AUTHOR'S POV

It was the evening.

An evening in the life of Amaya—one that felt stripped of life itself. She felt lifeless, empty, hollow from within, as if someone had scooped out her soul and left behind a body that merely breathed.

Never in her life had she imagined she would face circumstances like these. Not in her worst fears, not in her darkest thoughts.

But of course, it was always the unpredictable that arrived uninvited and shattered everything one believed to be permanent.

Sorrow felt like a small, fragile word to describe what she was drowning in, yet it was the closest anyone could come to naming it.

A bride with no henna, no smile, no excitement—that was what she represented. No laughter echoing in her ears, no shy glances, no fluttering heart..

It was nearly time for her to go.

To go with a man she had met barely an hour ago.

To go with someone she was bound to for the rest of her life by words she never agreed to speak.

The man she loved was gone—gone somewhere she did not know, somewhere she could not reach. Perhaps somewhere safer than where she stood now.

No one had listened to her.

Decisions had been forced upon her, layered one after another like chains. And she had been forced to accept them.

A decision she had waited her entire life to make for herself had been taken away by someone else in a single moment, without hesitation, without mercy.

“Amaya, it’s time.”

She heard her bhabhi—her sister-in-law—say it as she came in front of her. The words sounded distant, muffled, as though spoken underwater.

Her bhabhi gently tried to pull the veil down over her face, performing the ritual that was supposed to signify a bride’s modesty and joy.

Amaya did not move at first. Then her eyes lifted—red, hollow, yet burning with something unsaid.

“I am not a very happy bride, who will do some useless veil and feel shy about it. Let it be like this. I want my brother to look at my face for the last time and remember my face whenever he regrets it.”

Her voice did not shake. That was the most frightening part. It carried no softness, no plea—only truth, sharp and unfiltered.

With a sudden jerk of her hand, she placed the veil loosely above her head herself and stood up. There was no hesitation in her movement, only quiet finality—as if she had already accepted that this was the last time she would stand here as herself.

Meanwhile, Ryan and Rafiq came in from outside.

Ryan’s face held a warmth that clashed painfully with the moment. His eyes were heavy with emotion—the face of a brother preparing to send his sister away, knowing deep down that she was not leaving by choice.

It was the look of someone performing a duty while carrying the weight of regret he did not yet fully understand.

The room fell silent.

And in that silence, Amaya stood—unadorned, uncelebrated, unchosen—yet unforgettable.

Rafiq carried the expression of an ungrateful man. There was no hesitation in his face, no softness in his eyes. His movements were fast, impatient—hurried in a way that made it clear he was done here.

As if this was merely a transaction completed, a prize collected, something he wanted to take away quickly and display before the world.

Ryan stepped forward, his arms opening instinctively to pull his sister into a hug—one last embrace, one last moment of familiarity before everything changed forever.

But Amaya stepped back.

She picked up her phone as she moved, creating a physical distance between them while walking towards Rafiq. The small action spoke louder than words.

Ryan’s hands remained suspended in the air, empty, frozen in shock for a second that stretched painfully long. Then he lowered them, masking the sting, and faced her.

“Will you not hug me once?”

His voice was thick with emotion, fragile in a way she had never heard before. It was the voice of a brother realizing too late what he was about to lose.

“You wanted this . Wanted me gone and married. That is what I am doing. Going away.”

She forced the words out, each one scraping her throat as if they were not meant to be spoken. Her voice sounded firm, but it was built on something breaking inside her.

Somewhere deep in her heart, something twisted painfully. She felt bad—but not for her brother. Not for his tears or his regret.

She felt bad for herself.

For the girl who had once believed love would be her choice.

For the woman who was now walking away, not because she wanted to—but because she was told to.

She was afraid.

Truly afraid.

Afraid of going away—away from her home, away from everything familiar, with a stranger she had met only twice in her entire life.

A man whose presence made her skin crawl, whose eyes carried something unsettling, something criminally sick that her instincts screamed against.

She was petrified for her life, not dramatically, not irrationally—but in the quiet, primal way a person fears when danger feels close and unavoidable.

She was leaving her nest.

The only safe place she had ever known.

Amaya felt like a bird being pushed out before it had learned how to fly—fragile wings trembling, heart pounding wildly. She feared getting lost on her way back home, feared the darkness that was slowly swallowing the evening as it turned into night.

The sky was dimming, and with it, every ounce of hope she had clung to.

Her wings felt weak, ready to give out at any moment.

Yet, despite everything, she was persistent. She wanted to give it one last try. One final, desperate attempt to stay.

Even though she was angry with her brother—angry enough for it to ache—she still wanted to be here rather than with the man standing just inches away from her. Inches that felt like miles. Inches that separated safety from terror.

Then came the words.

“It is for your own good.”

Just a couple of words—spoken so easily, so casually. And yet they felt like cold rain pouring down on the fragile feathers of a bird struggling to survive.

