ISHAN'S POV

The mandap still smells like burnt ghee and betrayal.

I sit there, dressed in ivory silk I didn't choose, under flowers I didn't approve, in a wedding that was never meant to be mine.

My kurta fits me poorly.

Across the sacred fire stands Shubman Gill.

India's disciplined golden boy.

Captain Chaos.

Corporate sponsor's favorite son-in-law.

And currently-

my husband.

His face is unreadable. Not angry. Not shocked. Not even annoyed.

Just... controlled.

Like this was a boardroom acquisition and not a life.

The priest chants.

My mother cries.

My father avoids eye contact.

My sister?

Vanished.

Gone.

Eloped.

Left a letter.

"I'm sorry."

Sorry?

SORRY?!

I tighten my jaw as the sindoor touches my hairline.

The crowd claps.

Somewhere in the back, my so-called best friends are definitely recording this for blackmail.

I want to die.

Or commit murder.

Still deciding.

---

The photographers won't stop flashing lights in our faces.

"Sir, look at your husband."

"Sir, one romantic pose."

"Sir, hold his hand."

I glare.

Shubman doesn't.

He gently but firmly places his hand around my wrist.

Not affectionate.

Not rough.

Just controlled.

Like he owns the situation.

Like he owns me.

I lean closer and whisper through clenched teeth.

"This isn't funny."

"I'm aware," he replies calmly.

His voice is low. Even. Infuriatingly steady.

"You can still cancel this," I hiss.

"No, I can't."

"You're India's most disciplined cricket star. You could sneeze and the media would spin it as divine strategy."

He finally looks at me.

Directly.

His eyes are sharp. Assessing.

"This marriage protects both our families," he says quietly. "Emotions are irrelevant."

Emotions are irrelevant.

Oh.

OH.

I pull my wrist out of his grip.

"Good," I snap. "Because I don't have any for you."

Lie.

I have one.

Violence.

---

The Car Ride

Silence.

Thick.

Heavy.

He scrolls through his phone.

Probably checking stock markets.

Or team schedules.

Or divorce laws.

I stare out the window.

"I had a match next week," I mutter.

"You'll still play," he replies.

"Oh? And what do I tell the media? 'Sorry guys, got accidentally married while picking up milk'?"

His lips twitch.

Twitch.

Is that-

Is he trying not to smile?

"You're dramatic," he says.

"You married me."

"You replaced your sister."

"I did not volunteer!"

"You still said yes."

Because my father's blood pressure dropped.

Because my mother fainted.

Because the press was outside.

Because reputation matters more than happiness.

I cross my arms.

"I hate you."

He nods once.

"That's fine."

Excuse me?

That's fine?!

"You're not even angry?" I demand.

He finally turns fully toward me.

"I don't waste energy on things I can't control."

The car stops at his mansion.

Correction.

Our mansion.

I stare at the enormous gates opening.

This feels like entering prison.

He steps out first.

Perfect posture.

Perfect composure.

Perfect nightmare.

I follow.

The staff lines up.

"Welcome home, sir. Welcome home, sir."

Sir.

I gag internally.

Inside, the house is silent and massive.

Cold marble floors.

High ceilings.

Minimalist.

Disciplined.

Just like him.

A staff member gestures nervously.

"Sir... your room has been prepared."

Your room.

Singular.

I look at Shubman.

He looks at me.

"We'll share," he says calmly.

WHAT.

"No," I say immediately.

"Yes."

"This is forced marriage, not forced cohabitation."

He steps closer.

Not aggressive.

Not loud.

Just inevitable.

"You can sleep on whichever side you want."

That's not the point!

I glare up at him.

"Touch me and I'll break your fingers."

"Understood."

And then-

he walks past me toward the master bedroom like this is the most normal thing in the world.

I stand frozen in the hallway.

I, Ishan Sharma-

international cricketer.

Media darling.

Chaos incarnate.

Have been legally, socially, and spiritually trapped.

And the worst part?

He doesn't look even slightly disturbed.

Which means-

Either he's hiding it extremely well.

Or...

He planned for this possibility.

I swallow.

Maybe I shouldn't have called him jaala

hua kajur ka peir.

Maybe I should have called him something worse.

Because as I step into that massive bedroom-

I realize something terrifying.

This disciplined, emotionless man...

is watching me.

Not with hatred.

Not with annoyance.

But with quiet calculation.

And that's far more dangerous.