Meher's POV

The ceiling above me was a vast, unforgiving expanse of dark concrete, illuminated only by the faint, amber glow of a solitary lamp in the corner. I lay motionless on the velvet sofa, my eyes locked in a unblinking staring contest with the cold, shadowed wall in front of me.

I was conscious. Painfully, agonizingly conscious.

Every word, every rustle of fabric, every shallow breath echoing in the quiet room registered in my mind, yet my physical self was completely detached. My limbs were leaden weights anchored to the cushion. My fingers wouldn't twitch; my throat refused to form a scream.

Drugged.

The realization hit me in slow, suffocating waves. He had stripping away my agency while leaving my senses raw and exposed.

In my peripheral vision, two women moved around me like silent, jittery ghosts. I couldn't see their faces clearly, but I could smell their sharp, metallic sweat, the undeniable stench of terror. Their hands trembled violently as they worked on me. Every time their fingers accidentally brushed against my skin, they flinched, darting glances toward the heavy wooden door as if expecting a monster to burst through at any second.

They were afraid. Not of me, but of him.

One of the women gently lifted my shoulders, propping me up against the plush armrest. I couldn't even hold my head straight; it tilted back, exposing my vulnerable neck. With hurried, meticulous movements, they began dressing me. A heavy, crimson silk draped over my cold frame. The second woman knelt at my feet, her hands shaking as she folded the sharp, neat pleats of a breathtaking red saree. It was exquisite a masterpiece of gold thread and rich ruby fabric—yet it felt like a velvet shroud being wrapped around a corpse.

Next came my hair. They brushed it out, letting the long black waves spill freely down my back, cascading over my bare shoulders. Then came the jewelry. Not the heavy, suffocating sets usually meant for a bride, but delicate, understated pieces a thin gold choker that rested softly against my collarbone, subtle bangles that clinked softly in the quiet room, and tiny earrings.

It was light. Minimalist. Elegant. Exactly the way I always loved to wear it.

A cruel, twisted irony choked me from the inside. I wasn't happy. I wasn't blushing. There was no warmth in my chest, no fluttering butterflies. For the first time in my entire life, genuine, unadulterated terror gripped my soul. I was terrified for my life.

I sat there, frozen, a completely simple yet hauntingly beautiful bride. A bride chosen, tailored, and styled down to the last detail by HIM.

I had tried everything to escape this destiny. I had fought, bargained, manipulated, and played every card in my hand. Yet here I was, paralyzed on a sofa, a helpless doll waiting for its master. I felt like an absolute loser. Defeated. Broken.

My mind raced, trying to make sense of the man who had brought me to my knees. He was a paradox morally warped beyond comprehension. He was a man who viewed me not just as a woman, but as his ultimate possession, an obsession that consumed his every waking thought. Yet, in all these weeks of captivity, he had never once forced himself upon me. He refused to look at my bare body inappropriately; he refused to touch me with vulgarity or disrespect. He treated me like a sacred, untouchable idol, even while stripping away my freedom piece by piece.

What should I even call a man like that? Respectful? Obsessive? Insane?

Or was this just the terrifying, deceptive silence before the storm? Because tonight, he was going to marry me. Whether I consented or not, he was making me his wife.

Suddenly, a heavy, deliberate step echoed from the hallway outside.

The two women froze instantly. The color drained completely from their faces. Without exchanging a single word, they gathered their tools and practically scrambled out the side door, slipping into the dark shadows, desperate to escape his presence.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then, the heavy oak doors swung open.

A tall, towering silhouette stepped into the dimly lit room. The scent of rain, bitter wood smoke, and his signature dark cologne flooded my senses before I even caught his eye. He moved with a slow, predatory grace, his dark eyes locked onto mine the moment he crossed the threshold.

My heart slammed violently against my ribs like a trapped bird. My mind screamed at my body to move....Get up! Run! Hit him! Scream! but my muscles remained completely dead, useless against the chemical restraint in my blood. All I could do was stare into his dark, penetrating gaze as he closed the distance between us.

He stopped right beside the sofa, towering over me, inspecting his creation. His dark eyes swept over the red saree, the delicate gold clinging to my skin, and the wild, open cascading hair. A slow, dark satisfaction gleamed in his gaze.

Without a word, he leaned down. His large, warm hands slid beneath my back and knees. Effortlessly, he lifted me up into a bridal carry, pulling my limp body flush against his broad chest. The contrast between my frozen helplessness and his absolute, unyielding strength made my breath catch in my throat.

He leaned his head down, bringing his lips so close to my ear that his warm, heavy breath sent a violent shudder straight down my spine. His voice, deep and dripping with possessive malice, whispered into the darkness

"Now watch your Satan... make you belong to him forever, Chandni."