Chapter 5 Mandates & Marigolds
Even freedom, when gifted, comes with fine print.
- Adhrita Adani
Saanvi was in full-blown crisis mode over a blouse hook.
"This lehenga is cursed," she snapped, twisting in front of the mirror. "Nothing fits, nothing stays, and I swear if Aryan is late today, I will marry his spotboy out of spite."
Adhrita barely blinked. She was perched on the edge of the bed, legs folded, watching Saanvi wage war against embroidered fabric and gravity.
"You already promised your soul to your makeup artist," Adhrita said dryly. "Let's not traumatize your fiancé's family just yet."
Before Saanvi could respond, the door swung open - and Aryan stepped in, looking entirely too smug in his yellow kurta.
"Relax, sweetheart. You'll still look like a queen even if your outfit self-destructs."
Behind him came the real chaos.
Vritant.
In wrinkled pajamas. Hair askew. Yawning like he'd spent the night negotiating world peace - or ruining it.
Adhrita stared.
He looked criminally unbothered.
As if Haldi ceremonies were optional. As if family functions were a myth.
As if he hadn't gutted her with a single sarcastic line the night before.
Saanvi turned, horrified. "Seriously? Pajamas? At my Haldi?"
He stretched like he hadn't heard her. "I thought I'd dress according to the seriousness of the event."
And before anyone could recover, he walked over to the bed - the one Adhrita was sitting on - dropped onto it with the grace of a collapsing empire, and promptly pulled a pillow over his face.
Silence.
Saanvi threw up her hands. "How could he sleep? The whole fucking Bollywood is invited and waiting for him too!"
Vritant didn't even stir.
She whirled on Aryan, fuming. "And our relatives? They're practically salivating to catch a glimpse of him. We made this entire grand affair because of him!"
Aryan held up his hands in surrender, clearly used to the storm.
Adhrita, meanwhile, sat frozen - caught between a furious bride, an amused groom, and the Prime Minister's son now dead asleep beside her like he'd been through a war.
Just then, Shweta Malhotra swept in, all diamonds, drama, and disapproval.
Her eyes landed on the lump sprawled across the silk bedsheet.
"Vritant, wake up!" she snapped, scandalised. Pulled the pillow.
Without lifting his head, he turned to the other side and mumbled, "Bua ji, good night."
He reached blindly for something on the bed, found a yellow dupatta, and with the elegance of a man completely unbothered by the world, tossed it over his head like a makeshift blanket.
Adhrita blinked.
It was her dupatta.
The same one she'd carefully ironed, folded, and placed beside her for the Haldi.
Now it was shielding the heir of the nation from his responsibilities - and possibly from Shweta Malhotra's wrath.
Shweta Malhotra folded her arms, dramatic as ever. "I'm going to complain to Vedashree bhabhi."
From under the yellow dupatta, a voice mumbled, "Do it. She likes hearing bedtime stories."
Aryan, already adjusting his kurta in the mirror, winced. "Bhai, please..."
Vritant shifted, one eye peeking out. "You want a wedding or not?"
Aryan looked helpless. "Of course I do."
"Then maybe remind Bua ji," Vritant said lazily, "that if the Prime Minister is involved, your wedding might just get declared a national emergency."
Shweta gasped. "You wouldn't-"
He yawned. "Try me."
Saanvi huffed, tugging Adhrita's hand. "Come, let's go from this insanity before it infects us."
Shweta stormed out, muttering about "goddamn royalty and their sleep schedules," dragging Aryan with her like a mother scolding a truant schoolboy.
Adhrita lingered, eyeing the yellow dupatta draped over Vritant's face - her dupatta.
She reached to grab it.
The second her fingers touched the fabric, he groaned - not sleepily, but like a man forced into contact with civilization.
His grip tightened.
"For god's sake," he snapped, voice muffled under chiffon, "if everyone's going to scream, gossip, and threaten national security over a Haldi, at least let me mourn my sanity in peace."
