I walked into the open courtyard, my anklets breaking the silence with every step. Their chime felt like a curse, dragging me back when all I wanted was to escape. I sank onto the cold stone stair, staring at the sky. The stars were burning bright, as if they could cover the darkness of my fate. But no light could do that. Not for me. Not anymore.

Everyone else slept—especially him. After everything, he slept peacefully, while I sat awake with fire clawing through my chest. I breathed deep, the night air cool against my skin, soothing like water poured over embers. But my fire would not be tamed. Not tonight.

My gaze followed a thin line of ants until it vanished into a crack in the wall. Lucky creatures. They knew where to go. I had nowhere.

I leaned my head against the pillar, eyes shut tight, wishing I could run—anywhere, far enough that silence would mean peace, not chains. But memory does not let go so easily.

It rose again, sharp as a blade. The mandap. Its colors mocked me—red and gold glowing against the blood pooling at my feet. My leg throbbed, cloth tied too tight around the wound, and the copper sting of pain forced a gasp from my lips.

His hand came to my jaw, forcing my gaze to meet his. “Try to run again, and you’ll see what happens to anyone who cares about you,” he whispered, hot breath fanning over my face. The rumble in his chest shook me more than any gunshot.

The priest began the vows. Each word dripped with tradition, but his lips twisted the ritual into a weapon. Every promise he spoke—care, loyalty, wealth, household management—was a claim over me. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and repeated my mental vows, a defiance no one could see.

First Vow: He promised to take care of me, our family, our children.

“I will ruin you, your family, and make sure you never know the abundance called family,” he hissed, his hot breath fanning my face.

I clenched my jaw. My mental vow: I will survive, I will protect myself, I will fight. No son of Thakur will claim my life.

Second Vow: Stand by each other in good and bad times.

“I will make your life a living hell,” he growled, leaning closer. His fingers dug into my arm as if to mark me.

I glared. My silent promise: I will never give him that control. I will endure and resist every cruelty he throws at me.

Third Vow: Earn wealth for the family.

“You will not enjoy a single ounce of comfort or luxury I provide. Your life will be stripped of ease, and I will take from you everything you value,” he said, his voice like a whip snapping in the quiet hall.

I seethed. I will survive and rise, even in chains. I will not let him destroy my mind or my spirit.

Fourth Vow: Trust and consult on household matters.

“I will never ask you. I will make decisions for you, without your consent. Your opinions mean nothing,” he spat. His grip tightened on my shoulder.

I dug my nails into his arm under the beads of my veil. I will retain my autonomy wherever I can. I will never be silenced.

Fifth Vow: Faithfulness and loyalty.

“I will own your loyalty, but I will ruin your peace. You will obey, or your suffering will be unbearable,” he hissed, eyes burning.

I swallowed my fear. I will remain loyal only to myself, to my principles. I will not betray the fire in my heart.

Sixth Vow: Respect and obedience in all things.

“Every breath you take will remind you of your position. Every day, I will test you. Every smile you force, every step you take—it will be under my control. Your spirit is mine to crush,” he whispered into my ear, the venom palpable.

seventh Vow: Keep all promises.

“Every vow I make is a chain around your life. You will not forget this day. You belong to me, and your world will collapse at my whim,” he said, dragging me closer,

I gritted my teeth. I will keep my own vows. I will endure. I will resist. I will turn his chains into my armor.

the mangalsutra tight around my throat.

My hands clenched the beaded veil until my knuckles turned white. I will not break. I will not bow. I will make sure he never forgets that I am still myself, even if my body is bound.

When the priest asked us to sit, I sank to the marble, my leg still throbbing, my breath ragged. The vermilion smeared across my hairline burned, my forehead stung, and the mangalsutra pressed tight. He leaned close, his eyes icy.

“Every day, you’ll burn. If your life doesn’t become hell, then I’m no son of Thakur.”

What do you think will happen now?