A month. It has been exactly a month since I got engaged, and now, here I sit, motionless, while the makeup artist works on my face, brushing, blending, creating a flawless illusion. It’s ironic, really. How easy it is to mask imperfections with a few strokes of a brush. How effortlessly one can conceal tired eyes, unshed tears, and the burden of an unwilling heart.

Today, I am getting married. Again.

Marriage with ARAAV RAGHUVANSHI

The weight of that word presses heavily against my chest, but I refuse to let it crack me. I have built my walls too high, reinforced them with steel so that nothing,no emotion, no fleeting sentiment can slip through.

Love? I scoff at the mere thought of it. Once upon a time, I had believed in it, in its warmth, its promises, its forever. I had walked down an aisle with a heart brimming with dreams, with eyes that saw only a future painted in hues of passion and companionship.

And where did that lead me? To ruin. To betrayal. To a place where I learned, the hard way, that love is nothing but an illusion crafted by hopeful hearts and foolish minds.

This time, there is no love. There are no foolish expectations. This marriage is not a union of souls but a transaction. A contract bound by signatures, not feelings. A necessity for the welfare of the company. A business deal disguised as a sacred vow. And I, Tanvi Singhania, am about to become Mrs. Araav Raghuvanshi not because my heart yearns for him, but because the world we live in demands it.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes scanning over the elaborate bridal attire, the heavy jewelry adorning my body, the flawless makeup. I look the part a beautiful, glowing bride. But beneath the surface, I am anything but.

Love. The word itself tastes bitter on my tongue. It has become a hollow concept, a cruel joke. I have seen what love does it promises everything and delivers nothing but heartbreak. It whispers sweet nothings and leaves behind an unbearable void. I have felt its sting, the way it builds you up only to shatter you into a thousand irreparable pieces.

I used to believe in love, in its fairytale-like magic, in the idea that two people could choose each other and never falter. That belief was my greatest mistake. Because love is not real. It is an illusion, a beautifully packaged lie sold to naive hearts who don't know any better.

I learned my lesson.

I no longer dream of love. I do not crave affection, do not seek warmth in another’s embrace. My heart is not just guarded it is unyielding, encased in ice so thick that no force, no man, no whispered promise can ever thaw it. I do not want to feel. Feelings are a weakness, a vulnerability that leaves you exposed to pain. And I refuse to be weak again.

This marriage? It is merely a necessity. A step forward in the game of power and business. Araav Raghuvanshi is nothing more than a name on a contract, a man who serves a purpose in this grand scheme. And I will fulfill my role with precision. I will be the perfect wife in the eyes of society, but my heart what remains of it will remain mine and mine alone. That's what I say to myself

As the makeup artist adds the finishing touches, I take one last look at myself. A bride, but not a woman in love. A wife, but not a woman with dreams of forever.

Love is a myth, and I have no interest in chasing illusions.

ARAAV'S POV

Today is the day.

The day I finally get to call her mine not just in my heart, not just in my thoughts, but in every way that matters. Today, I am marrying the love of my life.

Five years. It has been exactly five years since I first laid eyes on her, since she unknowingly carved a space for herself in the deepest parts of my soul. January 30, 2020,etched into my memory like an unbreakable bond, a sacred date that changed everything. And now, five years later, on the very same day, she is becoming my wife.

But she doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know that from the moment I met her, I have been utterly, irrevocably, and maddeningly in love with her. That every glance, every word, every moment I spent with her only strengthened the obsession that has consumed me for years. That I have watched over her, protected her from the shadows, ensuring that no harm ever reaches her even when she was never mine to claim.

She doesn’t know that when she fell in love with another man, I let her go.

It broke me. It shattered me in ways I never thought possible. Watching her smile at him, love him, marry him it felt like someone had reached into my chest and ripped my heart out with their bare hands. But I stayed away. I convinced myself that her happiness mattered more than my own, that if he was the one she had chosen, then I had no right to interfere.

I was wrong.

He didn’t deserve her. He ruined her. He took her love, her trust, her dreams, and crushed them beneath his feet. He turned the woman who once radiated warmth and hope into someone who no longer believes in love, in marriage, in forever. He made her fragile, a ghost of the woman she was meant to be.