She raised a brow. "That's my dupatta."
He sighed, the kind of long-suffering sigh that came from tolerating stupidity - or weddings.
"Then take it back once the country stops spinning on turmeric and melodrama."
She sighed.
There was no winning with him - not when he was half-asleep and entirely unbothered.
Without another word, she let go. The fabric slipped from her fingers, a silent surrender.
Then she turned and left, the soft click of the door the only indication she'd ever been there.
??? V ? A ???
The courtyard had turned golden.
Marigolds hung like garlands of flame, sunlight filtered through silk canopies, and the air smelled of rosewater, turmeric, and too much money.
There were dhols. There were drones. There were distant cousins doing Instagram lives in lehengas stitched tighter than their smiles.
And in the center of it all - Aryan Malhotra, grinning like a man who had no idea how many haldi-smeared hands were about to ruin his outfit.
"Don't ruin my face," he warned, holding up a defensive palm.
"Darling, it's too late for that," Saanvi chirped, wielding a bowl of haldi like it was a weapon of mass destruction.
Laughter erupted.
Just behind the chaos, Adhrita stood quietly, adjusting her earrings.
Her yellow suit was simple, elegant - not designer - and slightly crumpled, thanks to a certain man who'd used her dupatta as a personal blanket.
She hadn't said anything, but the memory still simmered at the edge of her expression.
Just then, the crowd stirred. Gasps, giggles, and half-whispers floated through the air.
And then he walked in.
Not in pajamas this time.
"Wow," someone muttered.
"Finally," Saanvi sighed with exaggerated relief. "The Emperor has arrived."
Vritant didn't flinch. Didn't smile.
A white kurta, crisp and faintly rolled at the sleeves.
Yellow dupatta - unmistakably hers - looped lazily around his neck like a signature he didn't ask for but claimed anyway.
Sunglasses. Barefoot. Expressionless. Dangerous.
He looked straight at Aryan, then - without a word - dipped his hand into a bowl of haldi and smeared it across his cousin's cheek.
A cheer went up.
Aryan laughed. "That's the most emotion I've seen from you in ten years."
"Consider it a wedding gift," Vritant said dryly.
Aryan grinned wickedly and returned the gesture - smearing a generous streak of haldi across Vritant's face.
A few of Saanvi's overly enthusiastic friends giggled and reached for him too, bowls in hand.
Before they could get close, Karma shot forward, barking sharp and low - positioning himself like a trained bodyguard between Vritant and the glitter-laden threat.
They shrieked and backed off instantly.
Vritant didn't even look at them.
But a smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.
Then - slow, deliberate - he took the loose end of the yellow dupatta still draped around his neck and wiped the haldi off his cheek.
Slow. Intentional.
The soft fabric stained golden.
Adhrita's breath hitched.
Before she could say a word, before her fingers could twitch in protest - he looked at her.
Eyes like still fire.
And then, casually - cruelly - he said, "Ruin for ruin."
Saanvi turned sharply, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Oh, come here. You're not escaping this madness."
Before Adhrita could react, Saanvi grabbed her wrist and yanked her into the centre - right in front of everyone, haldi bowl glinting dangerously under the sun.
Adhrita blinked. "Saanvi, don't-"
Too late.
A smear of haldi landed on her cheek, bold and unapologetic.
Gasps. Laughter.
Adhrita closed her eyes for a second. Then opened them with dangerous calm.
Then exhaled.
And let go.
In one swift, vengeful motion, she plunged both hands into the bowl and showered them - Saanvi and Aryan - in golden yellow.
Shrieks. Laughter. Someone clapped.
Karma barked excitedly.
Before Adhrita could dodge, both Saanvi and Aryan pulled her into a messy, turmeric-stained hug.
"Photographer!" Aryan yelled, grinning. "Now this is the picture we'll frame!"
The camera clicked as golden joy froze mid-air - unposed, real, reckless.
"Aaja na, saali ji," Aryan grinned, already posing. One arm looped around Saanvi, the other reached out and caught Adhrita by the wrist.
