R U D R A K S H

I drive like a man possessed, the tires screeching as I take sharp turns.

'I can’t.'

Her trembling voice echoes in my mind, refusing to leave. That shakiness, that vulnerability, it did something to me I didn’t want to admit.

She didn’t say she wouldn’t. She said she couldn’t. There’s a difference. And that difference tells me she’s trapped in this.

The images flood back. Sitara talking to Rohan, her hesitant smile, and then him attempting to shake her hand. The memory alone sends a wave of rage surging through me.

I wanted to break his fingers. Snap them one by one. How dare he even think about touching her? Her hands are too pure.

That fucker...

The past week has been hell. Ever since the talks of Rohan’s marriage started with Sitara’s name attached, anger has been my constant companion. A fire that burns hotter every time I hear her name in the same breath as his.

I’ve always had anger issues. They’ve been a part of me since I was a kid, simmering under the surface, waiting for the right moment to explode.

But this... this is different. This isn’t anger. It’s something darker, more primal.

I pull into the office parking lot, kill the engine, and storm into the building. I head straight for my private room, shutting the door behind me with force.

And then I pace.

Sitara.

Why the fuck would she agree? Why would she even consider marrying him?

Hell, why would she marry anyone?

A low growl escapes me, I fling my coat away, and I turn to my punching bag, fists flying with unrelenting fury. Each strike carries the weight of my frustration, my confusion.

You don’t know that girl, Rudraksh.

Doesn’t matter. I don’t want my brother or any man, for that matter anywhere near her.

Ten meters. That’s the closest anyone with a dick gets to her.

Exhausted, I stop and lean against the punching bag, my chest heaving as I try to steady my breath.

My knuckles throb, but I barely notice. The anger is still simmering beneath the surface, refusing to die down.

Pulling out my phone, I scroll to a number and press call.

The line connects on the first ring.

"Keep an eye on him," I say coldly to my private investigator, my voice devoid of any emotion.

There’s no need for further explanation. He knows who I’m talking about.

Before he can respond, I end the call.

One mistake. That’s all it’ll take and he'll be done.

S I T A R A

“How about this one?” Mamma picks up a orange saree with gold borders and places it against my chest.

I nod politely, though the color doesn’t excite me.

We came dress shopping as Nandini Ma insisted that all the expenses would be under her. Everything from the wedding to all the extras.

Before I can say anything, Bua, my father’s younger sister, comes over with a light yellow saree and drapes it over me.

“This one’s better,” she says, beaming as Mihika nods enthusiastically.

I try not to frown. The yellow is far too bright for my liking. It doesn’t suit me. It’s too overwhelming.

“What do you think, Sita?” Ma asks, her gaze shifting between me and Bua, who looks expectantly at me.

“I think we should choose another—” I begin, but Bua cuts me off.

“Bullshit! This color looks perfect on you!” she declares, adjusting the saree as if her opinion is final.

“How about this?” Nandini Ma suggests, holding up a dark purple saree adorned with sequins on the borders. It’s elegant and sophisticated, the kind of saree that commands attention.

Bua clicks her tongue in disapproval. “That won’t suit her. Light colors are better for dark skin, Behenji,” she retorts, her tone dismissive.

I let out an internal sigh, feeling the familiar frustration bubble up.

“She’s not dark, Didi. She’s brown. There’s a difference,” Ma says, glaring at her sister-in-law.

Why is one skin tone always deemed inferior to another? Why is it that every time I shop for clothes, I’m told to stick to light colors? Why am I not allowed to choose the shades I love?

My eyes land on a rich, dark red saree with intricate golden embroidery along the borders. The fabric shimmers subtly under the light, its ornate detailing catching my attention.

I can’t take my eyes off it.

Amidst the ongoing argument, I quietly pick up the saree and drape it over my chest. I step in front of the mirror, adjusting it carefully.

It’s beautiful. So beautiful that my lips part in wonder.

