What happens when two rivals, each determined to outshine the other, find themselves bound together in the most unexpected twist of fate-an arranged marriage? Sparks fly, tensions rise, and a rollercoaster of emotions unfolds as they navigate their...
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The grandeur of the wedding hall felt almost oppressive as I stood at the threshold, my every nerve hyperaware of the countless eyes on me. The fragrant marigold garlands swayed gently in the evening breeze, their golden-orange hue casting a soft glow across the intricately decorated palace walls. Yet all I could focus on was the deafening drumbeat of my own heart, reverberating in my ears like a war cry.
This wasn't how I envisioned my sister's wedding day—or mine.
The red bridal lehenga Tara had chosen now clung to me, heavy with ornate embroidery and an unspoken weight. Each shimmering detail seemed to mock me, reminding me that this moment, this marriage, wasn't meant to be mine. The jewelry that adorned me sparkled in the soft light of the chandeliers, but I felt hollow inside—a bride in appearance only.
As the priest's chants filled the air, their rhythmic cadence seemed to slow time itself. My gaze flickered to Kabir, who stood beside the sacred fire, a figure of stoic composure. Dressed in a regal beige and red sherwani, he exuded the calm confidence of a prince. But I knew better. The way his jaw tightened with every passing second, the stiffness in his shoulders—he was no more at peace with this than I was.
Does he feel as trapped as I do?
I forced myself to step onto the mandap, each movement deliberate, each breath shallow. The weight of tradition and expectation pressed down on me as I lowered myself onto the cushioned seat beside him. For a fleeting moment, our eyes met. His dark gaze mirrored the same storm I felt—a mix of resignation, duty, and an unspoken apology.
The sacred fire roared to life, its warmth reaching out to us as the priest began the rituals. I struggled to focus on his words, my mind churning with doubts and questions.
What kind of life am I stepping into? Will I ever be enough for this family, this legacy?
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When Myra stepped onto the mandap, she looked every bit the bride people would write songs about. The deep red of her lehenga contrasted against her pale skin, the intricate embroidery catching the light with every step she took. The heavy jewelry she wore framed her face beautifully, but her eyes—they were distant, filled with a sadness that no one else seemed to notice.