(Come, sister in law)
Before she could react, he tugged her into the frame.
Her foot slipped slightly on the haldi-slick floor - just enough to throw her balance off.
She stumbled forward, and her shoulder bumped into something solid.
Someone.
Vritant.
He hadn't moved an inch from where he stood, but the moment her head brushed his shoulder, his hand came up instinctively - a firm press at her back, steadying her.
Click.
The photographer caught it - golden light, yellow smears, three perfect faces frozen in a not-so-perfect pose.
Adhrita straightened quickly, breath caught, eyes flicking up to him.
He didn't speak. Just adjusted slightly and let Aryan pull him in too, now standing behind both - composed, cold, beautiful.
As the camera flashed again, Adhrita turned her face to his - just slightly.
A soft, almost imperceptible look.
A silent "thank you" in her eyes.
He didn't blink. But his fingers briefly curled around her shoulder - a whisper of acknowledgment.
And just like that, the photo was taken.
But something else had been captured.
Before anyone could notice - before another picture could trap the moment - he turned and walked away.
No farewell.
No glance.
Just gone - the yellow dupatta still knotted around his neck like some quiet, stolen war token.
Just then, the Adanis, Malhotras, and Vardhans began to arrive - power gathering in shades of yellow, silk, and strategy.
The music softened. The photographers straightened. The chaos shifted.
And Adhrita, quietly, slipped away from the center, haldi still on her cheeks, with no dupatta.
She said nothing.
She simply stepped into the background - where the real things were always clearer.
Just then, her chachi - Neeta - came up beside her, gently brushing some haldi from Adhrita's arm.
"Go freshen up, beta," she said with a warm smile. "Then join us for lunch, okay?"
Adhrita nodded quietly.
Neeta turned to fuss over Saanvi and Aryan, already slipping back into her role as the perfect hostess.
And without a word, she turned and walked away - not toward the lunch tent yet, not toward the laughter, but somewhere in between.
When she finally reached her room, the air was still. Cooler. Distant from the echoes of laughter outside.
And there - on the bed - lay her yellow dupatta.
She stared at it for a second. Then picked it up, held it in her hands, and let out a breathless laugh - not quite amusement, not quite disbelief.
Shaking her head, she walked into the washroom.
It was time to scrub off the haldi.
??? V ? A ???
Adhrita had barely scrubbed the last traces of haldi from her face when her phone buzzed.
Papa.
She picked up. "Yes?"
"Come down," Ashwin Adani said, his voice even but clipped. "Not the lunch tent. There's a private lounge on the left wing. Ask one of the guards if you can't find it."
She blinked. "But Neeta chachi said-"
"She doesn't know," he interrupted gently. "You're having lunch with someone else today. Don't keep them waiting."
He hung up.
Her stomach tightened. It wasn't fear. Not exactly. Just a quiet knowing - that this wasn't about family or festivities. It was about something else. Something older. Larger.
She changed quickly into a fresh kurta, pulled her hair back, and stepped out of the room.
The music from the courtyard was still echoing through the corridors, but her feet moved in the opposite direction - past the floral madness, past the laughing chaos, toward the silent wing of the resort.
The corridor to the left wing was already cordoned off.
Two security personnel stood at attention, earpieces in place, eyes sweeping like clockwork.
CM and PM in the same building - it was less of a wedding, more of a security operation.
The air felt heavier here. Still perfumed with roses, but undercut by something colder - like iron and protocol.
As she approached, one of the guards stepped forward. "Dr. Adani?"
She nodded, still unsure how her name was already circulating.
He tapped his comm once, nodded after a brief murmur from the other end, and pulled the door open.
A guard nodded at her and opened the door without a word.
The lounge was dimly lit, soundproofed, cold.
And already occupied.
Ashwin Adani stood near the window, sleeves rolled, his plate untouched.
Across from him sat Vedashree Vardhan - her sari a crisp ivory, her expression unreadable.
