The grand mandap in the haveli courtyard was ablaze with marigolds, fairy lights, and the golden flicker of oil lamps. Hundreds of guests murmured in approval as Meera walked the aisle, her red bridal lehenga heavy with zari and mirror work, the dupatta draped modestly over her head. The veil shimmered like liquid fire, but beneath it her skin still carried the faint green traces of last night’s mehendi—and the dried streaks of Karan’s cum that she had washed off in secret at dawn.

Arjun waited at the center, tall and regal in his sherwani, his face calm and composed. He looked every inch the perfect groom: dutiful, wealthy, untouchable. Meera’s heart twisted as she circled the sacred fire with him seven times, the mantras echoing around them. With each phera, she felt Karan’s eyes burning holes into her back from the front row of relatives. He sat beside their mother, arms crossed, scar stark against his cheek, lips curved in a private, predatory smile.