The campus cafeteria buzzed with noise—chatter, laughter, and clinking trays—but Avya preferred the quiet corners. That's where she was, secluded and focused, when the girl first approached her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her shoulders hunched, clearly trying to hold back the torrent of a broken heart.

"Is this seat taken?" the girl asked, her voice thin, attempting a casual tone that didn't quite land.

Avya glanced up, her sharp, perceptive eyes taking in the scene. At nineteen, she already possessed an uncanny ability to read people, a skill honed by a life that demanded constant vigilance. "Looks empty, doesn't it?" she replied, a hint of dry wit in her voice.

A soft, shaky chuckle escaped the girl, and she sank onto the seat opposite Avya, clutching her textbooks tightly to her chest like a shield. "You always eat alone?"

"I prefer peace," Avya stated simply, returning to her meal.

The girl sighed, a heavy sound. "I prefer not crying in front of people. But here we are." She gave a weak, self-deprecating smile.

Avya looked at her again, truly looked. This time, a flicker of something passed between them—not recognition of a face, but of the raw emotion behind it. Pain. Buried pain, similar to what Avya often felt, though hers was always meticulously hidden.

"Bad breakup?" Avya asked, cutting straight to the point.

The girl gave a bitter, humorless laugh. "Worse. My mother found out I like someone who doesn’t fit her 'checklist.' Now I'm being paraded in front of rishtas like a damn auction for a suitable groom. It's... humiliating."

Avya leaned back, a sardonic twist to her lips. "Ah. So the classic 'fall-in-love-with-the-wrong-guy-and-now-your-family-has-a-meltdown' plotline."

That made the girl laugh—a genuine, uninhibited burst of laughter that surprised even Avya. It was the first time Avya had smiled that day, a faint but real curve of her lips.

They didn't talk much after that first encounter. But from the very next day onward, the girl always sought out Avya's quiet corner, always sat beside her.

Weeks bled into months.

Their friendship deepened, forged in the crucible of shared late-night study sessions, clandestine drives to roadside chai stalls, and the quiet exchange of dreams and fears. Avya, ever the pragmatist, even taught her how to throw a punch—"just in case," she'd said with a smirk. The girl, whose name Avya soon learned was Naira, often called Avya her safe place, her anchor in a world that felt increasingly tumultuous due to her family's expectations. Avya never articulated it, but she felt the same. Naira's open vulnerability was a stark contrast to Avya's guarded strength, and it somehow completed her.

Then came the day Naira told her about the arranged marriage. The groom was Riaan Malhotra, a name Avya only vaguely recognized from business headlines.

"I can't do it, Avya," Naira confessed, her voice thick with despair. "I love someone else. But they won't understand. My family... they'll disown me. They'll ruin my life."

Avya had been silent at first, her mind working through the implications. Then, her reply was cold and clear, devoid of emotion, yet firm in its conviction. "Then make them understand. Or walk away. But don't stay silent and let two lives get destroyed."

"I can't break his heart," Naira whispered, referring to Riaan.

Avya's reply had been direct, sharp as a blade. "Then be honest. Let him decide what to do with the truth. Better a broken truth now than a shattered lie later."

"I don't want anyone to hate me," Naira pleaded, tears welling in her eyes.

"They'll hate you more if you lie and waste their life," Avya countered, her gaze unwavering.

Naira paused, a desperate plea in her eyes. "If I don't tell him, will you?"

"No," Avya said, without hesitation. "It's not my place. Your truth is yours to tell."

"But you'd be seeing a stranger marry into a lie," Naira argued.

"And that's precisely why you need to speak up," Avya concluded, her tone leaving no room for further debate.

Naira never did speak up.

Thank you for reading. This is my first novel, and your support means everything. I’d love to hear your thoughts, reactions, and theories in the comments! 💛

Avya had always been exceptionally skilled at reading people. It was both a finely honed skill and a crucial survival instinct—a trait refined over years of navigating two vastly different worlds: one polished and corporate, the other brutal and unforgiving. She saw the truths hidden beneath facades, the quiet fears, the unspoken desires.

So when Naira, her best friend, pulled her across the bustling party floor, giggling like a child on a sugar rush, her excitement practically infectious, Avya simply followed. "You have to meet him!" Naira bubbled, her eyes sparkling. "My fiancé! He's wonderful, Avya, truly!"

