The haveli was louder than ever—music, colors, rituals, laughter. But Mugdha moved through it all like a shadow wrapped in silk.

She smiled when people expected her to. She posed for the family photos . She let mehendi stain her hands with Chirag’s name. But inside her? Silence.

Her cousins teased her. Her mother wept with joy. Her father looked happy. Her Badi Maa didn’t taunted her.
But Mugdha?
She floated—unanchored, like a lantern drifting far from home.

Each day, Akhand’s words echoed:

“Mugdha… main tumse pyaar nahi karta.”

And each night, her own words whispered back:

“Aap sirf khud se bhaag rahe ho.”

She wasn’t crying anymore.
Tears require hope.
Mugdha had crossed that bridge.

Akhand buried himself in work. He refused to think of her.

The school blueprint.
The septic plan for the hospital.

But sometimes… in the middle of a quiet field, or under a neem tree’s shadow, or while drinking stale tea from Kaka’s tapri—he’d hear her laugh.
Or remember the way her voice broke when she said:

“Aap sirf khud se bhaag rahe ho.”

He shook it off.

"Discipline," he whispered to himself.
"She’ll forget me. That’s what she needs. That’s what's safe."

But safety had never felt so lonely.

The bridal lehenga lay across the bed—red and gold, heavy as destiny.

Outside, the haveli was lit like a palace.
Inside, Mugdha sat by her mirror—staring at her reflection without recognizing it.

A knock.

“Mugdha bitiya?” It was Dadi.
“Just one ritual left… to line your eyes with kohl. So evil doesn’t touch you.”

Mugdha nodded silently.

Dadi came in with a small silver box. But when she looked into her granddaughter’s eyes, she paused.

“Tu khush toh hai na, beta?”
(“Are you happy, child?”)

Silence.

Then Mugdha finally asked something she’d never dared to ask aloud:

“Dadi… aapne Dadaji se pyaar kiya tha? Ya sirf nibhaya tha?”

(Dadi... did you love Grandpa? Or did you just stay with him out of duty?)

Dadi blinked. No one had ever asked her that.

After a long pause, she said:

“Nibhaya. Pyaar ke liye kabhi waqt hi nahi mila.”

(I fulfilled my duty. Never really had the time for love.)

She stroked Mugdha’s hair.

Akhand hadn’t slept.

His shirt was wrinkled, eyes bloodshot, mind a mess of half-finished thoughts and full-blown regrets.

For days, he had convinced himself he did the right thing—that letting her go was the noble thing.

But nobility without honesty felt like a punishment.

Every time he tried to focus on blueprints, he ended up drawing her eyes.

Every time someone said "Sir?"—he heard her voice echo back:

"Aap sirf khud se bhaag rahe ho."

(You're just running away from yourself.)

He wasn’t running anymore.

Now? He was aching.

Flashback 

The moment she walked away from under the mango tree, something inside Akhand splintered.

He had stood there long after she disappeared. Long after the sky darkened. Long after the blueprint guys packed up and left.

He replayed her words in his head again and again—each sentence like a chisel, cracking open everything he thought he had buried.

And then suddenly—
He had turned.
Rushed forward.
But it was too late.
She was gone.

Present

He didn’t even know her full name.

All he knew was her eyes. Her voice. The tremble in her fingers when she held his hand.

He didn’t know where she lived, or which haveli she belonged to.

But something in him refused to sit still.

“Main usse dhoondh ke rahoonga.”
(“I will find her.”)

The haveli was a carnival of red and gold.
From the rooftops to the rose-petal covered pathways, every inch shimmered with celebration.

The shehnai played in the distance.
Guests arrived dressed in silks, laughter mingled with the scent of mogra and sandalwood.

But inside the bridal chamber—
It was silent.

Mugdha sat before the mirror, fully dressed as a bride.

But she wasn’t there.

The Reflection

Her eyes were rimmed with kohl.
Lips a perfect crimson.
Nose ring delicate.
Maang-tika glinting like a quiet crown.

The red and gold lehenga, carefully pleated and pinned by four women and two stylists, shimmered like a prison of sequins.

Everyone called her beautiful.

But she felt like a stranger.

Not a bride.
Not a daughter.
Not a person.

Just… a decorated silence.

She stared at herself.
No one else was in the room now.

She leaned slightly forward… and whispered to her reflection.

“Kya yeh main hoon?”
(“Is this… me?”)

“Ya sirf ek tasveer jo sabko dikhani thi?”
(“Or just a picture everyone wanted to show the world?”)

