SANJANA'S POV:

As the evening drew to a close, everyone gathered at the entrance to bless us and say their goodbyes. Abhay stood beside me, patient and watchful, his silence heavy.

My mother stepped forward and pulled me into her arms, her eyes shimmering. Her warmth wrapped around me, and I clung tighter, unwilling to let go.

"You're stronger than anyone I know," she whispered, her face twisting with emotion. "Not as your mother, but as someone who's watched you grow—I'm proud of you."

Sending their daughter off to a man eleven years older unsettled them all. Each family member carried the weight of guilt—they should have fought harder, should have let me marry the one I loved. Instead, they had failed me, and their conscience screamed the truth.

Ankur Srivastav felt it most. All the money, the status, the power—yet he hadn't been able to protect his daughter. He had offered her like bait.

He pressed me to his chest, his eyes wet as he looked at Abhay. He drew in a shaky breath.
"Bachi hai... agar kabhi galti kar baithe, jane anjane..." His voice cracked, but he swallowed the tears. "Toh mujhe batana. Mere paas bhejna. Kuch mat bolna."
He spoke not as a minister addressing a superior, but as a father to a man taking his daughter.

Dheeraj's gaze burned with regret. If only he had stepped into politics sooner, maybe he could have done something—anything—to save his sister from this.

"Baat karte rehna, chipkali," he tried to joke as he hugged me, though the humor never reached his tone.

"Bhaiyya..." I hiccupped, clutching him, wishing this were just a bad dream.

"Shh... shh," he whispered, consoling me. His eyes met Abhay's. For a moment, silence stretched between the two men—a nod exchanged, an acknowledgement neither could voice aloud.

We sat in the car in silence, the hum of the engine louder than our presence. My gaze clung to the window, chasing shadows of streetlights, while Abhay sat beside me, absorbed in his phone. We felt like strangers forced into the same space, not husband and wife.

The tears had finally stopped, leaving behind only a dull ache in my chest. Exhaustion pressed down on me, but beneath it, I whispered to myself: This is just the beginning. I need to have a positive outlook.

Yes, I had been married off early, but that didn't mean my life had ended. I reminded myself of my privilege, of the blessings I'd grown up with. My career, my dreams—I could still hold on to them. Perhaps it would be harder now, but not impossible. I wouldn't let this marriage strip me of everything I wanted to be.

As the car slowed to a halt, nervousness curled inside me. Security hurried forward to open the door. My lehenga threatened to trip me, but I lifted it carefully, spine straight, refusing to let my unease show. Abhay walked ahead without a word, as though the path belonged only to him and I was expected to follow.

At the threshold, his mother, Surekha, welcomed us with an aarti. I had glimpsed her at the wedding, but amid the whirlwind of rituals and faces, she hadn't registered fully. Now, in the quiet glow of the lamps, her presence felt different—softer, deliberate.

After the gruha pravesh, I bent to touch my in-laws' feet. Their blessings came with practiced warmth, but I couldn't ignore the strange distance layered beneath.

"Abhay might be a little khadoos, but I think you can handle him well," his mother said with a laugh. His father smiled at her words, and for a moment, something inside me lightened. They clearly shared a strong bond—I could sense it in the way they looked at each other—but I didn't see that same ease between Abhay and me.

"We should leave now, dear. Have a great evening." She checked her watch, then glanced between the two of us with a gentle smile.

"You're not staying for dinner?" I asked, confused. My eyes flicked to Abhay, expecting him to say something, to at least invite them to stay.

"Mohit has meetings," she explained kindly. "With the wedding, he didn't get much time for work."

I nodded, forcing the polite smile of a new bride, though the suddenness of their departure unsettled me.

"Maybe some other time, dear. Have a good evening," she said warmly, hugging me before stepping away. 

"Anandhi," Abhay called out. An elder maid appeared from the kitchen.

"She will show you to your room," he said without looking up from his phone, then walked away.

The house was enormous—walls painted in soft beige, accented with coffee-latte trims. Majestic paintings adorned the living area, and the elegant staircase rose like a silent sentinel, announcing the grandeur of the home.

"Hello, ma'am. I'm the head maid," Anandhi said from behind, her voice warm yet formal.

I turned and smiled at her. She carefully helped me carry my lehenga as we ascended the stairs. My bedroom was on the left, just past a corridor lined with portraits of ancestors and subtle golden accents.

I pushed the door open and froze in surprise. The room was decorated in ash grey and black, sleek and modern. The bed was adorned with flowers, and two bedside tables held elegant lamps. On one of the tables, I noticed my phone.

I wandered into the closet, scanning rows of his clothes, and spotted my luggage tucked to the side. I glanced at myself in the mirror—draped in my wedding lehenga, I truly looked like a Rajasthani bride. Taking a deep breath, I sank onto the bed and reached for my phone.

Scrolling through my feed, I saw countless photos and videos from the wedding. Friends who couldn't attend had sent heartfelt wishes. My paintings were also being featured in exhibitions—a small reminder of my life before all this.

For the past six months, I had been meticulously planning my career after graduation. The marriage hadn't been part of the plan. I'd applied to partner with jewelry companies, though few showed interest. Eventually, I decided to start my own jewelry brand. At this point, I realized some plans had to wait, and I accepted it.

I checked my emails and froze with joy—the Start-Up India Welfare had accepted my proposal. I squealed, unable to contain my excitement, throwing my hands in the air and doing a small happy dance. Maybe this wedding wasn't so bad after all.

The door creaked open slowly, and my smile instantly froze.

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