Avya didn't expect much. Riaan Malhotra was just another name to her—a man with ambition, influence, and likely more ego than empathy, she had assumed. She certainly didn't anticipate anything beyond a polite introduction.

Until she met his eyes.

Dark. Observant. Guarded. They reminded her, startlingly, of herself. A recognition, not of a face, but of a shared depth, a carefully constructed wall.

"Avya Mane," Naira announced with proud affection. "My best friend, my backbone, my secret therapist, the one who always tells me the ugly truth." Naira squeezed Avya's arm, her grin wide.

Avya offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile and extended her hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Malhotra."

Riaan's grip was confident. Firm. But not overpowering. His smile was polite, yet his dark eyes lingered on hers, a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher. "Likewise, Ms. Mane."

She held his gaze for a second longer than necessary, a silent assessment passing between them. That same flicker, that unsettling sense of recognition, stirred within her again—something she quickly, instinctively, shoved down. It wasn't attraction. It was a premonition, a quiet hum that something felt off.

Later, as Avya stood at the corner of the crowded room, a wallflower observing the intricate dance of high society, her eyes kept returning to Riaan. She watched him laugh with Naira, blend seamlessly into the wealthy crowd, move with a practiced ease. He was perfect. Too perfect. And if life had taught her anything, it was that perfection was almost always a carefully worn mask, hiding deeper truths.

It was much later that evening, amidst the winding down of the party, that Naira pulled Avya aside, her earlier effervescence replaced by a desperate, panicked whisper. "Avya, I can't do it. I can't marry him."

Avya's expression remained impassive, but her mind instantly sharpened. "Why not?" she asked, though she already suspected the answer.

"I'm running away," Naira blurted out, her voice trembling. "Before wedding when everyone leaves. He's waiting for me. My real love. I can't live a lie, Avya. You always told me to be true."

Avya felt a surge of cold anger, not at Naira for loving someone else, but for her cowardice. "Running away is not being true, Naira. It's an escape. It's abandoning your responsibilities and making others pay the price for your silence." Avya grabbed Naira's shoulders, her grip firm. "You need to tell him. Tell Riaan. Tell your family. Yes, it will be hard. Yes, they will be angry. But you owe them the truth, and you owe yourself the courage."

"I can't!" Naira choked out, tears finally spilling. "They'll disown me! He'll hate me! I can't break his heart by telling him the truth to his face. I'm too scared."

Avya's voice dropped, cold and clear. "Then you'll break it worse by running. You'll destroy not just his trust, but his dignity. You will shatter him and everything he believes in. And you'll leave a wound that festers. If you choose to run, I won't stop you physically, Naira. It's your life. But I cannot support that choice. You know where I stand on lies."

Naira pulled away, her eyes wide and conflicted, but the desperate longing to escape was stronger than Avya's counsel. "I have to," she whispered, and then she melted back into the dwindling crowd.

Avya watched her go, a grim certainty settling in her heart. She knew Naira wouldn't heed her advice. And a silent anger began to simmer within Avya. Not just at Naira, but at the injustice of the situation. At the lies that festered.

Weeks passed. The wedding preparations continued, a grand charade. Avya observed, her warnings unheeded, her unease growing. She did not intervene further, for she believed deeply that truth was a personal burden, and it was not her place to speak Naira's.

And then, the truth unraveled. Just as Avya feared. Naira disappeared.

And now, here Avya was—wearing crown of betrayal, not for love, but as a symbol of revenge, rage, and the devastating consequences of another's lie. Married, by force, to the same man she once silently judged across a crowded ballroom. The man who now, she knew, would face the full storm of her vengeance.

The wedding hall glittered, a monument to a celebration that would never be. Marigolds hung heavy with scent, silk drapes shimmered, and the sacred fire in the mandap crackled, waiting. Guests murmured, their polite smiles starting to falter as minutes stretched into an ominous silence. The bride, Naira, was nowhere to be found.

Avya stood to the side, a silent, grim spectator. She had watched the whispers turn to panicked glances, the nervous coughs turn to stifled gasps. She knew. She had begged Niara to tell the truth, but Naira had been too afraid. Now, the cost was about to be paid, and Avya felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. It wasn't her fault, yet she was tied to it.

Just as the whispers escalated into outright distress, a figure strode into the hall. It wasn't the runaway bride. It was Riaan Malhotra.

