After receiving congratulations from my professor, I stepped off the stage. The temptation to steal another glance at his devilishly handsome face was strong, but I resisted—I didn’t want to seem any more awkward in his eyes.

Oh, I never expected him to suddenly turn into Prince Charming, showering me with hugs and sweet nothings. I didn’t even expect him to proudly announce our marriage like it was some grand love story—because, let’s be real, we both know the mess that led to this. And sure, this relationship is basically a ticking time bomb, but hey, acknowledging my existence wouldn’t exactly bruise his oh-so-fragile ego, would it?

That day, he wasn’t the only one forced into this marriage. At least he knew he was getting married—whereas I had merely arrived to attend the wedding, unaware that I would become the bride.

Six months ago

The mandap was ready, the holy fire was lit, and Panditji was asking the groom to take his place. Everyone was waiting for Avyant to arrive so the rituals could begin, but he was nowhere to be seen, and no one knew where he was—not even his Dadi. It was so unlike Avyant Singh Rathore, a man who had never been late for his morning walk. How could he be late for his own marriage?

"Where is Avyant, Mr. Rathore? "

Mr. Maheswari's voice cut through the silence, but no one had an answer. Devbrat Maheswari, the father of Avantika, had expected this day to unfold differently. His daughter was supposed to marry Avyant—a union arranged by Rajmata herself. The match was more than just a wedding; it was a calculated alliance. Rajmata knew that tying their family to the influential Maheswaris would strengthen her grandson’s position in society.

Avantika Maheswari, the only daughter of the Maheswari family, carried power not just in name but in presence. She didn’t command respect merely because of her lineage; it was the sheer force of her aura that made people bow before her, should she desire it.

The dominating nature of both Avyant and Avantika was so in sync that made everyone believe that they would be perfect couple.

Everyone eagerly anticipated the wedding, though I had never seen Avyant Singh Rathore as the typical groom-to-be. Yet, there was no doubt in my mind that he was ready for this marriage. If there was one thing I knew about Avyant, it was that nothing in this world could force him into something he didn't want. And for those who truly knew him, the idea that he had run away from his own wedding was simply unthinkable. Avyant was a man who never wavered in his commitments.

Maharaja Anand Singh Rathore was handling all the questions about Avyant’s disappearance. Mr. Maheshwari was furious, convinced that the Rathores were doing this on purpose. If the Maheshwaris became their enemies, the Rathores would suffer greatly.

More than two hours had passed since the search for the missing groom began, but there was still no sign of Avyant. Guests had already started leaving, disappointed and confused. Then, Maharani Mithali spoke up with a shocking suggestion—something no one had even imagined. She proposed that Avantika should marry Kabir instead.

At that very moment, Avantika stepped out, draped in a resplendent red lehenga, radiating the beauty expected of a bride. Yet, despite her stunning appearance, her eyes held a storm of unspoken questions—confused, searching—but not a trace of nervousness.

"Should we return, Papa?"

Her voice was steady, each word crisp and deliberate as she addressed her father. What she truly felt in that moment—whether sorrow, anger, or something else entirely—remained a mystery, for her face bore no readable expression.

Then, the same suggestion was laid before her once more. To my utter shock, she agreed. But Kabir did not. Nor did Rajmata. Yet, when Anand Singh Rathore demanded an alternative to safeguard the Rathores’ honor, she fell silent.

She was far from pleased with this new arrangement. After all, it had been her plan to see Avyant married swiftly, ensuring his Raj Tilak—his coronation—could take place. For tradition decreed that a Kuwar (prince) could ascend the throne only after marriage.

With Rajmata's approval secured, the only one left to consent was Kabir. Yet, he remained adamant, offering every possible excuse—valid or not—to avoid marriage. He was not ready. But then, Anand Singh Rathore took him into a room, and what transpired within remained a mystery. Moments later, Kabir emerged, his face unreadable, and silently took his place as the groom in the mandap.

Guilt, anger, and helplessness flickered across his face—I had never seen my friend in such a state. I wanted to help him, but how could I? I was merely a servant to his family, bound by duty, with no right to question the Rathores.

Soon, the wedding rituals commenced, and the once lighthearted atmosphere grew heavy and somber. Kabir and Avantika obediently followed every instruction given by Pandit Ji. Finally, they were pronounced husband and wife.

The bride and groom had just begun taking blessings from the elders when a sudden commotion turned everyone's attention toward the grand staircase.

Avyant staggered down the steps, his hair disheveled, the top buttons of his kurta undone. His movements were sluggish, his eyes clouded with confusion, as if he were caught between a dream and reality. Gasps rippled through the crowd—whispers turning into hushed panic.

And then, his gaze landed on the mandap. On Avantika. On Kabir.

Married.

The color drained from his face. His breath hitched. For a moment, it seemed as if the ground had been ripped from beneath him. The shock in his eyes mirrored the collective disbelief of the onlookers, but none could match the storm that raged within him.

His father strode toward him with long, purposeful steps, his eyes burning with fury. The moment he reached Avyant, he grabbed him by the collar and demanded,

"Where the hell were you?"

Avyant met his father’s glare, his own eyes ablaze with defiance. Before the tension could escalate into something irreversible, Rajmata hurried toward them, sensing the storm brewing between father and son. She gently pried the king’s grip from Avyant’s collar and, with a calm yet firm voice, repeated the same question.

Avyant took a breath before recounting the events—how he had fallen unconscious after having his morning coffee and when he gained his consciousness he found himself in the store room.

When questioned about who had given him the coffee, he hesitantly mentioned my Dadi's name.

Mithali Rathore's face darkened. She spun toward my Dadi, her anger spilling over in sharp, unforgiving words.

"What did you put in his coffee? Why did you do it? What was your intention?"

Her voice rose, laced with disdain.

"I've never liked this old hag— I knew she is not trustworthy. stop pretending like a saint and just admit the truth!"

Every cruel word from Mithali Rathore struck my Dadi like a dagger. Her heart ached. A lifetime of unwavering loyalty to the Rathores, and yet, this was her reward? Humiliation. Accusations. Betrayal.

I stood beside my Dadi, gently placing a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to ease her tension. My mind was set—I was ready to give Mithali Rathore a taste of her own medicine. But just as I was about to speak Avyant’s voice cut through the air.

"I would suggest you stay out of this matter, Ranisa."

His words carried the weight of respect, but his tone dripped with anything but.

"Is this how you speak to your mother, Avyant?"

Anand Singh Rathore questioned, his voice laced with disapproval.

Avyant scoffed, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.

"Of course not, Ranasa—but only if she had ever been my mother. Tell me, do you recall the last time she acted like one?"

Hearing Avyant’s words, his father clenched his fists, his teeth grinding in frustration. His voice was laced with anger as he warned,

"So, you’re willing to insult your mother for a mere maid? I will not tolerate you disrespecting my wife, Avyant!"

But Anand’s warning only ignited Avyant’s fury further. His eyes burned with defiance as he retorted,

"Yes, she may be your wife, but she is not my mother. And the woman you are disrespecting has been more of a mother to me than your wife ever was."

With that, Avyant stepped forward, his expression s

oftening as he gently took his Dadi’s hand, a silent declaration of where his loyalties lay.