Chapter 5: The Grand Affair

The wedding preparations were a blur of opulence and ceaseless activity, a whirlwind that swept Anya along, leaving her little time to truly process the monumental shift in her life. After her reluctant acceptance, the Sharma household transformed into a bustling command center, orchestrating the countless details demanded by a union with the Malhotra empire. Tailors arrived with bolts of raw silk and intricate embroidery; jewelers displayed shimmering collections of gold and diamonds; wedding planners, with clipboards and hushed voices, discussed floral arrangements, catering menus, and guest lists that seemed to stretch into the hundreds, perhaps thousands.

Anya was fitted for lehngas that cost more than her family’s annual income, adorned with ancestral jewels she felt alien wearing. Her mother, brimming with a mixture of pride and quiet anxiety, oversaw every detail, ensuring Anya looked every inch the perfect bride for the Malhotras. Relatives descended upon their home, their congratulations laced with awe, their gazes lingering on Anya as if she were already touched by the Malhotra prestige. Each well-wisher’s embrace, each whispered blessing, felt like another link in the chain binding her to her predetermined fate.

Through it all, Devansh Malhotra remained an elusive, distant figure. Their interactions were minimal, confined to brief, formal video calls arranged by their families to discuss minor logistics. His voice, crisp and business-like, offered polite affirmations or concise decisions. He never asked about her feelings, her thoughts on the arrangements, or anything remotely personal. He was focused, Anya surmised, on the grander scheme, the strategic alliance. The bride herself seemed a mere component in the colossal machinery of his life. The age gap felt particularly pronounced during these exchanges; he sounded like a seasoned executive dictating terms, and she, a hesitant intern attempting to follow.

The days leading up to the wedding were a kaleidoscope of traditional ceremonies – the mehndi, where intricate henna patterns were painstakingly applied to her hands and feet, symbolizing blessings and prosperity; the sangeet, a night of vibrant music and dance, though Anya danced with a forced cheerfulness, her heart heavy. Each event was grander than the last, a public spectacle designed to announce the alliance to Delhi society. Photographers captured every smile, every pose, but behind her eyes, Anya felt an ever-present veil of melancholy.

Then came the wedding day itself.

It dawned with an uncharacteristic coolness for Delhi, a merciful breeze hinting at the change in seasons, but Anya felt no relief. Her room, usually a sanctuary, felt like a dressing room, filled with stylists, makeup artists, and hovering relatives. They transformed her, painstakingly applying layers of makeup to perfect her complexion, artfully shaping her hair, and finally, draping her in the bridal lehnga.

It was a masterpiece of crimson and gold, heavily embroidered with zardozi work, encrusted with tiny pearls and glittering stones. It weighed a ton, a literal burden that mirrored the metaphorical one she carried. The bridal jewelry was exquisite – a heavy choker, long earrings that brushed her shoulders, and a majestic maang tikka that rested on her forehead, framing her face. She looked at herself in the mirror, seeing a stranger adorned in finery, a bride ready for sacrifice. The woman looking back at her was beautiful, yes, but also undeniably sad. Her eyes, magnified by the kohl, held a silent plea, a yearning for something she knew she wouldn't find.

The ceremony was held at a sprawling, five-star hotel, its grand ballroom transformed into a veritable palace. Flowers, hundreds of thousands of them, imported from distant lands, adorned every surface. Chandeliers glittered overhead, outshining even the most dazzling diamonds. The air was thick with the scent of roses and sandalwood, mingling with the aroma of exotic spices from the lavish buffet stations.

As Anya was led to the mandap – the sacred canopy under which the Hindu wedding rituals are performed – the sheer scale of the event overwhelmed her. Thousands of guests, a veritable who's who of Delhi’s elite, filled the ballroom. Their murmurs hushed as she made her slow, deliberate entrance. All eyes were on her, assessing, approving, oblivious to the turmoil within. She felt like a doll on display, a living embodiment of the Malhotra’s newest acquisition.

Under the ornate mandap, Devansh was already waiting. He was dressed in an ivory sherwani, intricately embroidered, a royal red turban on his head, and a multi-strand pearl necklace gracing his neck. He looked every inch the powerful, regal groom, an Indian prince from a bygone era, yet with the sharp, modern edge of a CEO who commanded billions. He was undeniably handsome, strikingly so, but his handsomeness was cold, unapproachable, like a perfectly sculpted marble statue.

As she approached, led by her uncles, she kept her gaze lowered, focusing on the intricate patterns of the rug beneath her feet. She could feel his presence, the heat radiating from him, the weight of his steady gaze. When she finally looked up, his dark eyes met hers. There was no warmth, no joy, no nervous excitement that one might expect from a groom on his wedding day. Only that familiar, cool assessment. His expression was as unreadable as ever, a polished mask that revealed nothing. The age gap felt particularly stark at this moment – he was a man who had mastered control, she was a girl still learning to hide her vulnerability.

The rituals began, long and complex, performed by priests chanting ancient Sanskrit verses. Anya sat beside Devansh, their shoulders occasionally brushing, an impersonal contact that sent no shiver down her spine. They offered grains into the sacred fire, circled it seven times, exchanged garlands, and recited vows. Each action was performed mechanically by Anya, her movements practiced, her voice a soft murmur. Devansh, beside her, performed the rituals with a quiet dignity, his movements precise, his focus unwavering. He was going through the motions, fulfilling his part of the contract, perfectly.

During the exchange of garlands, their hands brushed, and Anya noticed the strength of his fingers, the subtle tremor in her own. He looked at her briefly, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something in his eyes—perhaps a flicker of acknowledgement, a shadow of recognition of the momentousness of the occasion, or perhaps it was just the reflection of the flickering flames. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that impenetrable composure.

