Samayra's POV.
I never imagined I'd end up here.
From being Daddy's pampered little princess to becoming someone's Mrs. - not out of love, not even out of choice, but compulsion.
This marriage was fucking forced on me!!
The moment Dad told me I was to marry Mr. Ranawat, his business partner for years - a man twelve years older than me - my world didn't just shake... it shattered.
God... I was literally crying in diapers when he was already dealing with puberty.
How was this even fair?
And my father, the man who once promised to never let a tear touch my eyes, didn't flinch for a second before handing me over like a business proposal.
I wasn't given a choice.
I wasn't allowed to choose.
Somewhere down the line, I let him take that power - the right to decide for me, to speak for me, to plan my life for me.
And now, I can't even question it.
One mistake.
And now I'll have to pay my entire life.
Just to get my Dad's love back. His trust back.
His arms wrapped around me.
And Princess in his voice.
I'll fucking die. To earn my Dad's love.
But still, this marriage with such a huge gap will seal my mind.
One moment I was studying abroad, chasing a Master's degree, following my dreams of modeling, standing tall with confidence as Miss Surat among 150 girls,just at the age of 18.
And the next, I was a bride.
To a fucking patriarchal man..who won't even let me step out of this cage his house.
And the worst part?
I had never even met the man I was married to.
Not once.
Not even a glance or a photo.
Am I living in 2025 for sure?
Or it's still 1960's? A joke on me? A prank? Or did I just time travelled..
Because this doesn't happen in now a days.
Wtf, story I'll put on my Instagram?
Married to a literal buddha in 60's style? What my image will remain..
The bold Samayra..
Fiery. A feminist. A model.
What she did?
She now wears the burden of a surname that doesn't even feel like hers.
His Mrs. Ranawat.
A cruel joke destiny played - or perhaps, my Dad planted.
I sat at the edge of his bed, the irony biting into my skin sharper than the jewelry I was adorned with.
A heavy red lehenga that screamed celebration.
Or was it a costume of mourning for the freedom I just buried?
This wasn't a wedding. This was a sentence. I wish it didn't exist.
And yet, here I am. Tied to him for a lifetime. Sitting in his room. Waiting for my so-called husband on our so-called first night.
Living a reality that feels too harsh to be real.
Dad... what hell have you thrown me into?
At this moment, the song..
"Mai kya karun raam mujhe Buddha mil gaya" perfectly suits me.
But wait?
Is it our First Night??
Why Suhaagrat hai ye ghunghat utha raha hun is playing in my head.
No!!
I can't.. can't have Sex with the man don't even know.
Will he even ask my consent.
Will he listen if I disagree..
Will be force me.
God no..that will be Marital Rape!
I'll put him in Jail.
Then suddenly Smirk played on my lips. If he does so.. I can make a case on him. And set myself free..
A cruel yet idea that favours my situation.
So mister Ranawat..if you are a old man with lust.. you'll be inside the lockup the very next day of your first night.
My smirk widened.
Hours passed.
I sat there like a lifeless idol-draped in red, adorned like a bride, but waiting... endlessly.
For him.
But he never came.
Is he not interested in me?
Then how my plan will work??
Did that man even realize what kind of beauty waited for him in this room?
And suddenly that thought made me urge a fucking attention. His attention.
Not as his wife. But as a woman.
Who waited for him. The entire night.
Gosh... I swear, I'll break his head.
This wasn't about heartbreak anymore-it was about ego.
I was Samayra Kapoor. Not someone to be ignored.
But with nothing else to do, trapped in a room that felt more like a display cage than a bedroom-I gave up.
Exhaustion settled in, dragging down my limbs and thoughts. I leaned back slightly, and before I knew it, sleep took over.
.
.
.
.
The Next Morning
Sunlight spilled softly through the sheer curtains, painting golden streaks across the marble floor.
The other side of the bed remained untouched.
Still cold. Still empty.
Just like how I felt inside.
A couple of maids moved around the room, quiet and composed, as if nothing unusual had happened.
As if this was routine.
I sat up slowly, my body stiff from the weight of emotions I hadn't let out.
"Did he come last night?"
I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
One of them paused, shared a glance with the other, then gently shook her head.
"No, Ma'am."
And something within me cracked.
Not loudly.
But deep. Quiet. Personal.
I wasn't just disappointed-I felt dismissed.