And beside her, in a charcoal Nehru jacket, stood Shaurya Vardhan - arms folded, posture rigid, gaze razor-sharp.
Three names that could move markets. Shift elections. Rewrite national headlines.
All in one room.
And now... she was in it too.
Ashwin looked up and gave her a brief nod. "Come, Adhrita. Have a seat."
She did - slowly, carefully, suddenly aware of her every movement.
Vedashree's eyes scanned her, not with malice, not with warmth - just precision.
Shaurya didn't even glance. But the tension in his jaw said enough.
No one spoke for a beat.
Vedashree looked at her wristwatch. Then at her husband.
"Where is Vritant?"
Shaurya didn't even shift his stance. "He's not coming."
His voice was flat, certain - as if it wasn't a guess, but a long-practiced pattern. As if they both already knew he would do the opposite of whatever he was told.
Vedashree's jaw tightened. "Shaurya, he is needed here."
Adhrita blinked.
Needed?
Her eyes flicked between them - confusion now laced with unease.
Ashwin, who had been quiet till now, offered a diplomatic smile. "It's fine, Vedashree ji. You've already met my daughter."
He turned to Adhrita. "Till now, she's been living in the U.S. But she's back in India - for good."
The words landed like a dropped glass.
Adhrita's breath caught. Her head turned sharply. "What?"
Ashwin didn't look at her. Didn't flinch. He just sipped water, as if this were a weather update.
Vedashree raised an eyebrow. "Seems like your daughter is shocked to hear her own return."
Adhrita opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
She hadn't agreed to this. She hadn't even known it was being discussed. She had come here for a wedding - not to be rewritten.
Vedashree leaned back slightly, one leg elegantly crossed over the other. Her gaze was fixed on Adhrita - as if she were inspecting a file, not a girl.
"Come to the point, Ashwin," she said. "We have Aryan and Saanvi's wedding to focus on."
Ashwin nodded once. "I will."
And then, in the same calm tone he used to announce budgets or policy shifts, he said:
"I want Adhrita to be your daughter-in-law," Ashwin said.
The room stilled.
Even the silence felt engineered.
Adhrita stared at him, words caught in her throat, mind blank with disbelief.
Vedashree blinked once, slow and deliberate - then her mouth curled, not in a smile, but something colder.
"But Saanvi is marrying Aryan," she said, voice like glass. "They're in love. We don't replace brides, Ashwin. We don't trade in daughters-in-law."
Shaurya, still unmoved, finally spoke.
"He's not talking about Aryan," he said. "He's talking about Vritant."
A beat.
And then Vedashree looked at him - truly looked - her expression unreadable.
"You think he'll agree?" she asked, her tone layered with disbelief and something harder underneath - memory.
Shaurya's jaw clenched. "He's my son. And I know what my son is needed for."
Ashwin folded his hands calmly. "Shaurya ji is right. My daughter and your son - they understand silence. Discipline. Strategy."
"You made a deal," Vedashree said flatly. "Behind my back."
Shaurya met her gaze. "It wasn't a deal. It was a decision."
Vedashree laughed - just once, dry and elegant. "Shaurya, you're many things. But you don't make decisions without consequence."
She turned to Ashwin.
"So you want me to bless a marriage between two strangers - one who's allergic to the idea of emotion, and one who didn't even know she was moving back to India till five minutes ago?"
Adhrita stood now, stiff as stone. "I'm still in the room."
Vedashree's eyes flicked to her. "Are you?"
The room pulsed.
Ashwin finally stood too, his voice now firmer. "You wanted a secure future for Vritant - a match worthy of his name. I wanted protection for Adhrita - beyond politics and security agencies."
He looked at both of them. "This isn't about romance. It's about alignment. Legacy. Damage control."
And with that, she stood and walked out.
Shaurya added quietly, "And loyalty."
Vedashree's lips tightened. "You mean obedience."
She turned to Adhrita once more - gaze precise, not cruel.
