the sofa.
Ma looks at me again, her gaze sharper now. “Are you sure, Dhruv?”
The question lingers in the air, heavier than her tone.
I nod once. “Yes.”
She studies me, the way only a mother can—like she’s peeling back every layer I try to hide behind. “You told me once you’d never marry.” Ma’s words hang between us.
My fingers trace the rim of my untouched tea, the porcelain smooth against my skin.
I did say that. I said it like a vow, like a shield.
Because I saw what marriage did to her—the way Father’s voice could silence a room, the way Ma’s laughter faded into careful smiles, the way her opinions became echoes of his.
I saw how love could curl into control, how devotion could become a cage.
Yagini’s teasing grin slips, her eyes flickering to Ma. The air thickens.
I should lie. I should say something easy—times change, duty calls, Sitara needs this. But the words stick in my throat.
"I remember what I said," I admit, my voice low. "And I meant it."
I used to think marriage was a gilded cage. That love was just another word for control, dressed up in silk and tradition. I swore I’d never do that to someone—not after watching my mother’s light dim, year by year, until she forgot she was allowed to shine.
But then there’s Sitara.
She doesn’t make me think of duty or obligation. She makes me think of laughter in quiet corners, of funny sketches left outside my room when I visited, of the way her eyes challenge me even when her voice doesn’t. She makes me want to believe—just a little—that maybe not all marriages are prisons.
I’m terrified, I admit to myself. Because what if I’m wrong? What if I can’t give her the freedom she deserves? What if I become the very thing I hate?
Ma doesn’t look away. She knows. She’s always known.
I exhale, rubbing the tension at the back of my neck. "But this isn’t about me. It’s about her." My chest tightens. "She’s standing in that room right now, thinking she’s not enough. And I can’t—" My hands clench. "I can’t let her believe that."
Yagini’s voice is soft. "So you’re marrying her to prove a point?"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "I’m marrying her because she deserves someone who won’t let her drown in her own doubts. Even if that someone is me."
Ma’s cup clinks against the saucer as she sets it down. Her eyes are bright, but her voice is steady. "You’ve always been too stubborn for your own good."
I almost laugh. "Or just stubborn enough for hers."
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Then Ma smiles—small, proud, a little sad. “She’s a strong girl. She’ll need to be.”
“She already is,” I murmur.
Yagini props her chin on her hand. “So, let me get this straight. You spent years dodging alliances, ignored every princess, diplomat, and heiress Ma threw at you… only to marry your best friend’s sister, in the middle of her own abandoned wedding, in a lehenga that probably costs more than that shitty groom’s car? ”
“Yes.”
She blinks. “Okay, just checking. Because that’s very on-brand for you.”
I can’t help it—I chuckle. “Thanks, Choti.”
“Anytime.” She grins mischievously. “And just so you know, I already told the head chef to double the dessert order. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
Ma rolls her eyes but her tone softens. “She’s right, you know. It’s better this way. You’ll both get peace of mind—and perhaps, something more.”
Something more.
The words echo. I think of Sitara in that moment when she looked up at me, eyes red but unbroken, the quiet dignity in her voice when she said yes.
It wasn’t resignation. It was courage disguised as surrender.
I clear my throat. “I need to tell Devraj before preparations start again. He should know the decision’s final.”
Ma nods. “He’ll understand. He’s always trusted your judgment.”
I stand, but Yagini calls out, “Wait!”
I turn back. “What?”
She grins. “You’ll thank me later. I had your wedding sherwani ironed this morning, just in case.” My very annoying, and even more idiotic sister wiggles her eyebrows at me. She gifted me a sherwani on my previous birthday, which I know was my mother’s idea of pressuring me into marriage.
I stare at her. “You what?”
She shrugs. “I told you, I’m psychic.”
Ma laughs softly, shaking her head. “She’s dramatic, but she’s not wrong. Go change, Dhruv. You’re getting married today.”
The words settle over me, heavy and tender at once.
I’m getting married.
Not because of politics or obligation. Not because it’s expected.
But because when I saw Sitara sitting alone under those lights—her laughter gone, her fire dimmed—I realized I couldn’t bear to watch her face that silence alone.
I turn toward the door again, and for the first time in years, my steps feel certain.
As I reach for the handle, Ma’s voice follows me, soft and steady.
“Dhruv?”
I pause. “Yes, Ma?”
She smiles gently. “I’m proud of you.”
The words hit deeper than I expect. I nod once, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Thank you, Ma.”
Outside, the corridor is alive with quiet activity again—staff whispering, lamps being lit, garlands replaced. The same chaos that started this day now hums with a different energy.
I walk through it slowly, the scent of marigold and sandalwood thick in the air.
In a few hours, I’ll stand in that same mandap again—but this time, there’ll be no waiting, no running.
This time, there’ll just be her. And that feels like exactly where I’m meant to be.