N O C T U R N

"Draped in red, wrapped in silence—she walked into a palace, not knowing it was a cage gilded in her own blood."

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Meher had always imagined her wedding. Like every Indian girl, she'd dreamed once—soft jasmine garlands, the sound of laughter, the sacred fire warming her skin, a man who looked at her like she was made of dreams.

Reality was colder.

Raunak’s haveli rose like a monster in the hills outside Udaipur. Ancient stone, sprawling balconies, jagged domes. It looked like a palace built on secrets—and power.

As she stepped through the massive iron gates, Meher felt her soul shiver.

Her bridal lehenga was crimson, almost black in certain lights, heavy with zardozi so intricate it cut into her skin. Her hands were weighed down with gold she did not ask for. Her lips were painted, her eyes lined, her body wrapped like a gift in chains she couldn’t see.

Everything looked beautiful on the outside.

But inside, she felt buried alive.

The wedding was swift—efficient, almost surgical.

The pandit spoke his mantras, but no one wept.

There were no cousins giggling, no sisters adjusting her dupatta. No father with misty eyes. Only guards, guests who didn’t smile, and a man beside her who didn’t flinch when the fire roared.

Raunak’s presence was thunder wrapped in velvet. Silent. Immovable. Dangerous.

He hadn’t spoken a word since the car ride.

When he tied the mangalsutra around her neck, his fingers brushed her skin.

She didn’t shiver. She froze.

The vermilion he filled in her parting was too red—like fresh blood, not sindoor.

And when he looked at her during the final vow, there was no affection.

Only ownership.

After the wedding, they said she was the luckiest girl in Udaipur.

Married to wealth. Married to power.

But that night, in the chambers of marble and silk, Meher felt like a lamb tossed into the lion’s den.

The room was silent when she entered.

Candles flickered along the walls. Rose petals were strewn across the bed like a cruel joke. The air was thick with sandalwood and anticipation.

She stood at the threshold, breath shallow, heart thrashing.

Raunak was already inside. Sitting near the window, his sherwani replaced with a crisp white kurta, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A glass of neat whiskey in one hand, silence in the other.

He didn’t turn.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.

She said nothing.

“You’re quieter than I like. But prettier than I thought.”

Her hands curled into fists.

“I’m not a doll,” she whispered.

His head tilted, slowly. Like a predator studying its prey. “No. You’re not. Dolls don’t fight.”

He stood then—fluid, tall, far too calm.

And walked toward her with the confidence of a man who had never been denied.

Her back met the wall before she realized she was retreating.

“You’re scared,” he said, voice like silk dragged across steel. “Good. That’ll keep you from doing anything stupid.”

“You think fear is loyalty?” she asked, eyes locked on his.