A bird trying to reach her home but getting swamped by the storm instead.

The rain was relentless.

The wings were heavy.

And the night was closing in.

Now only the creatures would know what would happen to her next.

The creatures lurking in the shadows of the night.

She was left alone to deal with the creatures from now on.

There would be no shield, no nest to return to, no familiar voice to soften what awaited her. Whatever lurked ahead—whatever darkness followed her steps—was hers to face alone.

Rafiq stepped closer and took her hand in his.

The touch was sudden, unwelcome. Her body reacted before her mind could—she flinched sharply, every nerve screaming at the contact.

Yet she did not pull away. Not because she wanted to, but because she had learned that resistance only invited harsher consequences.

“I guess we should get going sir.”

He said it in the sweetest voice, smooth and polite—like venom disguised as honey.

A tone practiced enough to deceive everyone around them, but not her.

Ryan responded immediately.

“You should call me ryan at home as now we are relatives and it should not be this formal at home. We are a family.”

As he said, he stepped forward and hugged Rafiq, patting his back with misplaced warmth, blind trust dripping from the gesture.

Then he stepped aside and stood next to Maham, unaware of the irony hanging heavily in the air.

“Sure ryan, we are a FAMILY now.”

Rafiq replied with a slight tilt of his lips—something between a smile and a sneer. It was subtle, almost invisible, as if he were mocking the word while carefully concealing it.

Then he said simply,

“Let’s get going.”

He turned around and walked ahead without looking back, leaving Amaya behind for a moment longer.

As if he knew there were still things unsaid. As if he wanted her to absorb the weight of that silence—of what she was being dragged into—before she followed.

And so she stood there, abandoned even before she left, gathering the fragments of herself that were already breaking, preparing to walk into a life that had been decided without her consent.

“Will you hate me for this?”

Ryan said it with tears pooled in his eyes, his voice barely holding together. The question trembled between them, heavy with regret and fear of the answer.

“You are a brother. I craved protection and strength from you but this decision proved every word aunt Seema said to me. Either you got your gain from this arrangement or you never loved me enough.”

She said it with red-rimmed eyes, tears spilling continuously down her cheeks, unchecked and unstoppable. Her voice carried the weight of years—years of hope, of trust placed in the wrong hands, of waiting for someone to stand up for her.

Each word cut deeper than anger ever could. There was no scream, no accusation laced with fury—only disappointment, raw and devastating, pouring out with every tear she could no longer hold back.

“I expected everything from you—but not this. You ruined my life, and now you’re asking whether I will hate you or not.”

Her voice shook, not with weakness, but with disbelief. Disbelief that the man she trusted most could still ask such a question.

“I didn’t need such love that brings you pain, but you didn’t listen to me at all.”

Tears streamed down her face, but her words remained sharp, deliberate—each sentence carrying years of suppressed pain.

“I would have listened to you too, and even if not now, things would have settled in a few years—but you see nothing beyond your stubbornness.”

Her chest tightened as she spoke, the truth clawing its way out of her.

“And you will realize it when you no longer see my face.”

That sentence lingered between them like a curse and a farewell combined.

“People are right when they say that in homes where a father’s and brother’s honor matters more, love is not allowed.”

Her hands shook harder now, but she did not stop.

“And the one who dares to love is either killed—or buried alive, like me.”

Silence followed.

Not the peaceful kind—but the kind that confirms something has died and will never return.

Maybe the rain had stopped, but the bird was still squirming on the ground—its wings heavy, its body trembling, still waiting for a miracle. Still waiting for hope.

Unable to see their faces anymore, she left. She turned around without looking back and walked away.

Behind her, Ryan stood frozen, guilt written across his face in a language too clear to miss. The weight of what he had done finally crushed him.

His knees gave way, and he collapsed as Maham fell beside him, holding him before he could completely break apart.

The bird’s nest was torn apart.

Every single twig, every stick, every strand of grass fell to the ground—scattered, broken, irreparable. It was no longer a nest.

It was only debris, a reminder of what once was.

And since it was no longer a nest, the bird had no place to return to.

So it fell—

not with wings spread,

but with nothing left to hold it.

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The dusk light filtered through the carved wooden panels of the apartment as Amaya stood still on the threshold.

The bangles on her wrists felt like shackles now—cold, heavy, bitter reminders of a wedding she had never wished for.

Her brother’s tear-streaked face had faded into the distance hours ago, swallowed by the dust of the departing doli.

What remained was silence.

And her.

Alone.

The main door creaked shut behind her.

She flinched.

She felt his presence -Rafiq. Her husband by law. A stranger by heart.

The air around her shifted, thickened, as if the walls themselves sensed him. His footsteps echoed against the stone, sharp and deliberate, each one ringing like a warning bell.

With every step, the knot in her stomach tightened, pulling her breath with it.

“You’ve been standing there long enough,” he said, his voice clipped, impatient.