Unseen. Unwanted.
Like a stranger in a marriage I never chose.
My first night-one I'd imagined with uncertainty, fear, hope or a cruel idea-was reduced to nothing...
No presence. No explanation. Just absence. Just silence.
Had he forgotten? Or did he simply not care?
My jaw clenched.
"That's it," I muttered under my breath.
"I don't care who he is. He won't touch me. Not now. Not ever. I will not let him!"
There was no outburst. Just a resolve that settled deep in my bones.
I took the saree one of the maids offered and headed to the bathroom.
Let the shower run longer than needed-washing off the mehendi, but never quite managing to wash away the ache pressing against my chest.
When I returned, they helped me dress again.
This time, in a softer shade. A simple saree. Bare makeup. And then, a small vermillion box was placed in my hand.
"Ma'am, please apply this. It's a sign of marriage."
Sindoor.
So small. Yet so symbolic.
I nodded faintly and applied it.
Not out of belief. Not out of acceptance.
Just because rebellion, for now, had no space.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror.
I still looked stunning. Graceful, poised.
But it felt pointless.
Who was I really dressing for?
Certainly not for the man who didn't even care to show up.
Later, I was taken downstairs.
His sister-Neeta Di-stood waiting. Composed, not exactly warm, but not unkind either. Her eyes held more weight than her words.
We completed the morning rituals in silence. I followed instructions, kept my smile faint, and my thoughts buried.
By brunch, we sat side by side. The maids served food. I thanked them quietly, focusing on my plate-until I noticed her gaze fixed on me.
Straight. Unblinking.
Before I could react, she asked calmly,
"Did anything happen between you two last night?"
I stilled. Then shook my head.
She understood. Her sigh was soft but heavy.
"Okay. Rest now. Reception is this evening. Be ready."
And she left.
I remained seated.
She wasn't harsh-but she wasn't here to comfort me either.
She was real.
And in a house where everything felt uncertain, that felt the most unsettling..
By evening, a few girls were sent to help me get ready.
A deep wine-colored saree was chosen-elegant, minimal, yet striking. I wore just a pair of statement earrings and a delicate bracelet. No heavy layers this time. I wanted to keep it simple... bearable.
And finally, with a practiced smile painted across my lips, I was ready.
For my first reception.
For whatever this night was supposed to be.
As I stepped down the grand staircase of the villa, soft music floated in the background and the hall buzzed with muted chatter and laughter. Chandeliers sparkled above the guests, casting golden hues over polished marble floors and designer suits.
The first familiar face I saw was Neeta Di. She gave me a once-over, then smiled lightly.
"You look lovely," she said, her tone neutral but not cold.
I gave her a small nod in response, still holding the edge of my saree.
Then, as her eyes scanned the crowd, she gestured toward someone across the room.
"Go and stand beside your husband."
I followed the direction of her hand, curious but cautious.
And then-I saw him.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood across the room, dressed in a perfectly tailored wine-colored suit-matching mine. He was engrossed in conversation, politely nodding at a couple of elderly guests.
His presence was... magnetic.
Sharp jawline, neatly styled hair, a light stubble grazing his skin, and an aura that commanded quiet respect. Not just good-looking-striking. He looked like he belonged on magazine covers, not in business meetings.
My eyes lingered for a second too long.
Wait. Samayra.
You're married.
You can't look at another man like that-
I immediately dropped my gaze, mentally scolding myself.
And just then, Neeta Di nudged again, her voice more firm this time.
"I said, go to your husband."
I looked at her, confused.
She caught my expression and sighed softly, the corners of her lips twitching in the faintest trace of amusement.
"The one in wine. The same colour as you...
That's your husband, Abhimanyu Singh Ranawat."
Her finger pointed directly at him-the same man I had just been admiring.
No one else around him wore that shade.
My breath caught.
That man... he was Abhimanyu?
My husband?
For a moment, I just stood there.
Stunned. Speechless.
Was he really the man I had been married off to without ever seeing once? And cursed last night like a witch out of daily soap.
He is...
So composed. So... devastatingly handsome.
So far from what I had imagined.
God.. he doesn't look like an old man in his late thirties but a damn fictional man jumping out of the book.
And I..I can't take off my eyes.
I'm married to this buddy...
Is fate cruel for age..
Or sweetest for his face..
Because age is just a number...