Page 13 of Mrs. Rathore

Just then, the door opened again.

“You aren’t ready yet?” Mom entered, her tone exasperated. Ira quickly moved away from me, her face flushed with embarrassment.

Mom’s eyes softened as she looked at her. “Ira, what are you doing here, darling?” She walked over and hugged her gently. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help... but I’m helpless.”

“It’s okay,” Ira said with a tight smile. “Anyway, this marriage won’t last. We’ll give her a taste of her own medicine. She doesn’t deserve our sympathy, right?”

Mom squeezed her hand, nodding. Then she turned to me and frowned, her gaze lingering on my unkempt state. “Your bride has arrived. And you're still like this? Aryan…” She sighed and walked to the wardrobe, pulling out my wedding sherwani. “Get up. You need to get ready.”

“I don’t want to change!” I shouted suddenly, making her flinch.

Regret hit me instantly.

I rubbed my throbbing temples and muttered, “I’m sorry. I just… I need a moment alone.”

Before she could respond, another storm barreled into the room.

“I’ll make him ready!” Rhea, my fierce, fire-breathing little sister. She marched in, folding her arms over her chest like a drill sergeant. “Get your ass up and go to the bathroom, Bhai. We’re already late.”

Mom and Ira exchanged glances and quietly exited the room, leaving me alone with the one person who never took my crap.

Rhea glared at me. “Don’t make me drag you. Move.”

Defeated, I stood up and headed to the bathroom. Because right now, I had no power. No control. I was just a pawn in a game I didn’t know how to win.

But one thing was certain.

This wasn’t the end.

This was only the beginning.

She begins the game and I'll end it.

______

The mandap rose before me like a gallows. It was draped in gold and red, mocking me with every fluttering garland. The scent of incense hung thick in the air; it was fucking suffocating. The chanting echoed around me, but it sounded distant and dull like static in my ears.

Each step I took toward the sacred fire dragged me deeper into a life I didn’t want.

I wasn’t walking into a wedding but I was walking to my own execution.

Fuck. I had never felt this before. Like life was fucking me over.

My limbs were heavy, pulled down by more than reluctance. Rage churned in my chest, potent and acidic. I hated this. I hated that no one had listened. That no one cared. That she had twisted everything to end up here.

I hated her.

I reached the mandap and lowered myself to the carpeted floor with a stiffness that screamed rebellion. My jaw locked, my shoulders tight. I sat like a man made of stone - unmoving, unfeeling, at least on the outside. But inside, I was fire.

The priest began chanting mantras. Guests whispered and smiled. The cameraman clicked picture after picture, grating on my nerves. I shot him a glare so cold he swallowed hard and turned away, starting to photograph women who looked better suited to a circus than a wedding ceremony.

I stared straight ahead, and whatever hope I had left died the moment she entered the hall.

Avni.

Draped in a heavy golden saree, her eyes downcast, lips curved into that soft, fake smile she wore so well.

Fuck you.

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