I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, tilting my head to take in the full effect. And then, I feel an intense gaze burning into me.

I glance in the mirror and see him.

Rudraksh.

He’s seated beside Rohan, who is too absorbed in his phone game to notice anything. But Rudraksh isn’t looking at his phone. His dark eyes are fixed on me, studying me with an expression I can’t decipher.

A shiver runs down my spine when our eyes meet. His gaze is piercing, unyielding.

Before I can react, the saree is yanked out of my hands so fast, breaking the spell.

I turn to see Bua tossing it aside like it’s contaminated. “Chi chi chi. That won’t suit you! Look at the color!” she says, her lips curling in disapproval.

My heart aches as Bua drapes the light yellow saree over me, her satisfaction palpable.

"Rohan beta?" she calls, her voice loud enough to yank my future husband out of his phone trance.

Rohan looks up, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. His gaze flickers between us, realizing all eyes are on him.

"What?" he asks, his tone impatient.

"How about this?" Bua presses the saree against me, emphasizing her choice as if it’s the only option.

Rohan gives me a once-over, then shrugs. "Yeah, that's the one." He nods lazily, his attention already back on his phone.

Bua’s grin stretches wider. “See? Your future husband agrees!” She practically beams as she hands the saree to the salesman. “Pack this.”

I stare at my hands, the words of protest dying in my throat.

“Tada!” Mihika’s voice rings out, turning everyone’s attention toward her.

She strides in, draped in a stunning deep blue saree, looking radiant. The fabric clings to her gracefully, making her seem like a movie star who has just walked off the set.

Bua gasps dramatically. “My beautiful daughter,” she says, her eyes misting with tears.

Everyone shifts their focus to Mihika as she twirls, showing off the flowing pallu with an air of playful confidence.

“You look beautiful,” Rohan says, his eyes fixed on her now, the phone in his hand entirely forgotten.

Mihika’s cheeks flush, a soft red blooming across them. “Thanks,” she replies with a shy smile.

“The earrings suit you perfectly, Mihika,” Ma adds, her admiration clear.

“You should try this one too,” Nandini Ma offers, holding up the purple saree. “It would look stunning on you.”

I let out a quiet sigh, my gaze dropping to the floor as their cheerful chatter fills the room.

My heart tightens as I watch them fawn over her beauty. Rohan, my mother, everyone. A sharp pang of jealousy creeps into my chest, uninvited and unwelcome.

And then guilt.

How can I feel this way? Mihika is like my sister. How could I let envy cloud that bond?

My eyes stray to the red saree once more. Its rich color and intricate golden embroidery call to me. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

When no one is looking, I pick it up carefully, holding it close to admire the craftsmanship. But when I flip the border to check the price, my heart nearly stops.

Nine lakhs ninety-five thousand?

I drop it like it’s scorching hot, the number searing into my mind.

Quietly, I step back, slipping behind Ma to avoid drawing attention to myself. I stand there awkwardly, waiting as everyone continues to gush over Mihika, my presence all but forgotten.

A throat clearing pulls me from examining the rows of beautiful dresses. I glance up, only to meet dark eyes boring into mine.

I immediately look away, pretending to focus on the fabric, while he feigns interest in the clothes beside me.

In my peripheral vision, I see him leaning closer. His voice is low, almost a whisper, "You can still back out of this marriage."

I bite down on my lip, steadying myself before moving closer and whispering back, "No."

For a moment, I think he’ll walk away, but he leans down again, his breath brushing my ear. "You'll regret this, angel," he murmurs, his tone laced with quiet warning.

Before I can ask why he hates me so much, he walks away, leaving me staring at his back in confusion.

⭐

"I am in love with you, Neha Ganguli," Nikhil declares, kneeling in front of her with a bouquet of roses in his hands.

Neha gasps, covering her mouth with her hands as though she’s caught completely off guard. Around them, a crowd begins to gather, phones already out, recording every second of this spectacle.

