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"Vadhu ki maang mein sindoor bhariye!"

The priest’s voice rang clear above the low hum of shlokas, echoing off the carved sandstone pillars of the palace mandap. His words, drenched in sacred finality, seemed to slice through the thick incense-laden air.

[Fill the vermillion in bride's hair partition]

The groom’s fingers trembled slightly as they reached for the tiny gold box placed reverently on the brass thali beside him. Nestled within it sat the scarlet sindoor—vivid and fierce, like the oath it represented.

His hand hesitated.

Then, to stop it from shaking, he clutched his own thigh—his nails digging into the pale silk of his sherwani, grounding himself. It was supposed to be just a gesture. Just tradition.

But to him, it felt like the edge of a cliff.

He leaned in.

The bride lifted her ornate maangteeka with practised grace, revealing the neat partition in her hairline. Not a twitch of hesitation. Not even a blink. Her expression remained untouched, frozen like a portrait hanging on walls.

He applied the sindoor carefully—almost reverently.

But his fingers… they lingered. A second longer than they should have. Just enough to wonder. Just enough to ache.

She didn’t even lift her lashes.

The world around them shifted again with the priest's next words.

"Vivah sampann hua!"

[Wedding is completed]

The announcement struck him like a thunderclap.

The groom jolted back slightly, his hand retreating from her forehead as though burned by the finality of it. The weight of silence crushed his chest—no claps, no drums, no congratulatory cheer. Just the hollow noise of his own breath in his ears.

And then—

She stood.

Just like that.

Without ceremony, without pause, Alakhnanda Devayan rose, adjusting the weight of her heavily embroidered crimson lehenga as though discarding the moment along with the mandap.

He followed her movements hesitantly, standing up from his own seat, unsure if this was still his moment or hers.

She cast a glance in his direction. A single moment–A flicker.

Then she walked away.

With swift, graceful steps, she exited the sacred Mandap, her posture regal, her silence louder than any rejection. The long scarf—the nuptial knot still loosely tied to his own stole—trailed behind her like a severed lifeline.

He didn’t hold onto the sliding stole.

Didn’t try to stop her.

Didn’t say a word.

“Alakhnanda!”

A voice—rich with age and command—rose behind them.

An elderly woman dressed in traditional royal attire stood at the edge of the mandap. Her jewels sparkled, but her tone carried the true weight. She called out once more, but Alakhnanda didn't even break her stride.

The old lady exhaled slowly.

The groom stood alone,lost -silent .

The chatter of the guests had thinned. Their eyes hadn’t. Every stare weighed on his shoulders. Some were curious. Some sympathetic. But most… pitying.

He licked his dry lips.

His lashes stayed low, casting shadows over eyes that felt far too full for a celebration. The chill of humiliation seeped into his spine.

He was a groom standing alone in a mandap right after his wedding.

He could hear it in their silence:

Pity.

And then came the voice.

“Anay—”

He lifted his eyes.

The old woman from earlier now stood closer, her silver hair tied in a tight bun, her posture so straight it defied time. Her face was lined with age, but her eyes... they glinted with years of authority that had never once been questioned.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t soften.

She simply said, “Aaiye humare saath—”

[Come with me]

Her command was gentle but non-negotiable.

Anay gulped, nodding faintly, and with a quiet breath,he followed.

The palace corridors were grand—too grand. Gold-framed murals of past rulers stared down at him from towering walls, their expressions judgmental, bored, or disappointed. He walked in silence behind the queen mother, his palms clasped in front of him, sweat collecting at the back of his neck despite the marble-cool air.

Maids in black and white uniforms passed them occasionally, their gazes cold and assessing. Their disapproval wasn’t subtle. Their eyes told stories—of betrayal, of discomfort, of unwelcome change.

He lowered his eyes, focusing on the geometric patterns in the flooring as they moved further into the royal quarters.

I don’t belong here, he thought.

The old lady halted before a large set of double doors, carved with intricate peacocks and lotus stems. The guards beside the doorway bowed stiffly and opened the doors without a word.

She entered and turned to look at him .

“Come inside!” she said again, her voice carrying the authority of someone who had ruled long before queens wore crowns.

Anay stepped inside, unsure if he was meant to.

The chamber was vast.

Moonlight filtered through sheer curtains, dancing upon the polished floor. Ornate sofas lined the corners, the walls were filled with photos of Late King and obviously His wife– No Queen , and the air smelled of rosewood and history.

He couldn’t even bring himself to admire it.

It wasn’t his space.

