Chapter 4: The Wedding & the War of Wills

The wedding was held exactly four months after the royal conclave-just enough time for whispers to grow into wildfire.

It wasn't extravagant. Not like Veer's.

No palatial lawns. No foreign dignitaries. No fairy-lit forests.

It was quiet.

But not *simple*.

The Rathores might not have royal titles, but their military lineage carried weight. Generations of generals. Landowners. Decorated war heroes. The wedding procession-though lean-was impeccably disciplined, as precise as a military march. And the bride's dowry? Lavish. Heavy with jewels, shares, antique heirlooms, and the Empress's prior "apology gifts."

Anaya stood poised in a deep crimson lehenga stitched with real gold thread-her own handiwork. She had sewn each motif with meticulous care, not for sentiment, but for control. Every needle stroke was a reminder: *I own this moment.*

The morning rituals went flawlessly. Her mother passed down whispered advice, along with a small velvet-wrapped book with gold-embossed letters-*private guidance*, she said, flushing pink.

Anaya recognized it instantly.

The same book she had studied the night she drugged Aryan.

Oh, the irony.

She smiled demurely, pretending to be the dutiful bride, as maids helped her into her final layer of bridal jewelry. The veil was heavy. But the weight didn't bother her.

What was another burden to a woman already used to carrying fire?

---

Aryan arrived in a military car, not a royal chariot. Dressed in a tailored cream sherwani, decorated in Rathore military blues and gold medals. No smile. No warmth. Just lethal elegance.

He did not look at her during the vows.

She did not look at him either.

The seven pheras around the sacred fire were slow, formal. Their hands brushed once as the priest guided them, and the touch was electric-scorching not from affection, but from everything unspoken.

Possession. Threat. Memory.

---

When dusk fell, the final rites were performed, and Anaya bid farewell to her family with surprising calm. No tears. No breaking voice.

She boarded the car to the Rathore estate with her head high.

Aryan rode beside her in silence.

He didn't speak during the drive.

She didn't ask why.

---

The Rathore estate was massive but militaristic in design-sharp angles, muted marbles, mahogany corridors, a far cry from the opulence of the Mehra household. Here, power whispered instead of screamed.

Her new room was vast and cold.

A large bed draped in ivory silk. Brass lamps. A carved wardrobe. Minimal décor. There was no rose petal trail, no scented candles, no honeymoon fantasy.

She sat on the edge of the bed alone, veil still on, bangles chiming faintly.

The clock ticked. And ticked. And ticked.

He didn't come.

Her maids whispered outside the door, unsure whether to stay or flee. They were terrified of Aryan-*rightfully so*-and terrified of what might unfold behind closed doors.

Anaya waited.

Then removed her veil.

Then ordered food.

When the tray came, she ate slowly. Daintily. Aware of every bite. There was no nervous bride here. No virgin naivety. She was not Veer's blushing bride.

She had already had her wedding night.

On *her* terms.

---

It was well past midnight when the door finally opened.

He entered without a word.

She sat up straighter, her expression neutral, lips still stained from wine.

Aryan closed the door behind him. Locked it.

He walked to her, silent as a shadow, then turned toward her bridal tray. His hand reached into the folds of her lehenga bundle resting beside it and pulled out two small crystal vials-identical to the one she had once hidden in her sleeve.

Anaya's fingers curled into the sheet.

He didn't say a word. He just placed the vials on the table beside the ceremonial wine.

Then, with unnerving precision, he walked toward her.

She tensed. Not in fear. But readiness.

His hand reached for her wrist-slowly, deliberately-then lifted her fingers from where they rested in her lap.

She expected violence. Or coldness.

What she got... was heat.

His touch was scalding. Calloused from years of swordplay and rifle training, but controlled. His thumb grazed her pulse, lingering there, as if reminding her: *I know your rhythm. I've felt it from inside you.*

He leaned forward, so close that his breath teased the shell of her ear.

Stillness. Then a whisper.

"I don't need ropes this time."

She shivered. Not from fear.

From something far worse.

Anticipation.