Chapter 2: A Vow Bound by Silence

The morning of the wedding felt like a funeral.

The house buzzed with activity—priests chanting mantras, women rushing in silk sarees, photographers adjusting lights—but all I could hear was the sound of my own heart pounding. Each beat a reminder: this was real.

I was about to marry a man who didn’t know me.

I was about to take vows meant for someone else.

I was about to become the bride they never wanted.

The bridal room was filled with women fluttering around like anxious butterflies. My aunt barked at instructions. A makeup artist tugged my face this way and that, layering me with powder and shimmer, tried to make me look like Meera. Every stroke felt like an erasure of myself.

“Look up,” the makeup artist said firmly.

I did. And in the mirror, I saw a doll—glittering, painted, fragile. My reflection wore a red and gold lehenga that wasn’t mine. Heavy bangles slid down arms that trembled beneath their weight. A maang tikka rested against a forehead filled not with joy, but dread.

“She looks perfect,” someone said from behind.

But no one asked if I felt human.

As the sun dipped behind the terrace walls, they led me toward the mandap. I could barely lift my legs. Each step toward the ceremony felt like a step away from everything I once knew—my dreams, my identity, my voice.

The mandap was glowing. The sacred fire crackled. Flowers rained from above as the priest recited mantras I couldn’t focus on. And there he stood.

Vivaan Singh Rathore.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in ivory sherwani with maroon embroidery. His eyes locked on mine as I was brought before him. And in that moment, I saw it.

The confusion.

The disbelief.

The flicker of cold anger.

But he said nothing.

He didn't ask, “Where is Meera?”

He didn't shout, didn't refuse.

He simply watched, his jaw tightening, his hands clenched at his sides. As if silently acknowledging the deception—and choosing to play along.

Perhaps for pride.

Perhaps for appearances.

Or perhaps because he didn’t care who stood next to him as long as the deal was sealed.

I lowered my eyes. Shame, fear, and sorrow tangled in my chest like vines.

The ceremony moved forward. Garland exchange. Sacred fire. Vows whispered with trembling lips. Every promise I made felt like an echo—empty, stolen, undeserved.

When the priest said “Mangal Pheras”, we stood and began circling the fire. I followed him in silence, each round tightening a knot around my soul.

In the seventh step, he paused ever so slightly. For a moment, I thought he’d stop—pull away, end this farce. But he didn’t.

The final mantra was chanted. The sindoor pressed against my scalp. The mangalsutra clasped around my neck.

And just like that, I became Mrs. Sunaina Rathore.

But instead of happiness, there was stillness. Heavy. Suffocating.

After the rituals, I was led inside. The women of the house laughed, cried, and teased as per tradition. But none of it reached me. I felt like I was watching someone else’s movie—an unwanted extra shoved into the lead role.

Hours passed in a blur until I was finally taken to the bridal room. A room drenched in rose petals and golden candles. The bed is decorated with flowers, as if to celebrate a union of hearts.

But inside, two strangers sat in silence.

He entered the room, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it, arms folded.

I stood, awkward and nervous, still clutching the edge of my dupatta.

He stared at me.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he raised a hand.

“Let me guess,” his voice was low, but sharp. “She ran away.”

I froze.

“And they replaced her with the next available option.”

I swallowed. “I… didn’t have a choice.”

He chuckled bitterly. “Neither did I.”

A long silence followed.

Then he stepped closer—not threatening, but cold. “I don’t know what games your family plays, but let’s get this straight. This”—he gestured between us—“is a formality. Nothing more.”

My eyes stung, but I nodded.

“I won’t humiliate you,” he continued. “But don’t expect affection. Or anything beyond civility. Understand?”

I nodded again. My throat felt like sand.

He turned away and sank into the sofa, loosening his sherwani collar.

I remained standing in the heavy lehenga, alone on the decorated bed meant for a love that never existed.

And so began my marriage—

Not with love.

Not with trust.

But with silence, strangers, and a mangalsutra that burned against my skin.

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