"If you think you can walk into the Vardhan family and survive... I hope you've packed more than yellow suits and confusion."
Adhrita's spine stiffened, but her voice refused to surface. The silence around her thickened.
Ashwin took a measured step forward. "Shaurya ji, you promised me."
Shaurya didn't even blink. "Of course I did. And I'm not backing out."
Ashwin's voice remained cordial, but his words held weight. "I'm sure Mrs. Vardhan will agree - after all, we are from the same party."
There was a pause.
Then Shaurya turned slightly, his eyes flickering toward Adhrita, who still looked like the ground had shifted beneath her.
"She will marry my son," he said, low and certain. "That much is decided."
Vedashree gave a slow, sarcastic clap - just once.
"Well," she said coolly, "I'm sure you've told her about the groom."
She walked to the window, voice turning conversational - the kind that cuts deeper with every word.
"My son," she began, "hates politics. And politicians. Which, Ashwin, makes you the perfect father-in-law."
A smile tugged at her lips - sharp, gleaming.
"He spends half his nights gambling at underground clubs. And the other half trying to outdrive death on a racetrack. Oh, but don't worry - now we'll have a doctor in the house."
Her gaze returned to Adhrita.
"You'll be useful, I'm sure. Maybe you can stitch him up when he crashes. Or better yet - prescribe something for his inability to respect authority."
Shaurya's jaw twitched, but he said nothing.
Vedashree stepped closer, her voice now dipped in disdain and elegance.
"And sarcasm, my dear - he wears it like cologne. Suffocating, but somehow socially acceptable. You'll feel like you're being showered in roses... until you bleed."
She paused, eyes narrowing. "Still want to be part of the family?"
Adhrita met her gaze. Quietly. Bravely. But her silence spoke of battle - one she hadn't chosen, but was already being dragged into.
Vedashree finally turned away, smoothing her pallu like the conversation had merely been a formality.
"I'll inform the protocol team," she said to no one in particular. "They'll need a new file."
And with that, she left - heels echoing like a verdict.
Ashwin looked at his daughter. "Beta..."
But Adhrita was still staring at the door Vedashree had exited from - not in shock, but something far colder.
Like a surgeon staring at a wound too clean to trust.
Behind her, the room felt tighter. The silent hum of the security scanner outside, the distant footsteps of protocol staff adjusting to a new command, the soft static of an open channel - all made it clear: this wasn't a conversation. This was an induction.
Shaurya exhaled - not tiredly, but deliberately.
"She likes to test people," he offered, picking up his cup as if Vedashree hadn't just carved their future with surgical precision.
Adhrita didn't respond.
Ashwin finally stepped closer. "You don't have to-"
"I know," she interrupted, soft but resolute. "But I wasn't asked."
A beat.
She turned to Shaurya. "Your son... does he know about this?"
Shaurya's smile was faint, unreadable. "He will."
And that - more than anything - made her chest tighten.
Will.
Not does.
Because Vritant Vardhan wasn't part of the decision-making.
He was the consequence.
A soft knock interrupted them. A suited officer entered, nodding respectfully toward the Chief Minister.
"Sir, the PM's convoy will be rerouted through Gate B. Crowd density at Gate A has exceeded threshold."
Ashwin nodded absently.
The officer hesitated. "Also, there's been a change in internal clearance lists. Doctor Adani will require a new tag before re-entering the south wing."
"She's family," Shaurya said sharply.
The man blinked. "Yes, sir. Adjustments are being made accordingly."
He left. The door clicked shut again.
Silence returned.
But it wasn't peace.
It was protocol.
It was the kind of silence that settles right before your name appears in the headlines - or the classified files.
Ashwin placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder.
"You'll be fine, Adhrita. You're stronger than she thinks."
Adhrita finally spoke, voice brittle at the edges.
"Maybe. But I don't think she cares how strong I am. She just wants to know if I'll break loud... or break quietly."
Security was tight. Pity no one protected her consent.
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