"Can I?"

Never say no to him.

It was one of the many pieces of marriage advice Saanchi had received from her mother.

She nodded meekly. That was all the permission he needed.

His lips met hers. The kiss was urgent, as if she were the air he needed to survive.

His hands pressed against her bare hips, caressing and gripping tightly, trying to keep her right there with him. As if she might slip away.

He kissed her deeper. Rougher. Then, he licked her lips, silently asking for entry. She hesitated, unsure what he meant.

His thumb brushed lightly over her covered nipples. She gasped, and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth.

He explored every part of her, tasting her like he’d been starved. She was confused at first, but something in her body responded. She let him lead.

His tongue brushed against hers. His palms roamed upward along her body, dragging fire with them.

She ran out of breath and tried to push against his shoulders with trembling fingers. He paused instantly.

"Just follow my lead," he said, his voice a low command.

Before she could nod, his lips crashed against hers again.

She melted into him, her breath catching every time his mouth moved against hers. There was hunger in his touch, but something else too. Something darker. Possessive.

Her hands trembled against his chest, unsure if she was trying to pull him closer or push him away. He noticed.

"You’re shaking," he whispered into her ear. "Are you scared?"

She didn’t answer.

He leaned in, brushing his lips against her neck. "You can tell me to stop."

Silence.

Her heart was pounding too loud, her mind a mess of confusion and want. But her body refused to move away.

He took that as her answer.

His mouth traveled lower, planting slow kisses along her collarbone. His fingers slid beneath the hem of her blouse. Just enough to tease, not enough to satisfy.

Saanchi gasped again.

"Tell me what you want," he said, voice low, rich with control. "Use your words."

She couldn’t. Words weren’t forming. Only heat. Only pulse. Only the throb in her stomach.

He smiled against her skin, the kind of smile that knew exactly what he was doing.

"You’ll learn," he murmured. "You’ll learn to speak for me. To ask. To beg."

Her lips were swollen. Her breath, unsteady. His thumb lingered near her collarbone, pressing lightly as if testing how far she’d let him go.

He watched her.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

“You can stop this,” he said, his voice unreadable.

She didn’t reply. What could she even say? That she didn’t want this? That she didn’t know him? That this whole marriage felt like being handed over like property?

She had already signed the papers. Already wore the mangalsutra. Already said yes when her body had screamed no.

He leaned in again. His lips brushed against hers, slower this time. It wasn’t tenderness. It was control. Measured. Intentional. Deliberate.

His hand drifted over her waist. Fingers trailing against her skin through the thin fabric, his palm branding her as his. He leaned closer, lips just grazing her cheek.

Her breath hitched.

He didn't rush. His mouth hovered near hers, his breath mixing with hers, warm and coaxing. Then, deliberately, he kissed her. Not gently. Not with fire. But with a sort of deliberate claim that made her stomach twist.

Her hands stayed at her sides. Still. Cold.

“I don’t bite,” he murmured, lifting her hand and placing it on his chest.

She flinched.

He paused.

Their eyes met, and for the first time, something shifted. Not trust. Not comfort. Just recognition. That neither of them had chosen this.

“This is how it’s going to be?” she whispered.

He nodded once.

“Duty. Expectation. Sex?”

He let out a low breath. “You’re my wife. And I will never force you.”

“But you’ll expect me to obey,” she said, voice flat.

“I’ll expect honesty. Silence irritates me.”

She swallowed hard. Her gaze flicked to his shirt, still halfway undone. Then, back to the man she was now legally bound to. She didn’t know if she hated him or feared him.

“Let’s get this over with, then,” she muttered.

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise. Disappointment. Then something colder. A hardness she hadn’t seen before.

He leaned in again.

But this time, his lips didn’t land on her mouth.

He kissed her neck. Slow. Warm. Disarming.

She gasped, her fingers curling against his chest on instinct.

His lips stayed there a moment too long. Then, they moved to the curve of her shoulder. She felt him inhale, his breath heavy, hot, maddening.

“I said I won’t force you,” he murmured. “But if you’re going to offer yourself like a chore, don’t bother.”

And just like that, he pulled away.

He stood, adjusted his shirt, and looked down at her from the edge of the bed.

“I’ll sleep in the other room tonight.”

She didn’t stop him.

She couldn’t.

Because for the first time since the wedding, she didn’t know what she wanted more. For him to leave, or for him to stay.

The door clicked shut.

Saanchi sat still, the silence loud, pressing against her chest like a weight.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, curling into herself on the edge of the bed. The rich red of her bridal lehenga itched against her skin, the gold threadwork heavy like chains. Her lips still tingled where he had kissed her  not just kissed, but claimed. And yet, he had walked away.

She didn’t know whether to feel humiliated or relieved.

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. She wiped it off before it could fall further.

She wasn't supposed to cry tonight. She was supposed to smile. Be grateful. Fulfill her duty.

But this marriage wasn't hers. It never had been.

Flashback – Two Weeks Ago

The first time Saanchi saw Devansh Rai was at their own roka ceremony.

Not before. Not through photos. Not even a casual phone call.

She had walked into a living room full of unfamiliar faces, her hands still damp with the moisture of nervous palms. Her lehenga felt too heavy, the earrings pinched her earlobes, and her mother’s voice whispered again and again into her ear, “Smile. Don’t lower your gaze. And for god’s sake, don’t speak unless spoken to.”

Saanchi had barely lifted her eyes when she saw him.

Devansh Rai.

He stood tall in a perfectly tailored black suit, a man who looked like he belonged in boardrooms, not living rooms decorated with marigold garlands. His face gave away nothing. Not a welcoming look. Not even indifference. His eyes, dark and sharp, scanned her like she was a document he had already signed without needing to read.

He offered his hand. No flowers. No sweet words. Just a firm handshake that felt more like a decision than a greeting.

Not “nice to meet you.” Not “congratulations.”

Only three words, spoken low and certain.

“I’ll send the papers.”

That was it.

Not a word more.

No question about her life.

No glance toward her parents.

No pause to see if she had anything to say.

He turned to speak to a man beside him, someone who looked more like a lawyer than a friend. And he left her standing there, her hand still warm from the handshake, her heart already cold from the realization.

He didn’t ask for her favorite color. He didn’t know her surname.

Yet in just two weeks, she became Saanchi Rai.

The wind blew through the open window, ruffling the sheer curtains. The moon hung high, soft light touching her face. Everything felt like a dream. A strange, twisted dream where she had been traded like property in the name of security.

Her mother’s words echoed in her head:

“Beta, he’s powerful. Respected. He’ll give you everything.”

Everything. Except a choice.

Her younger brother had hugged her tighter than usual the morning of the wedding. She hadn’t dared cry in front of him. She’d smiled and told him she was happy.

And now, here she was. Married to a man who kissed her like possession but left before touching her like a woman.

She got up slowly, removed the heavy dupatta from her head, and let it fall on the floor.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were lined with kohl, lips stained red. She looked like a stranger. A bride she didn’t recognize.

Saanchi peeled off the jewelry one by one. The earrings. The mang tika. The necklace that had choked her throat all evening. The wedding chura still clung to her wrists, red and gold and shiny — a mockery of celebration.

She walked to the attached bathroom and splashed water on her face. The coldness stung, grounding her.

She had to stay composed. This was her life now.