SHARMA HOUSE

(3 hours before the wedding)

Ishan rubbed his eyes, hair messy, T-shirt half twisted.

The house was glowing.

Flowers. Lights. Noise. Workers running everywhere.

He frowned.

"Why does this place look like someone died... or someone's getting married?"

Anika froze for half a second.

Then she smiled softly.

"It's my wedding day, idiot."

Silence.

Ishan blinked.

Then -

"Fuck."

He forgot.

Of course he forgot.

He didn't care about family functions. He didn't care about rituals. He didn't care about society.

But he cared about her.

His sister.

The only person in that house who ever stood between him and their father's anger.

He ran a hand through his hair.

"With who?"

"Shubman Gill. CEO. Dad fixed it."

Ishan scoffed.

"Ah yes. Mr. Discipline. Mr. Perfect. Mr. 'I-hate-chaos'."

Anika laughed nervously.

He didn't.

Downstairs, their father entered, already on call about shares and contracts, not emotions.

Ishan dropped onto the sofa and opened his phone.

Messages from Shivay and Manik.

> Bro sorry. Decoration event. Big client. Can't attend. Back in 3 days maybe.

Ishan stared at the screen.

"They chose flowers over my sister's wedding?"

He typed:

> You both are dead to me.

He threw the phone aside.

Something felt wrong.

Too quiet.

Too forced.

He looked at Anika again.

She wasn't glowing like a bride.

She looked... distant.

"You okay?" he asked, softer now.

She avoided his eyes.

And that's when Ishan understood.

This wasn't her choice.

---

💥 1 Hour Later

Anika's room.

The bridal lehenga lay untouched.

The window is slightly open.

Balcony curtain moving in the wind.

And the bride?

Gone.

On the dressing table - a note.

> "I'm sorry. I can't marry someone who doesn't even know me."

Ishan stared at it.

Then he laughed.

Low.

Dangerous.

"Mr. CEO... congratulations."

Alright.

The music stopped.

Whispers spread like fire.

"The bride is missing."

"Sharma ji ki beti bhaag gayi?"

"Gill Enterprises ka insult..."

Shubman stood in the center of the mandap.

Still.

Cold.

Jaw tight.

Fire of the havan reflecting in his eyes.

His mother whispered urgently.

His father's voice is sharp with humiliation.

"This wedding will happen."

Across the hall-

Ishan leaned against a pillar, half amused, half annoyed.

"See? I told you arranged marriages are trash."

He was about to walk away.

But then-

Shubman's gaze locked onto him.

Direct. Calculating.

Predatory calm.

Ishan frowned.

"Why is he looking at me like that?"

Shubman walked down the steps of the mandap.

Slow. Controlled. Each step is deliberate.

Guests parted automatically.

He stopped in front of Ishan.

"You're her brother."

"Unfortunately," Ishan smirked.

Shubman leaned slightly closer.

"You care about your sister?"

The smirk faded.

"...Yes."

"Then fix what she broke."

Ishan scoffed. "What do you want me to do? Wear the lehenga?"

Silence.

Shubman's expression did not change.

And that's when Ishan understood.

"...You're insane."

Behind them, the elders had already started whispering.

"Family alliances must not break."

"The media will destroy both houses."

"Same family. Younger sibling."

Ishan laughed once.

Sharp.

"You people are unbelievable."

Their father stepped forward.

"This marriage will happen. Or forget you have a family."

There it was.

The emotional blackmail.

The reputation.

The pressure.

The cage.

Ishan looked around.

No friends.

No sister.

No escape.

Shubman extended his hand.

Not gently.

Not cruelly.

Just commanding.

"Come."

Ishan stared at that hand.

"I hate you."

"I know."

Another whisper from the crowd.

"The media is outside."

And that was it.

Ishan grabbed Shubman's wrist instead.

"If you think you can control me after this-"

Shubman leaned closer, voice low.

"I don't want control."

"Then what?"

"Discipline."

Fire cracked loudly in the havan.

And under the suffocating weight of family honour-

Shubman pulled him toward the mandap.

Not violently.

But firmly.

Like sealing a business deal.

---

💍 THE MARRIAGE RITUAL

Priest trembling.

Guests shocked.

Phones recording.

Ishan sits there in his black kurta, furious.

Shubman calm.

Cold.

Unreadable.

When it was time for the garland-

Ishan muttered, "If you smile, I swear-"

"I do

n't smile."

Good.

The pheras began.

Seven circles.

Seven promises neither of them believed in.

But when the final mantra echoed-

Something shifted.

Not love.

Not acceptance.

War.

To be continue....

.

.

.

.

.

Author's note

Double update today

.

.

.

.

.

Vote, comment

.

.

.

.

.

Stay tuned 😉