Location: Rathore Manor, Guest Room Time: 11:00 PM
"Don't move!"
Suhana's voice snipped at me like a pair of garden shears.
I stood frozen in front of the full-length mirror, my hands clenched at my sides. Suhana was standing behind me, holding a heavy gold maang-tikka. She grabbed a handful of my hair, pulling it tight enough to make my scalp burn, and drove the hairpin in.
"Ah..." The whimper escaped my lips before I could stop it. The metal had scraped against my skin.
"Did that hurt?" Suhana met my eyes in the mirror. Her lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her cold eyes. "Get used to it. Living in this family comes with a price. And you... well, your price has already been paid."
She stepped back, leaving me to stare at the stranger in the reflection.
Two hours ago, I was Katha—the orphan in a torn salwar, covered in slum mud. Now?
I was draped in a crimson Sabyasachi lehenga that weighed more than my own body. A diamond necklace, cold and heavy, rested against my throat like a shackle. My hands were bare of mehndi—because there had been no celebration, no ritual—but my wrists were stacked with glass bangles that clinked with every breath I took.
Layers of expensive foundation masked my fear. Concealer hid the exhaustion under my eyes.
I looked beautiful. I looked like a Princess.
But as I stared into my own terrified eyes, I knew the truth. I am not a Princess. I am a sacrificial lamb, marinated in perfume and draped in silk, ready for the slaughter.
"Done," Suhana announced, looking me up and down. A flicker of envy passed through her gaze as the diamonds caught the light, but she masked it quickly with disdain.
"Listen to me," she said, stepping into my personal space. She gestured vaguely at the designer clothes. "All of this... is rented. Just like you are. Don't make the mistake of thinking you're the mistress of this house."
She pointed a manicured finger toward the dark corridor. "Go. Dhruv is waiting in his room. And yes... he hates waiting. You've probably figured that out by now."
My feet felt like lead weights. I forced myself to move, leaving the safety of the guest room.
The mansion had fallen silent. The servants had retreated. The lights were dimmed. With every step I took toward the master suite, the chan-chan of my anklets rang out in the silence like a warning bell.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
It sounded like a countdown.
I reached the massive double doors of the master suite. My hand trembled as I touched the cold brass handle. I pushed it open.
Dhruv's bedroom.
If the rest of the house was a palace, this room was a fortress. It was vast, larger than my entire old house. Dark wood floors, slate-grey walls, and a massive king-sized bed dominated the space.
But the bed wasn't decorated.
There were no flowers. No rose petals scattered on the sheets. No scent of jasmine. It didn't look like a room prepared for a Suhaag Raat—a Wedding Night. It looked like a cold storage unit.
And the iceman was standing at the far end.
Dhruv had discarded his suit jacket. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. His collar was unbuttoned, exposing the column of his throat. He held a crystal glass of whiskey in one hand, the other tucked casually into his pocket.
He was staring out at the rain-lashed window, his back to me.
I closed the door. Click.
The sound broke his trance. Slowly, agonizingly, he turned around.
His gaze landed on me.
I pressed my back against the door, wrapped in red silk and paralyzing fear. I waited for him to smile. I waited for lust. I waited for something human.
But Dhruv's eyes remained dead. There was no admiration for the bride his family had bought. Instead, the darkness in his irises seemed to deepen, swirling with a mix of exhaustion and hatred.
He finished his drink in one large swallow and set the glass down on a side table. Clink.
Then, he started walking toward me.
His gait was slow, measured. Lethal. Like a tiger stalking a deer that had nowhere left to run.
My heart hammered so hard against my ribs I thought it would crack the bone. I squeezed my eyes shut. He is going to touch me. He is going to claim his rights.
I tensed every muscle in my body, bracing myself for hands that would feel like hellfire.
He stopped.
I could feel his body heat. I could smell him—expensive musk, rain, and the sharp, bitter tang of alcohol.
"Open your eyes," he whispered.
The command was soft, but it vibrated through my bones.
I fluttered my lashes open, terrified. Dhruv's face was mere inches from mine. He wasn't looking at me with desire. He was looking at me like an appraiser looking for flaws in a painting.
Suddenly, his hand shot out.
I flinched, a whimper trapping itself in my throat.
But he didn't touch my skin. He grabbed the edge of my dupatta—the cloth that was supposed to signify my honor—and rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.
"This lehenga," he said softly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Fifteen lakhs."
He dropped the fabric. He lowered his hand and hooked a single finger under the heavy diamond necklace resting on my collarbone. The cold metal bit into my skin as he pulled it slightly.
"This necklace," he murmured, his eyes tracking the sparkle of the stones. "Three crores."
Then, his gaze snapped up to meet mine. He let the necklace drop. It hit my chest with a heavy, painful thud.
"And the girl inside it?"
Cruelty dripped from his voice like poison. He leaned in, his eyes boring into my soul.
"Her price was just a check I tore out of a book this evening."
Something inside me shattered. The words hit harder than a physical slap. He had priced me. He had calculated my value against his accessories, and I had lost.
Dhruv stepped back as if standing too close to me was offensive. He walked to the massive bed.
I watched, confused, as he grabbed a pillow and a thin throw blanket. He didn't lie down. He walked over to the rug near the sofa and tossed the bedding onto the floor.
"That," he said, pointing at the rug, "is your place."
I stared at the floor, then at him. "What?"
"Did you think I would give you space in my bed?"
He laughed. It was a sharp, jagged sound that sliced through my heart.
"What did you think, Katha? That you would walk in here wearing red, and I would forget everything? That I would take you in my arms and play husband?"
He walked back to me, anger flaring in his eyes for the first time. The mask of indifference cracked, revealing the rage beneath.
"This bed," he hissed, pointing to the empty mattress, "was for my wife. For a woman I loved. And you... you are just a cheap copy. A replacement."
He leaned in close, pouring venom into my ear.
"My mother and brother dressed you up and sent you here to fool the world. But inside this room, do not try to fool me. I know exactly what you are. You are a maid I've dressed in a queen's clothes."
My lips trembled. I wanted to defend myself. I wanted to say 'I didn't choose this!' but the words died in my throat.
"Do not change out of that outfit," Dhruv commanded, turning his back on me. "When the maid brings tea tomorrow morning, she must see you in this condition. She must believe our night was... 'colorful'."
He walked to the sofa, sat down, and flipped open his laptop. The blue light illuminated his harsh features.
"Now sleep," he said without looking up. "And don't make a sound. I have work to do."
I stood there for a long moment, swallowing the hot tears of humiliation. My body was crushed under the weight of the heavy lehenga, but the weight of his hatred was far heavier.
Slowly, feeling like a ghost in my own life, I walked to the rug.
I picked up the pillow and the thin blanket. I looked at the plush, empty bed that was forbidden to me. Then I looked at the cold, hard marble floor.
I spread the blanket on the rug. Gathering my heavy skirt around me, I lay down on the ground. The chill of the floor seeped through the rug and settled into my bones.
I pulled my dupatta over my face to stifle the sound of my sobs, terrified that he would hear me crying and get angry again.
That night, to the world, Katha was a billionaire's new bride sleeping on a bed of velvet.
But the truth was, I was lying at a stranger's feet, wearing five crores worth of jewelry, weeping for a life that was over before it had even begun.
The golden cage was locked. And Dhruv Rathore had put the key in his pocket.