“Rest here, you must be tired.”

She turned sharply on her heels and exited before he could find the words to respond.

And then… silence.

Heavy and unfamiliar.

Anay looked around once, then lowered himself slowly onto the velvet settee.

He sat with his back straight, hands still folded.

And finally, after hours of trying to hold everything together...

He exhaled.

I exhaled the breath I’d been holding for hours. The tension slipped out of me like the final string of a long, exhausting performance. My head throbbed—partly from the weight of the ceremony, partly from the heavy, over-decorated headwear that had sat like a crown of thorns since morning.

I took it off slowly, relief washing over me as I set it down on the nearby table.

My hair—sweaty and unruly—fell to my forehead, and I ran my fingers through it absently.

Finally breathing like myself again.

I looked around.

The room was straight out of a period film. A round bed sat in the center, plush and enormous, wrapped in thick velvet curtains that formed a royal canopy—perhaps to guard privacy from the watchful eyes of maids.

The walls were painted in deep royal tones, with golden motifs and colorful stone inlays arranged in floral designs that shimmered faintly under the chandelier’s glow.

In one corner, a cluster of leather sofas.
In another, a massive antique dressing table .

Most importantly at a little distance a swimming pool —wow .

It wasn’t that big enough to swim and all but it was spacious enough to lay down all day in summer . This was the only thing i liked about this overrated room.

And then—two tall doors embedded into the far wall, wood polished and handles gold-plated.

One was likely the bathroom.

But the other?

Curiosity prickled at the edges of my fatigue.

I looked around, half-expecting someone to interrupt—perhaps a maid, or even... her,half checking if someone was spying me or not –like the maids in historical dramas spying on king and queen for their masters.

But there was no one.

So I let my curiosity win.

I walked over to the door and reached out, fingers curling around the knob. Gently, I tried turning it.

Locked? Why would it be locked –no one is here besides me.

I frowned.

Maybe it was just stiff.

Twisting it with a little force, I heard the click.

The door gave in.

And the next moment—
“What?”

My body froze.

The door creaked wider as she stepped out—Alakhnanda.

I stared.

Her presence was sudden and sharp, like the hush that follows a thunderclap. She stood in the doorway of the walk-in wardrobe, her silhouette framed by golden light, her eyes instantly meeting mine.

I panicked.

My hand flew off the doorknob as if I’d been burned. I took a few frantic steps back, heart slamming against my ribs.

“Shit…”

I could feel my ears and cheeks turning red, the heat rushing up my neck like a wave of guilt and mortification.

Her brow arched. Perfectly. Coldly.

“I—I didn’t know—” I stammered, lowering my gaze, suddenly aware of how close I’d come. “I wasn’t trying to— I thought it was…”

Her voice cut clean through the air.

“What are you doing here?”

I looked at her.

Was she seriously asking that?

We were just married. Minutes ago. Sacred fire, vows, sindoor—the whole circus. And yet… here she was, glaring at me like I was a trespasser.

And I had expected silence… maybe even distance.

But this—this tone, this hostility?

Unacceptable.

I straightened my shoulders. My nerves shook, yes. But I had my pride. I wasn’t someone to get crushed under cold stares.

I wasn’t someone to cry in a corner just because someone didn’t want me.

Ok maybe I would cry if someone is rude to me as i sensitive person but i will still punch the offender .

“I’m your husband,” I said quietly, meeting her gaze for the first time, “Where else am I supposed to go?”

She didn’t blink.

Her expression didn’t change.

But my eyes flicked to the faint red smear in her hairline—barely visible now. The sindoor I had applied was gone. Washed off.

Deliberately.

And her neck… bare.

No mangalsutra.

No sign of the bond we’d just tied before gods and witnesses.

My voice tightened slightly, but I tried to keep it steady. “Where’s your mangalsutra?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, she stepped forward, walking past me like I didn’t exist.

“You are nothing more than a substitute, Anay Sharma,” she said, her tone laced with disdain, “Don’t overestimate your worth.”

And just like that, she brushed past, heading toward the bed like I was simply air—nothing.

No flicker of guilt.

No hesitation.

Her words struck something deep in me—something small and soft and bruised from before.

I stood there for a moment, frozen. Letting it sink in.

Then I looked down.

Smiled bitterly to myself.

So that’s how it was going to be.

Fine.

But if she thought I was someone to break that easily…

She clearly didn’t know me at all.

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This was the prologue.

Thankyou so much to the readers who gave my book a chance .
Hope it is not disappointing.