Ep~3: The Wedding

The Patel mansion had never been so alive, yet Anaya had never felt so hollow.

The air was thick with jasmine garlands, the rustle of silk sarees, and the endless chatter of relatives who cared more about spectacle than the bride herself. Laughter echoed off marble walls, priests recited mantras in steady rhythm, and golden lamps flickered across the ceremonial stage.

To everyone else, it was a celebration. To Anaya, it was a performance.

Her reflection in the ornate mirror startled her: heavy bridal jewelry framed her face, kohl rimmed her eyes, and layers of crimson and gold fabric wrapped around her slender frame. She looked like a queen from some ancient tale. But behind the crown of flowers and painted lips, her eyes betrayed the truth, restless, uncertain, caged.

Her mother entered the room quietly, her expression soft but resigned. “You look beautiful,” she whispered, adjusting a strand of Anaya’s hair.

Anaya’s voice cracked. “Am I beautiful, or am I just… useful?”

Her mother froze, but instead of rebuking her, she sighed. “This marriage is more than you or me, Anaya. One day, you’ll understand.”

Anaya blinked back tears. She didn’t want to understand. She wanted to choose.

The music shifted, signaling his arrival.

Adrian Moretti stepped into the courtyard, flanked by his men. The moment he appeared, the air shifted. Conversations faltered, eyes widened, and even the priest momentarily stumbled over his chant. He was dressed in a tailored sherwani of midnight black with subtle gold embroidery, simple, understated, yet commanding.

He carried himself with the stillness of a predator, each step measured, deliberate. While the guests whispered in awe, Anaya’s pulse thundered in her ears.

Their eyes met.

It was only for a second, but it felt like an eternity. His gaze was unwavering, dark, unreadable. But beneath the steel, something flickered, a silent claim, a message only she seemed to understand.

You are mine.

Her throat tightened.

The ceremony began, flames crackling in the sacred fire pit, chants echoing like ancient promises. Anaya moved through the motions almost mechanically, guided by her parents’ hands and the priest’s words.

When it came time for the garland exchange, she lifted the flowers with trembling hands. Adrian leaned slightly, bowing just enough for her to place it over his head. His cologne, rich, smoky, intoxicating, wrapped around her like a trap.

Then it was his turn. He slid the garland over her with a steadiness that unnerved her, his fingers brushing against her wrist just long enough to send heat rushing up her arm.

The murmurs of the crowd grew as the ceremony moved forward. Vows were spoken, mantras recited, and finally, the moment came: Adrian tied the mangalsutra around her neck. His fingers lingered against the back of her neck, firm, deliberate, sending a shiver down her spine.

Her heart whispered, I am bound.

But his eyes whispered something far more dangerous: I have always bound you.

The night wore on with endless blessings, photographs, and relatives pressing sweets into her hands. But all Anaya could think of was him, how he stood beside her with unwavering calm, how every smile he gave the crowd was measured, how his hand at her back guided her like he had been born to command her steps.

Later, as they stood for one final photograph, Anaya dared to whisper through clenched teeth, her lips curved in a polite smile for the camera.

“Are you enjoying this charade?”

Adrian’s gaze flicked to hers, his lips barely moving as he replied, “This is no charade. This is fate.”

The camera flash blinded her for a second, but even after the light faded, his words burned brighter.

The festivities finally ended. Anaya was escorted to his villa, her new home.

The mansion’s doors closed behind them with a heavy thud, sealing her away from the familiar world she knew. The hall stretched out before her, cold and grand, lit by chandeliers that glimmered against polished marble. Adrian dismissed his men with a simple nod. Within moments, silence engulfed them.

Her steps faltered as they climbed the staircase. She could feel his presence behind her, steady and unrelenting, like a shadow that would never leave.

At the threshold of her new chamber, she turned to face him. “Why me?” she whispered, unable to hold the question any longer. “You could have had anyone. Why me?”

For the first time that night, his composure shifted. His eyes softened, not with warmth but with something deeper, more dangerous.

“Because,” he said, his voice low, “you’ve always been mine, Anaya. Long before this night.”

Her breath caught, her skin prickling with the weight of his words.

Before she could ask what he meant, he stepped back, his mask of control snapping back into place.

“Rest,” he said simply. “Tomorrow, everything changes.”

And with that, he left her standing in the room, heart racing, mind spinning.

She was married to Adrian Moretti.

The mafia heir. The stranger.

And yet, a part of her couldn’t shake the terrifying thought, what if he wasn’t a stranger at all?

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