The chandelier glowed overhead, its crystal edges catching the light like shards of broken glass. Ayesha Singh stood at the center of it all, a vision in red and gold, her face framed by a bridal dupatta so sheer it felt like a cage.

Laughter filled the hall, polite and rehearsed, the kind that belonged to high-society weddings where love was secondary, and alliances were everything. Somewhere in the crowd, her mother smiled, proud that her daughter was finally marrying a man with wealth, class, and a spotless family name.

Ayesha felt nothing.

Her fingers twisted nervously around the gold bangle on her wrist, the cold metal biting into her skin. Every smile she forced felt heavier than her jewelry. Her fiancé, Rajveer, stood beside her — tall, handsome, perfect on paper — yet his presence felt distant, like he belonged to another world.

A world without Rudra Thakur.

But Rudra’s ghost had always been there — lingering in every corner of her heart, in every memory she tried to drown. The boy who once kissed her palms when she cried. The boy who whispered dreams of forever beneath the stars. The boy she destroyed with a single lie.

“I never loved you. I only used you for your money.”

Ayesha closed her eyes, swallowing the ache that rose in her throat.

And then the doors slammed open.

The sound shattered the hall’s delicate peace like a gunshot, and all eyes turned toward the entrance. The air thickened, heavy with something dark and dangerous, as a group of men in black suits filled the doorway.

But it wasn’t the men who stole Ayesha’s breath.

It was him.

Rudra Thakur.

He stood there, broad shoulders blocking the light, his dark shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows — the same way he used to when they fought over silly things, back when love was innocent. But this Rudra was no boy.

This Rudra was a storm.

His face was carved from rage and ruin, his jaw sharp enough to cut, his eyes cold as death. And yet, beneath all that fury, something else burned — something raw, something broken.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The world held its breath.

Then Rudra walked forward, each step slow and deliberate, his polished shoes echoing like a countdown to disaster. Guests whispered, some shrinking back, others too curious to look away.

Ayesha’s breath caught in her throat. “Rudra…”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. He grabbed her wrist, his fingers wrapping around her delicate skin with enough force to bruise.

“Let her go!” Rajveer stepped forward, but Rudra’s men were faster. One of them shoved him back into his father’s arms, while others blocked the exits.

Ayesha’s heart pounded so loud, she couldn’t hear anything else. “Rudra, what are you doing?”

He pulled a folded paper from his pocket — crisp, official, stamped with authority. A marriage certificate. Her name already printed alongside his.

“Sign.” His voice was low, deadly calm, but his eyes… they were wild, burning with a hate so fierce it almost hurt to look at him.

Tears filled her eyes. “Please, listen to me—”

He pulled a gun from his waistband and pressed it into her trembling hand, his fingers forcing hers to curl around it.

“Sign it. Or I pull this trigger — and I’ll start with your perfect fiancé.”

Ayesha’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. Around them, people screamed, but no one dared to interfere. They all knew who Rudra Thakur had become.

The pen shook in her hand, tears falling freely as she scratched her name across the paper. The ink blurred where her tears touched it, smudged like her broken dreams.

When it was done, Rudra tucked the paper back into his pocket, his face unreadable. He leaned in close, so close his breath ghosted against her ear, making her shiver.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Thakur,” he whispered, voice like silk laced with poison. “You’re mine now. In every way that matters.”

She didn’t resist when he pulled her forward, away from her family, away from the life she was supposed to have.

Because this wasn’t a wedding. This was a sentence.

Married not in love — but in blood.