A Vow across the Borders

“Noor, beti, listen—”

“No, Papa,” she cut him off, her voice quivering beneath layers of betrayal and disbelief. “Dad, how could you fix my marriage? And that too with a guy from Pakistan?” Her throat burned. “Plus you always told me religion mattered—but now? Doesn’t it matter anymore?”

The words shot out like bullets, sharp and aching, yet it was the silence that followed that bled more than any wound.

Her father—her rock, her first hero—looked at her with the same eyes that once promised he’d never let the world harm her. But tonight, he was the world. And he had harmed her.

Noor Singh Malhotra had always been his princess. Raised in Delhi’s elite circles, educated in London, her ambitions were stitched with silk and pride. She was meant to choose her own destiny. Yet now, here she stood in their marble-floored living room, draped in sorrow and betrayal, her voice trembling as she questioned the very man who once built her dreams.

Before he could respond, the sharp chime of the doorbell sliced through the tension like a guillotine.

Her mother, graceful even in panic, walked toward the door with hesitant steps. But as she opened it—her face dropped.

Men in black. Guns holstered and expressions unreadable. The silence in the house morphed into a suffocating fog as they entered, parting the air like dark knights of death. They weren’t guests. They were an army.

And behind them walked him.

Murtasim Khan.

A storm draped in shawls and silk, power clinging to him like a shadow. Broad-shouldered, eyes darker than sin, and face carved with silent ruthlessness, he didn’t walk—he claimed space. A Surpanch, a ruler from across the border, a man whose name sent shivers down enemy spines.

Trailing behind him was Beegum Sahiba—his aunt, a woman dipped in venom and laced with arrogance. She entered like she owned not just the room, but the entire country it was in. Chin high, eyes scanning with disdain, her lips curled in disgust the moment she laid eyes on Noor.

The rest of Murtasim’s family followed. Cold. Regal. Unapologetically proud. Every step they took was a declaration of war. This wasn’t a rishta meeting.

This was a conquest.

Noor clenched her jaw, her fists shaking at her sides. Her tears had long dried. What remained now was a wildfire.

This wasn’t just an arranged marriage.

This was a surrender signed in silence.

And she?

She refused to kneel.