His expensive sherwani was slightly dishevelled, his hair falling across his forehead, and his eyes... his eyes were wild, blazing with a fury that silenced the entire room. He bypassed the worried Malhotra family, bypassed the gasping guests, and walked straight to the mandap. His gaze, colder than ice, swept over the empty space, then landed on Avya.

A collective gasp went through the hall as he stalked towards her, his footsteps echoing in the sudden, cavernous silence.

"Where is she?" His voice was a low snarl, barely audible but vibrating with menace.

Avya met his gaze, her own eyes unwavering, a flicker of defiance burning in their depths. "She's gone," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her gut. "Just like I told her to be, if her heart wasn't in it."

Riaan's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching furiously. "You knew?"

"I knew her heart belonged to someone else," Avya confirmed, her voice a quiet, pointed accusation. "And I told her to be honest. To you. To her family. She chose not to."

Riaan's hand shot out, grabbing her arm with bruising force. He pulled her forward, dragging her towards the mandap. The air crackled with shock. His parents rushed forward, horrified.

"Riaan! What are you doing?!" his mother cried, her voice laced with terror.

"This marriage will happen!" Riaan roared, his voice echoing through the stunned silence. He spun Avya around, pushing her roughly towards the sacred fire. His hand, subtly, almost imperceptibly, slipped into his inner jacket pocket. Avya's eyes, sharp and trained, caught the glint of metal. A gun. Tucked just out of sight, but undeniably there. The unspoken threat was a cold, hard knot in her stomach.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a furious, chilling whisper meant only for her. "She made a fool of me. You knew everything. Now, you will pay the price."

Avya stared at him, her chest heaving, not with fear, but with an inferno of rage. "I will not!" she hissed back, her voice low but fierce. "You think you can just claim me because she ran? You think I'm a replacement? I am not a pawn in your games, Riaan Malhotra!"

But he ignored her words, his eyes daring the trembling pandit to object. "Continue the ceremony!"

The pandit, pale and shaking, stammered out the Sanskrit verses. Riaan forced Avya through each sacred step. He grabbed her hand, making her offer the rice to the fire. He twisted her arm, making her walk the seven steps around the flames, each circuit a fresh layer of humiliation. Avya moved like a marionette, her face a mask of stone. Her heart hammered with a desperate, icy rage. She wouldn't break. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

When it came time for the sindoor-the vermillion powder signifying a married woman-Riaan snatched the small box from the pandit. His eyes locked with Avya's. They were no longer wild with just fury, but with a terrifying, desperate finality. He smeared the sindoor roughly onto her hairline, his thumb pressing too hard, grinding it into her skin.

Then, he took the ornate mangalsutra-the sacred necklace-from the pandit's trembling hand. He clasped it around her neck, the gold cold against her skin, the black beads a stark contrast to her pale throat. Each bead felt like a chain tightening around her freedom.

"Now," Riaan said, his voice raw, "you are my wife."

Avya didn't speak. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just stared at him, her eyes burning with a silent, terrifying promise: You will pay for this. I swear, you will pay.

The moment the last vow was uttered, the final blessing mumbled, Riaan released her, his chest heaving. The stunned silence of the guests finally broke into a frantic uproar.

But Avya didn't linger. Her gaze, still locked on Riaan, was a silent vow. With a slow, deliberate movement that held the weight of an approaching storm, she lifted her hands. Her fingers, trembling slightly from adrenaline but precise in their purpose, went to the mangalsutra at her neck. She unclasped it, the delicate gold chain glinting in the temple light, and placed it carefully on the empty seat beside the sacred fire. Then, with her thumb, she wiped the sindoor from her hairline, leaving a faint, angry red smear on her skin. She didn't wipe it off completely; it was a mark, a wound, a reminder of what he had done.

She looked at Riaan one last time, a cold, dangerous fire in her eyes that promised absolute ruin. Then, without a word, she turned and strode out of the hall, her silk saree rustling like a vengeful whisper. She didn't look back at the horrified faces, the shocked family, or the man she was now bound to.

She left them all stunned. Because not only could a man storm out of a wedding, but a woman could too. And this was just the beginning. This was her leaving him with a clear reminder: a storm, in the form of Avya, was about to cross them, one he had invited himself.

“What do you think Avya is going to do next?”