Later, during the pheras, the seven circumambulations around the sacred fire, they walked together, their steps synchronized by the ritual. Her hand was placed in his, a symbolic joining. His palm was warm, dry, and strong. She felt a strange sense of surrender, a quiet acceptance of being led into this new life, tethered to him by ancient custom.

The reception that followed was even more extravagant. A live orchestra played classical Indian music, later switching to contemporary Bollywood hits. Celebrity guests mingled with business tycoons and politicians. The air was thick with laughter, clinking glasses, and the drone of conversation. Anya, seated on a dais beside Devansh, greeted a seemingly endless line of well-wishers. Each person offered congratulations, blessings, and curious glances.

Devansh, ever the CEO, handled the crowd with effortless charm. He smiled, shook hands, engaged in brief, polite conversations, his demeanor perfectly calibrated for the social demands of the evening. He moved through the crowd, a beacon of power and grace, making sure to acknowledge every important dignitary. Anya watched him, admiring his composure, yet feeling increasingly isolated. He was in his element, she was merely an accessory to his grandeur.

He introduced her simply as "my wife, Anya," his voice polite, formal. There was no personal touch, no shared glance, no lingering hand on her back. It was a formal introduction, devoid of emotion. Her new identity, reduced to two words, spoken by a stranger.

Later, a slow dance was announced, a moment for the bride and groom. Anya’s heart pounded. She had always imagined this moment would be filled with tenderness, with a whispered word, a shared secret smile.

Devansh offered her his hand. His touch was light, almost imperceptible. As they moved to the slow, romantic melody, Anya felt the awkwardness acutely. He held her at arm’s length, his hand resting lightly on her waist, hers barely touching his shoulder. His gaze was fixed over her head, lost in the crowd, or perhaps, simply lost in thought. He didn't speak, didn't smile down at her. They moved together, a practiced motion, but there was no connection, no intimacy. It was the most public display of their emotional distance.

She was hyper-aware of his height, his broad shoulders, the faint scent of his expensive cologne. She felt small, insignificant beside him, a stark reminder of their age gap and differing worlds. He was a man who had already scaled peaks, she was still dreaming of the base camp.

As the night wore on, fatigue began to set in. Anya’s feet ached in her heavy heels, and her smile felt glued to her face. She longed for the privacy of her room, for the simple comfort of being herself, unadorned and unobserved.

Finally, the grand affair drew to a close. The last guests departed, leaving behind a ballroom that, despite its lingering grandeur, felt suddenly empty and cold. Anya was whisked away for the final traditional rituals – the bidaai, the emotional farewell from her family home. She clung to her mother, tears finally flowing freely, a bittersweet release. This was the true ending, the true separation. Her tears were not just for leaving her home, but for the unknown future she was stepping into, bound to a man who was still, essentially, a stranger.

As the Malhotra car, a sleek, dark luxury sedan, pulled away, taking her to her new home, she glanced back at her parents, who stood waving, their faces a mixture of joy and sorrow. Then, she turned to face forward. Devansh sat beside her, silent, gazing out the window, his profile etched against the dim glow of the city lights. He hadn't offered a single word of comfort during the bidaai, hadn't acknowledged her tears. His silence was absolute, as impenetrable as ever.

The journey to the Malhotra mansion felt interminable. The vastness of the car, the silence between them, the hum of the engine – it all contributed to a growing sense of isolation. She was no longer Anya Sharma. She was Mrs. Devansh Malhotra, the newly acquired component in his grand design, the future mother of his heir.

When they finally arrived at the imposing mansion, the house was quiet, save for the waiting family and a few members of the staff. More rituals followed, the greh pravesh, her formal entry into her new home. She kicked over a pot of rice, left red footprints on the marble floor, symbols of prosperity and new beginnings. But Anya felt no such sense of renewal. She felt only a profound sense of surrender, of having crossed a threshold from which there was no return.

Later, in the opulent bridal suite, Devansh's personal haven, Anya found herself alone for the first time in hours. The room was massive, decorated in muted, masculine tones of grey and navy. A king-sized bed dominated the center, covered in silk sheets and scattered with rose petals, a stark reminder of the night's supposed purpose.

Devansh entered the room a few minutes later, having removed his turban and sherwani jacket, now in a simple white kurta. He looked tired, his strong features softer in the dim light, but his eyes still held that distant, unreadable quality.

He walked towards a small table, where a silver tray held two glasses of water. He picked one up, took a sip, and then, without looking at her, placed it back down.

"It was a long day," he said, his voice quiet, almost husky from exhaustion. "You must be tired."

Anya, still in her heavy bridal attire, nodded, unable to speak.

He gestured vaguely towards a door she hadn't noticed. "The dressing room is through there. You can change."

And that was it. No whispered words, no awkward attempts at intimacy, no acknowledgement of the momentousness of their wedding night. Just a polite, exhausted dismissal. He was a man of routines, of business, and even his wedding night seemed to be approached with a pragmatic efficiency. He was tired, she was tired. The expectation of consummation, though unspoken, hung heavy, but he offered her an out.

Anya felt a strange mix of relief and a deeper, more profound sadness. Relief, because she wasn't ready for that kind of intimacy with a stranger. Sadness, because it confirmed the emotional chasm between them. This grand affair, this lavish display of wealth and power, had been nothing more than a formal transaction. The vows exchanged, the fire witnessed, the public display – it had all been for show. Their marriage was a contract, their relationship, emotionally, was still distant. And as she slowly, wearily, made her way to the dressing room to shed the heavy finery that had transformed her into Mrs. Malhotra, Anya knew, with chilling certainty, that this was just the beginning of her emotionally distant life.

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