Chapter 3: A Home That Wasn’t Mine

The next morning didn’t feel like the beginning of something new.

It felt like a punishment that hadn’t been earned, a sentence without a trial.

I woke up in a strange room, in an unfamiliar bed, beside a man who never looked at me once through the night. The rose petals on the mattress had been crushed by the weight of a silence so deep, even my breath felt like a betrayal.

Vivaan was already awake, buttoning his shirt in front of the mirror. He looked collected—every inch the poised CEO the world admired. Cold, efficient, untouchable.

Not once did he glance in my direction.

“Good morning,” I said softly, unsure if it would be welcome.

He didn’t reply.

Instead, he checked his watch, adjusted his cufflinks, and walked toward the door. Before leaving, he paused.

“Be ready in thirty minutes. We’re going downstairs.”

“For…?”

“The rituals. The Rathore family doesn’t skip traditions—no matter how fake they feel.”

With that, he was gone.

The door clicked shut. And the silence returned.

—

I dressed slowly, slipping into a pale peach saree the maid had laid out. My hands shook as I pinned the pallu in place. The sindoor in my hairline felt like a red slash screaming a lie. I stared into the mirror, barely recognizing the girl in the reflection—newly married, but already tired.

I walked downstairs like I was walking into a courtroom.

The living room was grand—chandeliers, antique decor, walls hung with proud portraits of ancestors who’d likely never approve of someone like me. And gathered there were the entire Rathore family.

Every eye turned to me. And not one of them softened.

Vivaan’s mother, Rajshree Rathore, stood like a queen, draped in a royal blue silk saree, lips tight in disapproval. Beside her, Vivaan’s younger sister, Priyanka, eyed me with unveiled disdain. The rest of the relatives—chattering cousins, stone-faced uncles, jewelry-laden aunts—all stared as if I were a stain on an otherwise perfect wedding.

Rajshree stepped forward. “You are late.”

“I—”

“Punctuality is the minimum we expect from a Rathore bahu.”

Her words sliced through the room like glass. No greeting. No welcome. No attempt to hide how much she resented me.

I stood still, holding back tears. Vivaan stood beside his mother, hands in his pockets, eyes cold. He didn’t defend me.

The ritual began—Muh Dikhai—where each family member “blesses” the new bride and gives gifts. But what was meant to be a warm tradition felt like a performance.

Each woman came forward, smiled tightly, and placed a token in my lap—a gold chain, a bangle, an envelope. But their eyes never smiled.

When it was Rajshree’s turn, she looked me up and down, then said with venomous calm, “The real bride would’ve looked radiant. But I suppose we’ll make do.”

She handed me a cold silver coin.

That was her blessing.

---

After the rituals, I was expected to serve tea to the elders. I fumbled with the tray, hands trembling as I poured steaming chai into porcelain cups. No one offered help. They watched. Judged. Smirked when I spilled a drop.

The humiliation wrapped around me like my own dupatta.

When it was finally over, I retreated to the guest room—the one they said was mine now.

I closed the door, locked it, and finally let the tears fall. The weight of it all crashed down: my cousin’s betrayal, my family's silence, Vivaan’s hatred, his family’s rejection.

I wasn’t a bride. I was a placeholder. A mistake.

I didn’t know how long I sat there crying, but when I looked up, I saw the mangalsutra resting on my chest. It mocked me with its false promise.

Somewhere in the house, laughter echoed.

But not for me.

Not for the bride they never wanted.

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