I always knew I'd be sold one day.

That's how things work in families like mine.

But I didn't think it would be to him.

The man standing across the room is everything I despise—cold, calculated, and untouchably powerful. Veer Singhania looks like he was sculpted from stone and arrogance, dressed in a black tailored sherwani that probably costs more than most people's lives. His expression is unreadable, eyes like storm clouds, lips pressed in a line that doesn't care for pleasantries.

And I'm supposed to marry that.

My hands tighten into fists beneath the folds of my wine-red lehenga, nails digging into my palms. The silk itches against my skin, or maybe it's just the rage crawling underneath.

"Smile, beta," my mother hisses from beside me, the fake warmth in her voice belying the steel beneath it. "This is not the time to be difficult."

Right. God forbid I ruin the façade.

Across the hall, Veer's family looks just as smug as I remember them—posing like they've just conquered a kingdom instead of hijacking a girl's future. Which, I suppose, is the same thing in their world.

His mother, dressed in an emerald green saree laced with gold, catches my eye and offers a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She's already decided I'm not enough. That I'll never be.

Guess what, sasu maa, I don't approve of you either.

And Veer? He hasn't looked at me once.

Typical.

We're surrounded by chandeliers, velvet-draped walls, and a hundred watching eyes. Every mafia family in Delhi probably sent a representative tonight. Deals like this—alliances masquerading as marriages—don't happen in silence. They happen in full view, under crystal lights and veiled threats.

My father lifts his glass. "To unity," he says, voice booming with pride. "The Raichands and the Singhanias—together at last."

Unity.

It sounds a lot like surrender.

And it costs no one except me.

A soft clink of glasses echoes around the hall, and I feel my jaw tighten. The orchestra swells. Some poor girl starts singing a classical tune in the corner, and suddenly it's too loud. Too fake. Too everything.

And still, he doesn't look at me.

I snap.

With quiet steps, I cross the room. The chatter dips slightly as people notice me moving, but I don't care. I stop right in front of him. Veer Singhania finally lifts his gaze.

He's taller than I remember.

Sharper.

Colder.

We haven't seen each other in 9 years—not since the night his men shot bullets into my cousin's car. Killed my brother and sister. Not since I screamed at him outside the gates of my house, thirteen years old and shaking with rage while he stood there, stoic and silent, like my grief meant nothing.

Maybe it didn't.

"Congratulations," I say, my voice sugar-sweet and laced with poison. "I hear blackmailing someone into marriage is the new romance trend."

One of his brows lifts. "I don't need to blackmail, Inaya. Deals are made when people have no better options."

I smile tightly. "If I had a better option, I'd have chosen death."

His eyes flicker. "You still might."

And just like that, the game begins.

"You know, you could have worn something brighter. It is your wedding day afterall." I say, looking at his dark choice of attire

He just smiles smugly which makes me want to deck him in the face, "I think you look bright enough for the both of us. Anyway, black hides blood stains better."

"Planning on turning it into a blood bath, dear husband. On such a happy occasion."

"One can never be too cautious."

"Ofcourse. Especially with the likes of you. I hear you have a penchant for killing innocent people."

He smirks, as if he finds the notion funny. A serial killer like him would do.

"We kill to make peace. You sell your daughters."

I don't flinch, even though his words are sharp enough to cut silk. I've trained myself not to show weakness—especially not to men like him.

He watches me with that unreadable expression, the kind that makes it impossible to tell whether he wants to kill me or kiss me just to shut me up.

Maybe both.

I step closer, pretending not to care that everyone is watching us. My voice drops just enough to stay out of earshot. "Tell me, Veer. Do you always shop for your brides like you do for artillery? Efficient. Bloodless. Emotionless."

His jaw flexes. "Emotion is a liability. You'll learn that, eventually."

"You mean like you did?" I scoff. "Or did you skip that part while building your little empire?"

His silence feels like a slap. I wonder if I've gone too far—then remember I don't care. He's the reason I'm here, draped in silk like a prize to be paraded, all because our fathers decided bullets were too messy and weddings too convenient.

He leans in just slightly, enough to brush a whisper near my ear. "You're twenty-two, Inaya. A child trying to play in a world built for men."

I stiffen.

"And you're what—thirty-two? Still pretending power makes you invincible?" I shoot back. "It won't save you from me."

He actually smiles then. Just a flicker, cruel and entertained. "We'll see."

I hate how his voice sinks into my skin like smoke

I step back, lifting my chin. I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing he got under my skin. I won't give anyone that.

The crowd closes in around us as the families call us back to the stage for the next part of this charade. The ring exchange. The photo ops. The fake smiles.

I follow him up the steps, my heels clicking in sharp rhythm beside his calm, predatory stride. He moves like a man who owns the ground he walks on. Like everyone around him is just decoration.

God, I want to punch him in that smug face.

The priest begins the prayers as someone hands Veer the ring. It's a flawless solitaire, of course. Cold, pristine, and heavy. Like the man who's about to put it on my finger.

I lift my hand without looking at him. The second his fingers brush mine, I feel it—that subtle, electric tension between us. It shouldn't exist. I shouldn't feel anything at all.

But I do.

And that makes me hate him even more.

He slides the ring onto my finger with practiced ease. I wonder how many deals he's sealed with a touch like that.

When it's my turn, I take the matching band from the tray. For a moment, I hesitate.

I want to drop it.

Throw it.

Stab it into his palm.

Instead, I slip it onto his finger with a slow, deliberate motion—and smile sweetly for the cameras.

Let them all think I'm docile. Obedient. Defeated.

Let Veer Singhania think this is going to be easy.

Because if he thinks I'll let him own me, he's about to learn just how unwilling his bride really is.

"Now its time to exchange the garlands." My mother announces and someone brings the rose and jasmine garlands. Someone hands me a one and it feels too heavy. And when Veer puts one over my head, it feels even heavier. The weight of it threatening to bury me into the ground. I just smile fakely at him and do the same. We maintain eye contact throughout the thing, which to onlookers would look like a couple in love. But only we know the truth.