"They own three times more property than your parents," she replied.
So this wasn't about money.
Not for them.
The imbalance I had feared didn't exist in the way I imagined.
"All the rituals are over. You may proceed to the dining area," someone announced.
I got up from my seat. I knew exactly what this was—a marriage of convenience.
Survive for three years. Play my role well. Maybe even enjoy them in bed.
And then leave.
Without guilt.
By the end of the day, everyone had left for their homes. My father was pleased—proud that he had shown the entire tribe how deeply we respected our customs and traditions. What no one knew was that, in private, we had signed an agreement.
If I divorced and returned after three years, he would give me 20 percent of his estate.
Thirty percent after four years.
Forty percent between five and fourteen years.
And the full inheritance if I stayed married for more than fifteen years.
Considering the amount of wealth my father had, I was perfectly fine with twenty percent.
My father opened his arms to hug me. This public display of affection deserved a generous round of applause.
I hugged him back.
"I hope you remember the terms of the contract," he whispered. "For the next three years, you shouldn't do anything that could look like a deliberate attempt to provoke a divorce."
It wasn't advice.
It was a threat.
I nodded.
My mother pointed toward the car I was supposed to sit in. She couldn't stop smiling.
"Aayna, here," she said, opening the door for me.
To anyone watching, she must have looked like a loving mother—warm, close, proud of her daughter. But only the three of us knew how this parent–daughter relationship actually worked: manipulation, tears, shouting, fear of society, and neatly written contracts.
I signed those papers. I was greedy too, so I couldn't complain.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and whispered, money, money, money a few times to myself. Then I opened my eyes, put on a wide smile, fake-cried a little, and hugged my mother.
"Mom, I'll miss you."
"None of your husbands should know about this contract," she said softly. "Otherwise, you'll lose any chance of forming a real connection with them."
She still hoped for something genuine. I laughed in my head.
A hand rested lightly on my back.
"We'll take good care of her," a voice said from behind.
It was Arun—young, charming, handsome, and a smooth talker, just as Divya had described.
My mother smiled.
I got into the car.
Divya was in the front seat, her eyes already half-lidded with exhaustion. Karan sat in the driver's seat, and Arun settled beside me in the back.
I took another deep breath, adjusted my dress, and stared ahead, wondering where exactly I was taking my life. I had married with the intention of divorcing—was that really the only ending waiting for me?
"Excuse me," a voice said softly. "Could you move a little?"
My third husband.
"Move… where?" I thought.
Arun shifted slightly. I shifted too, adjusting my dress.
Still not enough.
I folded the fabric more carefully, and only then did he sit.
It's so cramped, I thought.
Should I say something?
But I had just gotten married—wouldn't they think I complained too much?
Aayna, shut up, I told myself.
It's only a two-hour drive.
Varun moved, his leg brushing mine.
I shifted my legs in the opposite direction—only to touch Arun's.
He moved slightly again.
It felt crowded.
The car—and the relationship.
Money. Money. Money. Money. Money.
I repeated it in my head, over and over, gathering the strength to endure whatever discomfort lay ahead.
"Sorry, Aayna. You must be feeling uncomfortable," Karan—the eldest of the three—said, meeting my eyes through the rearview mirror.
"When a bride is taken to her new home, she must travel with all her husbands and her sister in the same car," he added with a smile. "It's tradition."
Of course it was tradition, I thought. Men will follow anything stupid in the name of tradition.
"It's okay," I said, returning his smile.
And then—
Karan slammed on the brakes.
My head jerked forward, bumping into the front seat. Instinctively, my hands shot out, grabbing the first things I could reach.
Arun's hand.
Varun's wrist.
Varun pulled away instantly.
Not slowly.
Not hesitantly.
But sharply—as if my touch had burned him.
Anger.
Fear.
Disgust.
All of it flashed across his face in a fraction of a second. I noticed it immediately. I was good at reading expressions. When you grow up around manipulative people, you learn to recognize emotions fast.
"Are you okay?" Karan and Arun asked at the same time.
Karan turned back, concern written all over his face. "A dog suddenly ran in front of the car."
Arun wrapped an arm around my shoulders, gently checking my head. Varun, meanwhile, rolled down the window, as if even the air between us bothered him.
"I'm fine, guys. Let's go," I said.
Karan started driving again without a word.
I could still feel Arun's hand resting reassuringly on my arm.
But Varun didn't even turn around.
What was that reaction? I tried to figure out.
Did he hate my touch? But why?
Is this marriage just a convenience for him too?
After giving it a thought for a few seconds and realizing it was too soon to figure everything out in a single day, a voice inside my head said,
"Who cares?
The fewer people involved, the more peaceful it will be."
I looked outside the car, and a thought flashed through my mind.
Would my father see this the same way?
Would he consider it Varun's lack of interest in me, or would he blame my lack of intention to build this relationship?
Uff.
This was going to be harder than I thought.
Arun noticed me spiraling into my thoughts.
"Just half an hour more," he said, smiling.
He looked outside and immediately turned toward me.
"Do you want to drink something?"
I shook my head, but he didn't notice.
"Karan, stop. Stop. Stop," Arun suddenly said.
"What happened?" Karan asked.
Karan stopped the car immediately—in the middle of the traffic.
Arun jumped out of the car.
People started honking.
One after the other.
Then Karan stepped out of the car.
Suddenly, the honking stopped.
Divya and I looked at each other. She quickly typed something on her phone and showed it to me.
That's how power sounds like.
As she saw me reading the message, she smiled.
I guess she was right. Hundreds of honking cars fell silent just because it was Karan who had stepped out.
If I were a woman madly in love with him, I would have loved it.
But I wasn't.
I was a woman who planned to divorce them after three years.
Had I just escaped my father's cage only to enter another golden one?
More importantly—was it even possible to get out of this new cage?
"I'm really sorry," Arun said loudly with a smile. "I just got married, and my wife looked very tired."
Everyone applauded.
"Congratulations!"
I could hear the word coming from everywhere.
It felt like people had no other choice but to congratulate them.
"Take this drink," Arun said, handing me a cold drink with the warmest smile.
I smiled back.
"Thank you," slipped out in a squeaky voice—like a cat trying to speak a human language.
I cleared my throat.
"Thank you," I said again.
"Don't pull such stunts in front of everyone," Karan shouted.
I froze.
His voice shook me too.
I don't have a brother so I don't know how two men usually behave with each other, and this was terrifying.
Arun cleared his throat, and my heartbeat quickened at the thought that he might start shouting too.