The hall shimmered with gold and crimson drapes. Strings of marigolds swayed with the breeze, and the scent of incense clung to the heavy air. Music played softly from the corners, and relatives murmured blessings. Yet, in the center of it all, Ayaan Malik stood still — a statue in a sherwani, his jaw locked in defiance.
Zoya Rehman sat beside him, her face veiled, hands trembling, yet her heart calm. She had seen him once before — cold eyes, distant voice, not a word of kindness. But even then, something in his loneliness had moved her.
Ayaan's mother, Shireen Malik, stood tall, her presence a wall of tradition and command. "The rituals must be done, Ayaan. You will not bring shame to this family."
Ayaan didn't look at his bride. He didn't need to. He already resented her.
The priest's voice rose in chant. Flowers were showered. Sacred fire lit the space between them. And when the moment came, Ayaan muttered the vows like poison on his tongue.
"I accept," he said through clenched teeth.
Zoya's lips trembled. "I accept," she whispered, her voice full of sincerity, love already blooming in her chest — unaware of the storm that lay ahead.
---
Later that night, in the grand mansion now called "home," Ayaan slammed the door behind them.
"This wasn't my choice," he hissed. "Don't expect love from me."
Zoya's voice didn't shake. "I didn't ask for love. Just let me stay by your side."
Her calmness confused him. He turned away, angered not just at her, but at himself — for feeling something he wasn't ready to name.