“Main hass rahi hoon… par andar se khali hoon.”
(“I’m smiling… but inside, I’m hollow.”)

“Main shaadi kar rahi hoon… uss aadmi se jo mujhe chhoone se pehle mujhe dekhta bhi nahi.”
(“I’m marrying a man who doesn’t even truly see me, let alone touch me with love.”)

She touched the mehendi on her palms.
Chirag’s name curved there like a chain.

“Yeh naam… mere haathon par toh likha hai, par meri kismat mein toh nahi.”
(“This name is written on my hand, but it isn’t in my fate.”)

“Main shaadi kar rahi hoon… lekin pyaar toh kahin aur reh gaya.”
(“I’m getting married… but my love was left behind somewhere else.”)

She paused. Her voice grew even quieter.

“Aur agar yeh shaadi ho gayi… toh main sirf Mugdha nahi rahungi.”
(“And if this marriage happens… I’ll no longer be Mugdha.”)

“Main ban jaungi kisi ki patni. Kisi ke liye ek trophy. Kisi ke ghar ki ‘izzat.’”
(“I’ll become someone’s wife. Someone’s trophy. Someone’s family’s ‘honor.’”)

Tears threatened to rise—but she stopped them.
Tears required hope.
She had let go of that days ago.

While the Bajwa were immersed in last-minute wedding chaos, someone else was plotting something darker.

Sahil Bajwa, slick in his designer kurta but anxious beneath it, paced his room like a man with too much debt and too little time.

He had already wasted money on failed investments, luxury bikes, and gambling. The pressure was building — and that land Akhand wanted for his school was his last shot.

50 lakhs.

That’s what Akhand had offered him.

But his father , Manohar Bajwa, had laughed in his face.

"Woh zameen t—
Woh toh usi ladke ko milegi jo Mugdha se shaadi karega."
(“That land — it goes to the man who marries Mugdha.”)

And that man was supposed to be Chirag.

Which meant… no deal with Akhand. No money. No future.

Unless…

He could switch the groom.

Later that afternoon, Sahil met with his two closest friends: Bunty and Farooq, both jobless, reckless, and loyal to the wrong kind of loyalty.

Sahil spread out his crude plan on a rumpled newspaper:

1. Kidnap Chirag before the wedding.
   
   

2. Drug him. Keep him quiet.
   
   

3. Force Akhand into the groom’s place.
   
   

4. Get the wedding done — legally binding.
   
   

5. Land transfers automatically.
   
   

6. Sell the land to Akhand — get the money — disappear.
   
   

Bunty scratched his head. “Par Akhand maanega kaise? Usko kaise fasaayenge?”
(“But how will Akhand agree? How will we trap him?”)

Sahil smirked.

“Nahi maanega. Toh hum banaayenge. Shaadi ke time, ghunghat ke peeche ladki hogi, aur sehra ke peeche ladka.Koi pehchaane bina mandap tak le jaayenge.”

(“He won’t agree. So we’ll make it happen. The bride’s face is covered… the groom's under a sehra. We’ll take him to the altar before anyone notices.”)

Farooq looked uneasy.

“Yeh toh kidnapping aur fraud dono hai.”
(“This is both kidnapping and fraud.”)

“Aur 50 lakh tere baap ne kabhi nahi diye honge.”
(“And your father never gave you 50 lakhs, did he?”)

The friends exchanged nervous glances.

But greed is louder than conscience.

The plan was in motion.

Two Hours Before the Wedding 

The sun had begun to melt behind the trees, painting the sky in deep orange.

Akhand stood under the same neem tree where he and Mugdha had once spoken about their dreams.

But this time, it wasn’t dreams waiting for him.

It was Sahil.

He stood near the water, pretending to be casual—hands in his pockets, a smirk barely hidden on his face.

Akhand approached cautiously.

Akhand: “You called. What do you want?”
Sahil (smiling): “Straight to business? I thought we could share some chai near our future school land.”

Akhand didn’t smile. His voice was flat.

“You said it was urgent. Related to land.”

Sahil shrugged.

Then he pulled something from his pocket—a cloth soaked in chloroform.

Before Akhand could react—
Farooq and Bunty grabbed him from behind.

A scuffle.
A muffled yell.

Akhand’s eyes widened—then glazed—then shut.

He collapsed.

Chirag was getting ready—golden sherwani, emerald brooch, hair styled to perfection.

He adjusted his cufflinks while his mother,Lajvanti devi, hovered nearby, fussing over details.

“Wait beta, let me put a tika for protection.”
“Maa sa, not now. I'm already late!”

He stormed out.

