Chapter VII
"The Price of Love, the Cost of Pride"
I stood beside the car, the faint sun slipping behind the marble dome of the palace, casting long shadows across the quiet driveway. My phone buzzed softly in my hand — a message from my publisher, maybe, or a friend checking in — but I barely noticed. My mind was elsewhere. On Sita. On the weight of what we were about to leave behind.
Just then, I heard footsteps.
Firm. Sharp. Purposeful.
I looked up, and there he was.
Dushyant Raj Sinha.
Sita's father.
His posture was rigid, his eyes unreadable as he came to a stop directly in front of me. I stood straight, my phone still in my hand, but my attention fully on him now.
"You're still here," he said flatly.
I kept my voice respectful, even, despite the tight knot forming in my stomach. "Sita went inside to say goodbye to her mother. We'll be leaving as soon as she returns."
He didn't reply at first.
Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something.
A cheque.
Blank.
He held it out to me.
"Here," he said, his tone cold and controlled. "Write any amount you like. Fill it. Take the money. And walk away from my daughter. Annul this… marriage. Erase whatever this is. Make it disappear."
For a moment, I simply stared at it.
The paper between us. Empty, waiting to be filled with numbers that were supposed to measure the worth of a bond — our bond.
I didn't reach for it immediately. Instead, I looked at him — really looked at him.
And I wondered, with a quiet ache in my chest, Is this the man Sita came from? The man whose blood runs in her veins?
How could someone so full of love… come from someone so full of control?
Still, I took the cheque.
Not to agree.
But because I needed to make something clear.
His expression flickered — the faintest hint of victory dancing behind his guarded eyes.
"I knew it," he said, a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. "People like you… always choose money in the end."
I didn't flinch. I didn't snap back.
Instead, I reached into my bag and pulled out my own cheque — signed, blank, crisp.
And then I held it out to him.
"Sir," I said, my voice calm but firm, "if this is how things work in your world — if love and relationships have a price — then here. Fill this cheque too. Write down the worth of your wife. Divorce her. Let her go."
His face twisted instantly. The smirk vanished. Rage replaced it.
"What nonsense is this?" he hissed. "How dare you —"
"How dare you?" I interrupted, my voice rising with steady conviction. "You stand here, thinking money can buy everything — that it can undo love, erase commitment, silence hearts. But let me ask you something, Sir — would you put a price on your wife? Could you write down a number and hand her away?"
He was speechless. Offended. Furious.
But I wasn't done.
"If you can't… then don't expect me to either."
His hands clenched at his sides. His jaw tightened. "You're out of line."
"No, Sir," I said, meeting his gaze without fear. "You crossed the line when you thought love was something that could be bought. I married Sita not because I wanted her money, or her name, or her legacy. I married her because I love her. I chose her — not her palace. Not her last name. Just… her."
Just then, a soft voice broke through the tension.
"Ved."
I turned.
Sita stood at the top of the steps — her mother behind her, her eyes wide, her steps tentative.
She had heard enough.
She came down the stairs quickly, her sandals tapping lightly against the marble, and moved between us, her eyes fixed on her father.
"Papa," she said quietly but firmly, "Did you really think you could pay someone to erase me from their life?"
Her father looked away, his silence a confirmation.
Tears welled in her eyes, but they didn't fall.
"Then maybe," she said, her voice breaking ever so slightly, "you never really understood what love is."
She turned to me, her hand reaching for mine instinctively, protectively.
And I took it.
Without hesitation.
Without fear.
Without regret.
We stood there, together, facing the man who had tried to buy silence — and instead, heard truth.
Sita leaned closer to me and whispered, "I'm sorry."
I squeezed her hand. "Don't be. I'm proud of you."
Her father stood still, speechless for once — a man who had always known how to control a room, now unable to control his own daughter.
And in that silence… we walked away.
Not because we were weak.
But because love was never supposed to be begged for. Or bargained.
It was meant to be chosen.
And we chose each other.
"It was my dream..."
Sita was still standing there — silent, unmoving.
And when I turned to look at her… she began walking toward me.
Her steps were slow, almost hesitant, as if she had been pulled out of a trance — like my words, my truth, had shaken something deep within her.
She didn't speak.
But in her eyes, I saw everything.
The weight of choices, the ache of love, the quiet fire of belonging.
And in that moment, as she came closer, I realized —
She had heard me.
She had always heard me.
As Sita returned to the car, her footsteps quick and tense, she looked at me — really looked at me — her eyes scanning my face, reading the subtle tremble in my hands, the faint flicker of discomfort I had tried so hard to hide.
"Ved?" she asked softly but firmly, "What happened? Did he say something to you?"
For a moment, I froze.
There it was — the question I had hoped to avoid. The confrontation I had silently prayed would never come. I could feel her concern, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. But more than that, I felt her love. Her protectiveness.
And I knew — if I told her the truth right now, it would only widen the crack between her and her father. It would turn that fragile thread into something jagged and irreparable.
So I lied.
Not to protect myself… but to protect her heart from more damage.
"No, Sita," I said with a faint smile, forcing a lightness into my voice that I didn't quite feel. "It's nothing. Everything's fine. Sir just asked about my income. He seemed… worried about you. Wanted to know if you'd be comfortable living with me."
I shrugged as casually as I could, though the weight of that blank cheque still lingered in my bones.
Sita's eyes narrowed.
"Worried about me?" she repeated, her voice low, almost biting. "Ved, please. That's not worry. That's performance. Everything he does is a performance."
I didn't respond.
She turned away for a moment, taking in a shaky breath, then looked back at me with a growing urgency in her tone.
"Let's go," she said. "Now. Before he says one more word and curses our love with his bitterness. Before his eyes swallow our joy."
I hesitated. Just for a moment. My gaze flicked toward the massive golden doors behind us — still slightly ajar, still a passageway to the man she once called father.
"Sita…" I whispered gently, "he's still your dad."
Before she could respond, a voice cut through the air like a knife.
"She may be my daughter," Dushyant Raj Sinha barked from the steps behind us, "but that doesn't give you the right to speak on her behalf. Who are you to stand between us?"
I turned slowly, my body stiff with the weight of so many unsaid words.
I opened my mouth to respond, but I didn't get the chance.
Sita stepped forward.
Her shoulders were squared. Her eyes burned with fire.
"No," she said firmly, "you don't get to insult her."
The words rang out, sharp and final.
"This is my life," she continued, her voice rising with every syllable. "And if you insult her, you insult me. I'm not going to let you speak to her like that — not now, not ever. I've told you once, and I'll say it again — Ved is my wife. My choice. And I'm not ashamed of her."
I stood frozen, breath caught in my throat as I watched her — fierce, radiant, unapologetically herself.
Her father stared at her, stunned. As if the daughter he once knew had grown into a woman he could no longer control.
Sita didn't wait for a reply.
She turned to me, her hand reaching for mine.
"Why are you just standing there?" she asked softly, half a smile on her lips despite the storm around us. "Let's go."
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat, and slipped my hand into hers.
We walked to the car in silence — the kind of silence that carries meaning, not distance.
She opened the passenger door and slid in, and I followed, settling behind the wheel.
The car hummed softly to life. I cast one last glance at the towering gates of her childhood home through the rearview mirror.
Then we drove off.
Not with a sense of escape…
But with a sense of beginning.
Toward our home.
Our future.
Our story — no longer waiting for permission.
To be continued…