"N-Nikhil," she stammers, blinking at him in mock surprise. "What is this?" Her gaze darts around at the onlookers before settling on him again.

"Will you accept my love?" Nikhil asks, holding out the flowers toward her with an eager smile that feels too plastic.

Neha's eyes meet mine briefly, and in that fleeting moment, her lips curl into a triumphant grin. Then she looks back down at him, her expression softening into one of coy delight.

"Yes! A million times yes!" she exclaims, taking the bouquet from his hands and pulling him into an embrace.

The crowd erupts into cheers and applause, the sound echoing across the courtyard.

"Thank God," Nikhil mutters as he pulls back, revealing a faint bruise on his cheekbone.

A souvenir from Krish and Ahana’s protective intervention when I wasn’t there.

"Fucker," Krish mutters beside me, his jaw tight as he glares at Nikhil. Without Ahana here as she’s with her sister-in-law, who just gave birth, it’s just the two of us today.

I can’t bear to watch anymore. My heart clenches painfully, and without a word, I turn and walk away.

Footsteps follow me, and as I reach the gardens, a hand catches my arm, stopping me in my tracks.

"Hey, stop," Krish says, his voice firm but gentle.

I turn to face him, my vision blurred with unshed tears.

"Shit, you’re crying?" he asks, his expression shifting to one of concern.

"It’s nothing," I reply, wiping hastily under my glasses.

"It’s not nothing," he insists, pulling me further into the garden, away from prying eyes. He leans against a wall, his arms crossed. "Talk to me."

I hesitate. Krish and I have avoided this topic for so long. He didn’t push, and I didn’t bring it up, afraid of what he might think.

"There’s nothing to talk about," I mumble, looking down.

"I know you’re sad—"

"I’m not sad," I cut him off, my voice shaking with anger. "I’m furious."

Krish’s eyes widen slightly, but he nods for me to continue.

"I’m such a fool for trusting him. He just wanted to prove something to Neha, and he did at the expense of breaking me." My voice cracks as tears slip down my cheeks.

"I did everything for him," I continue bitterly. "I wrote his assignments, helped him study, made notes for him. I even waited for hours after his cricket practices, no matter how late it got. I cared."

I look away, my chest heaving with the weight of my emotions. "But he was betting on me the entire time."

Krish looks down at his shoes, then back at me. "It’s not your fault, Sita," he says softly. "You believed what he showed you. That’s not on you."

I let out a shaky breath, unsure if I believe him.

"And how dare you think I’d judge you?" he adds, narrowing his eyes.

"I just thought—"

"You smarty pants," he interrupts, clutching his chest dramatically. "After all this time, you think I’d judge you? I’m offended."

A small smile tugs at my lips. "You’re judgy anyway," I tease.

"If I judged you too hard, who would help me with my assignments?" he retorts, grinning.

I laugh softly, the tension easing. "I really thought you wouldn’t talk to me again," I admit.

"Aw, come here, my sweet little pumpkin," he says, pulling me into a bear hug.

"Eww. Let go, you idiot," I protest, laughing as I try to wriggle free.

"Never," he declares. "You’re my pumpkin, and Ahana’s my potato."

"Rude," I huff, still smiling.

Why can't I fall in love with someone like Krish. Sweet and kind?

Because you were too desperate at the first sign of attention?

My subconscious mocks me.

Before I can push him away, Krish is suddenly ripped away from me.

A loud crack echoes as someone's fist connects with Krish’s jaw, sending him stumbling to the ground.

"Krish!" I scream, rushing toward him, but I’m stopped as the same person pulls me back.

The scent of sandalwood and leather floods my senses, and I know who it is before I even look up.

Rudraksh stands in front of me, his broad shoulders shielding me as if from danger. His eyes burn with fury as he grabs Krish by the collar, pulling him upright.

"How dare you touch her." Rudraksh growls, his voice like thunder. And punches him. Again.

Oh no.

To be continued...