Note: To feel the heartbeat of this chapter, play “Khari Khari” by Amrit Trivedi, Kavita Seth, and Kutle Khan while reading.

The chandeliers of Chandrapur Haveli burned like captive suns, casting long, sharp shadows across the grand hall. The air was thick with the musk of sandalwood and the iron tang of tension.

Edward Hastings, a colonial officer with polished boots and a crooked smile, sat across from Thakur Samrendra Singh and his eldest son, Rajendra. His Hindi was fractured, his accent cutting the syllables like a knife, but arrogance gilded every word.

“You can keep the girl… until I repay my loan to you.” His pale eyes glinted as he leaned forward. He spoke of his own fiancée as if she were coin—collateral to cover his mounting debts with the Singhs.

Samrendra’s face remained unreadable. A hawk carved in flesh, eyes sharp enough to slice through lies. His voice was calm, almost too calm.

“And what do you expect us to do with this girl?”

Edward’s lip twitched in irritation. “Do whatever you want. She is spoiled—her family knows it. They want to be rid of her but still reap the political benefits of marriage. If she rots in your haveli, your revenge will be complete.”

Rajendra leaned back, his smile thin and cruel. “Not a bad idea, Father. We take her. Let her family choke on their shame. They’ll taste the same humiliation they fed us.” His words dripped venom; the rivalry between the Singhs and Lavanya’s family was no secret. Land disputes, betrayals, blood feuds—none of it forgotten.

Years ago, Samrendra’s sister had eloped with a man from Lavanya’s clan. A scandal that had burned the Singh name into ashes of ridicule. Samrendra had never forgiven. Revenge wasn’t an indulgence—it was a debt.

His fingers drummed on the carved armrest, slow and deliberate, like the ticking of a clock. Finally, he spoke.

“Very well. We will keep the girl in this haveli. When is your wedding?”

Edward allowed himself a smirk, the kind only a man convinced of his own cleverness wears. “In two weeks.”

Rajendra and Samrendra exchanged a glance. The trap was baited.

Edward rose, bowing stiffly, his boots echoing against the marble. He believed himself the victor—escaping debt, securing favor, discarding a woman he never wanted. But the room he left behind was darker for his absence.

“Rajendra, see him out,” Samrendra ordered.

Rajendra’s smirk widened. He followed Edward, eyes cold, like a wolf watching prey that thought itself safe.

When the doors closed, silence returned to the hall—until a softer voice broke it.

“What has happened?” Kamla Devi’s question was barely above a whisper as she stepped inside. She placed a brass tumbler of water by her husband’s side and sat across from him, her posture careful. Obedient, but not blind.

Samrendra’s gaze hardened.

“Will you truly take that girl?” Kamla asked, hesitating. Fear trembled in her tone, but beneath it lay something deeper—pity.

His jaw tightened. “Mind your work. Do not meddle in men’s affairs.”

Her eyes dropped instantly, but not before he caught the flicker of unease in them. She rose and retreated toward the inner quarters, footsteps soft as shadows. Yet her question lingered, seeping into the cracks of his silence.

Would he truly go through with this?

Samrendra’s lips curved into a smirk. Yes. Revenge demanded it.

Two weeks later

Lavanya sat before a gilt mirror, the air around her heavy with jasmine and rosewater. Women fussed over her bridal attire, adjusting folds of silk and pressing bangles onto her wrists. Her ornaments jingled faintly, but to her they sounded like shackles.

Her lips curved in a nervous smile, but her heart raced with something beyond nerves. Dreams. Edward Hastings, the foreign man she had been promised to, was not just a husband—he was freedom. A man of status, of education. A man, she believed, who would understand her hunger for more.

Perhaps with him she could build the school she dreamed of, a place for girls like herself. Perhaps she could step beyond the walls of Chandrapur, carve out a life that was her own. Her father had educated her for this—defying society’s sneers in search of the “perfect match.” She had no reason to doubt him.

Her mother’s voice cut through her reverie, low but firm.

“Take care of yourself. And until someone asks you, do not speak. Remember what I have taught you. If your words bring dishonor, our family’s name will rot in mud. Your Baba…” Her voice broke. “He will not forgive you.”

Lavanya bowed her head, her voice soft. “Ji, Maa.”

Her mother cupped her cheek, a touch that was both blessing and plea.

Outside, the courtyard swelled with sound: the clatter of silver trays, instruments being tuned, bursts of laughter. The baraat preparations shimmered with grandeur.

Inside, the silence pressed heavy on her. The jewels weighed like chains. Her reflection stared back at her, silent and unsure.

A servant entered quietly, bowing low.

“Bitiyasahib, Bade Thakur has called for you. The baraat is about to arrive.”

Lavanya rose, her anklets ringing like warning bells.