The courtyard is unusually quiet as I step out of the house where I've spent my entire life. The air is heavy with a mix of distant chatter and the rustling of sarees as the few people present busy themselves with formalities.
My eyes scan the gathering for someone—anyone—who might come to say goodbye. My father is speaking with some distant relatives, his back turned to me as if I don't exist. Himanshi, as always, is at the center of attention, laughing at some joke with her friends, completely indifferent to the fact that I'm leaving this house forever.
I clutch the end of my dupatta tightly, willing myself not to cry. You knew this would happen, Jeea. You knew.
I take a slow step toward the car, my heart sinking with every inch of distance I put between myself and the threshold. The place I once called home feels colder now, emptier.
There's not a single person who comes to hug me as I walk towards the awaiting car where my new husband awaits.
Then I hear a soft voice behind me. "Jeea, wait."
I turn to see Razia Aunty hurrying toward me. She's wearing a simple cotton saree, her gray hair pulled back in a loose bun. Her eyes are warm, as they always have been, and in her hands is a small box wrapped in tissue paper.
"Razia Aunty," I whisper, my voice trembling.
She places the box in my hands, her gaze soft but full of meaning. "Open it, child," she says.
I peel back the tissue paper carefully, revealing a set of bright red chudas—the traditional bridal bangles I'd always dreamed of wearing. The deep red color shines against the soft golden detailing, and for the first time today, tears spill freely down my cheeks.
"They're beautiful," I whisper, holding them close. "But why—"
"I know you wanted to be a traditional bride," she interrupts gently, her own eyes glistening. "You've always talked about it, ever since you were a little girl. And I couldn't let you leave without this one small piece of your dream."
I look up at her, overwhelmed by the gesture. "Thank you," I say, my voice cracking.
Razia Aunty cups my face with her hands, her touch warm and motherly. "Don't thank me, beta. You deserve so much more than what this house ever gave you." She's the only mother figure I've known, only person who has shown me kindness in this home where I was an invader.
She pulls me into a hug, her arms wrapping around me tightly, as if she's trying to make me forget all the hurt and pain I've felt in this house and shield me from what lies ahead.
"You're stronger than you think," she whispers into my hair. "And no matter what happens, remember that you are worthy of love and happiness. Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise."
I nod against her shoulder, unable to speak.
When we pull apart, she wipes away my tears with the edge of her saree. "Now, wear these chudas with pride," she says. I promise her I will.
She steps back, giving me a reassuring smile. But before I can say anything, another voice cuts through the moment.
"Jeea," the house help, an older woman named Kokila, says softly. She's standing near the car, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Take care of yourself, bitiya. We'll miss you."
I nod, offering her a weak smile. "I'll miss you too, Kokila Aunty," I say, my voice trembling again.
Razia Aunty pats my hand one last time before stepping back. "Go, child. Your new life awaits."
With a deep breath, I turn toward the car, the weight of my chudas grounding me as I take slow, deliberate steps. I don't look back. I can't.
But as the car pulls away, I look up at my husband beside me, busy typing furiously on his phone. He doesn't acknowledge me or the comment he made earlier. Its as if I don't exist. Luckily for me, I'm used to it.
The car ride to Dhruv's home is filled in an awkward silence. The city lights of Mumbai fade into the distance, giving way to open roads lined with trees. I stare out of the window, trying to gather my thoughts, but the weight of everything that's happened refuses to let me breathe.
Dhruv sits beside me, his posture rigid and his face impassive. He hasn't spoken a single word since the wedding. His silence feels louder than any argument, and every moment of it makes the knot in my stomach tighten.
Finally, we pull into the long driveway of his home—or rather, his mansion. The sprawling estate sits on the outskirts of Mumbai. It looks like something out of a dream, with high walls, tall arched windows, and an enormous fountain in the center of the courtyard. Its looks like someplace bollywood stars or politicians lives. Dhruv is a billionaire so I shouldn't have expected anything else.
"Welcome to Rathore Mansion," someone says as the car door opens.
