V E R M I L L I O N

"She was promised in silence, sold without consent—now she's chained to a king who only knows how to conquer, not love."

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: ( 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠)

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"She was promised in silence, sold without consent—now she's chained to a king who only knows how to conquer, not love."

The rain had come late this monsoon—violent, unrelenting, and cold like a warning wrapped in silver thunder.

Meher Rathore sat by the carved jharokha, her books clutched tightly to her chest, the smell of wet mitti rising from the garden below. A solitary lamp flickered beside her, its flame restless, like her. The sky wept quietly over Udaipur, but inside her heart, a storm far older was waiting to break.

She heard them before she saw them—her parents whispering, footsteps soft with guilt. Her mother’s gold bangles barely made a sound tonight. That alone was enough to make Meher stand.

“Come here, beta,” her father called softly.

Meher’s brows furrowed. His voice was too polite. Too careful.

Her mother’s eyes glistened with something unsaid.

She stepped into the room like a lamb into a slaughterhouse, and within seconds, her life was torn in two.

“Your… rishta has been fixed,” her mother said, voice trembling.

“With whom?” Meher asked, though her bones already knew.

A silence thicker than the rain followed.

“Raunak Pratap Singh,” her father finally said. Each word fell heavy, as though it cost him blood to speak them.

The name nearly knocked the breath out of her.

Raunak Pratap Singh.

Udaipur’s golden prince and its darkest nightmare. Heir to the Singh estate and rumored king of its underground empire. A man whispered about behind closed doors and cursed by fathers who owed him money. Rich beyond comprehension, cold beyond belief. A man of silk kurtas and blood-stained hands.

He was twenty-nine.

She had turned nineteen three months ago.

“No.” The word escaped her lips before thought. “No. You can’t.”

Her father’s face hardened. “I must.”

“For what? For money?” she spat, her voice unrecognizable to her own ears.

“For your uncle,” her mother whispered, eyes downcast. “He borrowed from them… from Raunak. And we can’t repay the debt.”

“And so you sell me?” Her voice cracked. “To a man like him?”

“It’s not selling,” her father said, almost gently. “It’s protection. This is the only way to keep our family alive.”

Meher backed away like she’d been struck.

She thought of her college, her books, the dreams stitched into poems that had never seen the light of day. She thought of freedom, of evenings on rooftops, of laughing with her best friend beneath mango trees. Of the quiet ambition to live a life not extraordinary—but her own.

Now, she was being handed to a man who was both legend and terror.

That night, Meher packed nothing. What could you carry into a prison built of silk and gold?

When the black SUV arrived at dawn, the city was still asleep. Only the sky, swollen with secrets, watched her leave.

The man who opened the door didn’t speak. He just nodded once.

And behind the tinted glass sat Raunak Pratap Singh.

Tall. Immaculate. Dressed in a dark sherwani embroidered in blood-red thread. His hair was slicked back, sharp jawline carved by shadows. But it was his eyes that froze her—obsidian cold, watching her like she was prey, not bride.

Not a flicker of a smile.

Not a trace of warmth.

Just one sentence, spoken in a voice like velvet and venom.

“Get in. You’re mine now.”

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