She followed him down the stairs but stopped suddenly as a black cat darted across the path.

Her face turned pale.

“Kali billi?!”

“Ruko! Bad omen! Don’t go now!”

She walked a few steps ahead to shoo the cat off.

Chirag, irritated, took the moment to slip away.

“Maa, enough with the superstitions. I’ll see you at the haveli.”

And with that, he jumped into his car and drove off—alone.

The road was narrow. Tree branches rustled in the wind.

Chirag was speeding, trying to make up for the delay.

But just as he crossed the mango orchard—

A black SUV suddenly swerved in front of him, blocking the road.

Before he could react—three masked men jumped out.

“What the hell is this?! Do you know who I am?!”

Chirag said angrily.

Too late.

One man smashed the window.

Another pulled the door open.

A chloroform cloth. A struggle. Muffled yelling.

Within seconds—Chirag slumped unconscious.

They shoved him into the SUV.

And his own car?

Pushed into a ditch.

The men disappeared into the night.

Lajvanti devi returned from the gate, confused.

“Chirag?! Where did he go?!”

A chill ran down her spine.

She called his phone.
No answer.

She called again.

Switched off.

She knew—something wasn’t right.

“That black cat… I told him.”

She rushed to alert others.

Akhand was dragged into a broken-down godown.
His hands tied. His mouth taped.

Farooq checked his pulse. “Still breathing.”

Sahil adjusted his collar in the cracked mirror nearby.

“Good. Now get him dressed. Groom-style. Fast.”
“By the time the wedding’s done—he’ll be legally Mugdha’s husband. And I’ll be legally rich.”

Farooq hesitated. “But what if he wakes up during the ceremony?”

Sahil pulled out a syringe.

“He won’t. One more dose, and he’ll be on autopilot.”

Mugdha sat dressed.
But not in silence this time.

She was alert. Restless. Eyes scanning every face.

Something was wrong.

Her cousins kept teasing her, her mother adjusted her dupatta for the tenth time, but Mugdha’s thoughts were elsewhere.

Dadi walked in.

“Tayyar ho ja beta?”
(“Are you ready, child?”)

Mugdha didn’t answer directly.

She stepped closer to the window… and caught a glimpse of the groom arriving.

Face covered.

Too stiff. Too silent.

Something was off.

Very off.

Mandap 

The drums roared.

The groom, now dressed in, was brought forward by Sahil and his men.

Everyone assumed it was Chirag.

But the groom didn’t say a word.

He stumbled slightly. Sahil covered it with a joke.

“He’s just nervous… first time as a groom and all.”

The crowd laughed.

But Mugdha?
Her eyes didn’t leave him.

His walk.
His silence.
The stiffness.

Her heart began to beat faster.

The mandap glowed under hundreds of flickering lamps.
Rose petals carpeted the pathway.
Guests, dressed in red and gold, murmured in excitement.
Drums boomed. Shehnai floated in the air like longing.

Mugdha descended the stairs, every bead on her lehenga like a reminder of promises she wasn’t sure were kept.

She reached the mandap. Underneath a heavy sehra — gold threads, dangling pearls — sat Akhand.
His face completely hidden. Still. Silent. Unresponsive.

Beside him, Sahil stood carefully, holding just enough distance so suspicion might faintly stir — but not enough to reveal the trick.

No one saw the subtle trembling of Akhand’s hands.
No one saw how he nearly slumped forward — how his cheek felt cold.
No one saw how strangers supported him when asked to hold his arm.

The pandit lifted his voice, beginning the mantras.

“Om shubh vivah… vivah samaarambh… …”

Mugdha walked the first phera, her heart pounding.
Akhand, guided by someone’s hand, followed.

She felt more than saw.
He was not there.

The rituals moved forward —
Phera by phera, vow by vow.

The mangalsutra: placed around her neck.
The sindoor: dotted on her forehead.
The photographer capturing smiles everywhere, but none from the groom beneath the sehra.

When the vivah was declared complete, when the priest spoke the final lines, the “you are husband and wife,” the guests erupted in cheers. Confetti flew. Fireworks lit up the sky.
But between her lips and her heart — everything felt hollow.

Amid the applause, Sahil drifted back, proud of his deceit.
But nobody celebrated the truth beneath the sehra.

—-

Sneak peek- Chapter 16

Chirag stumbled forward, bruised and shaking with rage.

“Main hoon asli dulha. Aur yeh—”
He pointed at the man under the sehra, still slumped, unmoving.
“—yeh kaun hai?”

(“I’m the real groom. And this—who is this?”)

Mugdha’s world spun.