The red lehenga shimmered beneath the grand chandelier of the Malhotra estate, its gold threadwork sparkling like embers in firelight. Guests whispered about its price, some admired her grace, and others envied the match. But none noticed the girl beneath the veil.

Aarika Verma, eighteen years old, looked like every bit the perfect bride—but her heart thudded like a frightened bird locked in a golden cage.

This wasn't how she dreamed her wedding day would be.

This wasn't love.

It was survival.

Her mother leaned in, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. "Smile, beta. You're going to be a queen."

Aarika tried. The corners of her lips lifted, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.

Queens don't cry behind silk veils. But she did. Quietly.

It had all happened too fast. One month ago, her father's textile business was crashing—bad investments, market debts, betrayal by close partners. It was Armaan Malhotra who stepped in like a godsend. One meeting, one offer, and everything changed.

"I'll take care of your family's dues," he told her father.
"But on one condition—I marry your daughter."

Aarika had overheard the conversation through a half-closed door.

She should have said no.

But she didn't. Couldn't.

Not when her father looked ten years older overnight.

Not when her mother cried herself to sleep every night.

So she agreed. Without asking questions. Without knowing who Armaan Malhotra truly was.

He sat beside her on the mandap like a statue carved of stone and charm.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in ivory sherwani with a red stole casually thrown across his neck. To the world, he was perfection.

To her, he was a stranger with ice in his eyes.

Their hands touched only briefly during the rituals. His grip was neither tight nor warm—just... efficient, mechanical.

The saat pheras felt endless. Vows were spoken, but none were felt. Every circle around the fire felt like she was burning one piece of her soul.

By the time the vermilion was placed in her hairline, Aarika knew—this wasn't a beginning.

This was a transaction sealed in red.

The wedding night was silent.

No music, no teasing cousins, no laughter echoing down the halls. Just the sound of her bridal bangles clinking as she sat alone on the massive four-poster bed in the coldest room she had ever seen.

Vihaan entered after an hour, removing his watch with precise movements. He didn't look at her.

"You're tired. You can sleep," he said, his voice calm, too calm.
He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't sit beside her. He didn't smile.

He walked to the balcony, lit a cigarette, and stared into the night as if she didn't exist.

She sat there, unmoving, the weight of the jewelry biting into her skin.

She had never felt more invisible in her life.

Is this what marriage feels like? she wondered, eyes burning.

Her mother had told her love would grow.

But how can anything grow in a frozen wasteland?

She looked at her reflection in the mirror—kohl-lined eyes, trembling lips, an expensive bride with no warmth in her groom's gaze.

That night, she lay on one side of the bed. Vihaan never touched her, never spoke again. He fell asleep like a man who had fulfilled a duty.

Not a husband.

Not a lover.

And somewhere in the silence between them, something inside Aarika cracked.

Not loudly.

Not visibly.

But deeply.

Indifference.
That was Vihaan Malhotra's favorite weapon.

He didn't hit.
He didn't shout.
He simply erased her.

And that, she would learn, kills more slowly than hate.