I step out, blinking up at the structure before me. The grandeur is overwhelming, but it doesn't feel warm or inviting. It feels cold—just like Dhruv.
Before I can take in more, Dhruv's dadi walks upto the front door and greets me, her warm smile breaking through the intimidating atmosphere. Her white hair is neatly tied back, and she walks with an elegance that immediately commands respect.
"Jeea, my dear," she says, pulling me into a gentle hug. Her warmth is so unexpected that I feel my throat tighten. "Welcome to the family."
"Thank you," I manage to whisper, overwhelmed by her kindness.
She cups my face with her hands, studying me with a fondness I haven't seen in anyone's eyes for a long time. "You're beautiful," she says softly, and I feel my eyes sting.
"And you, my handsome young man," She turns to Dhruv who's standing beside me with an annoyed expression. "I'm sure you treated her well while the drive here. And I expect the same in the future. You're a married man now."
"Sure dadi. I'm too tired right now. I just want to go to my room." Dhruv says, his voice laced with irritation, like he cannot wait to get away from me.
"Ofcourse. But let me welcome her properly first." She turns around "Latika, bring me the aarti thali"
After she does the aarti, much to Dhruv's annoyance, she steps back, her expression turning serious. "I should warn you," she says in a low voice. "Dhruv doesn't like anyone staying here. That's why all the relatives have been put up elsewhere. This house... it's not exactly a lively one.
I glance at Dhruv, who's already walking towards the stairs without waiting for me. A pang of anxiety shoots through me, but I nod at his dadi.
The mansion is as grand inside as it is outside. Crystal chandeliers hang from high ceilings, and the walls are adorned with paintings and expensive art. But the house feels too quiet, almost suffocating.
Dadi walks me upstairs, leading me to a large wooden door. "This is Dhruv's room," she says, giving me an encouraging smile. "Rest, baccha. You've had a long day. Manu already kept all your suitcases so you won't have much trouble."
Before I can respond, she's already walking away, leaving me standing in front of the door with my heart pounding. I open it hesitantly, stepping into the room that will now be mine—or so I think.
The room is enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the gardens. The furniture is modern and minimalistic, everything in shades of black and grey. It almost feels like a serial killers den.
As I take a step further inside, I hear the door slam shut behind me. I whirl around to see Dhruv standing there, his expression dark.
"What are you doing here?" he asks coldly.
"I... Dadi said this is our room," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Our room?" he repeats, letting out a bitter laugh. "No, this is my room. You might be my wife on paper, but don't fool yourself into thinking you belong here."
His words cut deep, and I feel a lump forming in my throat. "What are you trying to say?"
"I'm saying," he steps closer, towering over me, "that you were never my choice. You're just a consolation prize, Jeea. A replacement for the bride who left me standing at the altar."
I feel my knees weaken at his harshness, but I force myself to stand tall. "I didn't ask for this either, Mr. Rathore," I say, my voice trembling. "But if we're stuck in this situation, can't we at least try to make it work?"
"Make it work?" He scoffs. "Don't waste your energy, Jeea. You're here because I didn't have a choice, not because I wanted you. So don't expect anything from me—no love, no kindness, nothing."
Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. "Why are you being so cruel?" I ask, my voice breaking.
He steps back, his expression hardening. "Cruel? This is me being honest. You wanted to play the dutiful daughter, right? Well, congratulations. Welcome to your new role as my unwanted wife."
Before I can say anything, he turns on his heel and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
The silence that follows is deafening. I sit down on the edge of the bed, my legs too weak to hold me up. The weight of his words crashes over me, each one more painful than the last.
Unwanted. Replaced. A consolation prize.
The tears I'd been holding back finally spill over, and I bury my face in my hands, sobbing quietly in the room that feels as cold and empty as my heart.
This isn't what I imagined marriage would be. This isn't what I wanted for my life.
But as I sit there, broken and alone, one thought lingers in my mind: If this is the beginning, how much worse can it get?
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