Amaya did not turn immediately. Her fingers curled slowly around the fabric of her dupatta, grounding herself. She took a measured breath, steadying the tremor threatening to give her away, and then turned to face him.

The apartment felt unfamiliar—too big, too quiet, too cold. This was supposed to be her home now. The thought settled in her chest like a weight she could not lift.

Rafiq leaned against the doorframe, watching her with an unreadable expression. His eyes did not hold warmth or curiosity—only assessment, as if she were something newly acquired, something to be examined later.

She lowered her gaze, not out of respect, but survival.

The silence stretched, uncomfortable and suffocating.

This was it.

No family waiting in the next room. No familiar voices. No nest to retreat to. Just four walls, a locked door, and a life she had been pushed into without consent.

The bird had reached the ground.

And now, it had to learn how to survive there.

“This is your home now.”

The word home rang hollow in her ears. It tasted foreign, bitter. Her real home—the one filled with careless laughter, whispered dreams, and the boy she had loved—was gone.

Not lost, not misplaced, but taken. Taken by signatures written without her consent and by silences louder than her screams.

She stepped inside.

Her bare feet touched the cold floor, trembling with every hesitant move, as if the ground itself might reject her.

The bridal jewelry at her neck and wrists clinked softly, each sound echoing like a chain being dragged.

Her kohl-lined eyes were swollen and dull, drained from crying through the night—through the vows she never chose, through the celebrations forced upon her as if joy could be commanded.

The room swallowed her whole.

In the solitude of their bedroom, the air grew heavier, pressing down on her chest. The door clicked shut behind them—final, sharp, unkind. The sound felt like a verdict.

Rafiq shrugged off his sherwani and tossed it aside without a second thought, the fabric landing carelessly on a chair. The ease of his movement terrified her more than anger would have. This was normal for him. Routine.

Amaya’s fingers tightened around the edge of her dupatta, pulling it closer around her shoulders as if it could protect her, as if cloth could replace the safety she had been stripped of. Her breathing turned shallow.

She stood still, afraid that any movement might draw attention she was not ready to face.

The silence between them thickened.

This was not a wedding night.

It was an arrival into captivity.

He turned around and looked at her with an expression she could not decipher. It was not anger.

Not warmth. Not even curiosity. It was something unreadable—and that uncertainty made her tremble more than certainty ever could.

Whatever emotion flickered in his eyes unsettled her deeply. With every passing second, she felt her control slipping, her breath growing uneven, panic creeping up her spine.

Then, suddenly, he lifted his hand to his lips and twisted it slowly while staring at her.

The gesture was crude. Deliberate.

Disgust churned violently inside her. Her stomach tightened, and every instinct in her screamed to run.

He began walking toward her—not with the tenderness of a man meeting his bride, not with hesitation or care—but with the cold entitlement of someone claiming what he believed belonged to him.

Each step shortened the distance, stealing the little space she had left to breathe.

“I’m your husband now. You know what that means.”

The words fell heavy, weighted with implication. They wrapped around her like invisible chains.

She took a step back, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. Her back brushed against the edge of the bed—there was nowhere left to retreat. Her fingers clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms as if pain could anchor her.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of fear and desperation. “I don't want this.”

The confession slipped out raw and fragile, carrying everything she had lost with it. Her eyes glistened, her body trembling—not in submission, but in terror.

For the first time that night, she was not just a bride trapped by fate.

She was a woman begging to be heard.

He scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive.

“What you wanted stopped mattering the moment you signed those papers.”

The words struck harder than a slap.

Tears welled up in her eyes again, hot and relentless, but she clenched her jaw and forced them back. She would not give him that satisfaction.

Her voice trembled, but it did not break.

For a brief second, the room held its breath.

Then he reached for her wrist.

She recoiled instinctively, stepping back as far as she could. “Don’t touch me.”

Something dark flickered across his face—anger, wounded pride, bruised ego—passing too quickly to be named, but strong enough to harden his expression.

The hesitation vanished.

He grabbed her anyway.

His fingers closed around her wrist, tight and merciless, the grip deliberate, punishing.

Pain shot up her arm, sharp and immediate. Panic surged through her chest as reality crashed down on her all at once.

She struggled, twisting against him, desperation lending her strength.

“No! Let me go!”

Her voice echoed off the walls, bounced back at her, hollow and unanswered. The apartment remained cruelly silent. No footsteps. No interruption. No rescue.

No one came.

No one ever would.

He twisted her hand harshly, forcing a cry from her lips, and shoved her away. She lost her balance and fell to the floor, the impact knocking the air out of her lungs.

The cold surface bit into her skin as she lay there, stunned, breathless, staring at the ground.

In tha

t moment, something inside her shifted.

Not just fear.

Not just pain.

But the terrible understanding that this place was not a home—and he was not just a stranger.

He was the storm she had been pushed into, and the night had only just begun.

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How was the chapter !??

He is not the ML .

ML will appear after 2 more chapters I guess .