And I swear, on everything I have, that I will fix what he broke.

This time, I am not letting her go.

This time, she is mine.

I don’t care if she doesn’t believe in love anymore. I don’t care if she sees this marriage as nothing but a business deal. I don’t care if she tries to build walls between us. Because I will break through every single one of them. I will remind her what it feels like to be cherished, to be adored, to be worshipped. I will show her what it means to be loved not in the way she experienced before, not in the fleeting, destructive way that shattered her, but in a way that consumes, that heals, that lasts.

She can push me away, she can fight me, she can pretend that love doesn’t exist but I am not backing down.

Because she is mine to protect.

Mine to love.

Mine to fuck.

Mine in every way possible.

She doesn’t know it yet, but I am going to make her fall in love again.

I will gather every broken piece of her heart, every fragment of the woman she once was, and I will put them back together. Not as they were before, but into something stronger, something unbreakable.

A masterpiece.

Because that is what she is to me an unfinished work of art, waiting to be completed, waiting to be adored the way she deserves.

And I am the only man who will ever have the privilege of doing so.

The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood and roses, the sacred hymns of the priest filling the grand mandap. The fire in the center crackles, casting a golden glow on the people gathered around. But my eyes, my thoughts, my entire existence, are fixated on one thing,her.

The auspicious time has arrived. Any moment now, she will walk in, and the reality of this moment will settle in my bones. She will no longer be just Tanvi Singhania. She will be mine.

I inhale deeply, my fingers curling into fists to suppress the impatience bubbling within me. I have waited five long years for this day. A few more minutes shouldn’t feel this unbearable, yet here I am restless, eager, desperate.

Then, she arrives.

My heart stutters, the breath catching in my throat as I see her stepping towards me. Draped in the most exquisite red lehenga, adorned in gold embroidery, the fabric hugs her body in all the right places, as if it was woven just for her. The sheer veil covers her face, but I can still make out the delicate curve of her lips, the graceful way she walks, her every step making my pulse pound harder.

Mine.

She looks like a dream, a vision crafted by the gods themselves, and the fact that she is about to become my wife, my responsibility, my everything,it sends a fierce wave of possessiveness through me. No one, no one, will ever hurt her again. She is under my protection now, and I will destroy anyone who dares to even think of breaking her.

She comes to stand beside me, her presence igniting something primal in me. The priest begins chanting the mantras, his voice steady and rhythmic, but I barely hear him. My focus is solely on her. My hands itch to reach for her, to hold her close, to whisper in her ear that she is safe now, that she is mine, and she will never have to suffer again.

But I wait.

The sacred rituals proceed, and my patience wears thinner with each passing second. My mind doesn’t care for the formalities. I want her bound to me already. I want to claim her in every way possible.

And then, the priest signals for the mangalsutra to be given to me.

A symbol of marriage, a sacred promise. I take the black-and-gold beaded necklace in my hands, my grip firm as I lift it. She bows her head slightly, allowing me to place it around her neck. As my fingers brush against her skin, a shiver runs through her, but she remains silent. My lips twitch in satisfaction.

With deliberate slowness, I tie the sacred thread, sealing our bond. Mine.

Then comes the moment I’ve been waiting for, the unveiling.

With steady hands, I take the edge of her ghoonghat, lifting it gently, savoring every second. And then fuck.

She is breathtaking.

Her eyes, deep pools of emotions she refuses to voice, lock onto mine. Her lips, painted a deep shade of red, part slightly, as if she, too, is overwhelmed. The golden glow from the fire highlights the contours of her face, making her look almost ethereal. I have always known she is beautiful, but seeing her like this, as my wife, is something else entirely.

I don’t realize I am staring until my mother’s voice breaks the spell.

“Araav, fill her maang with sindoor.”

A slow smirk tugs at my lips as I dip my fingers into the crimson powder. Mine, the thought repeats in my head. This moment it is mine to cherish, mine to relish.

Bringing my hand to her forehead, I gently part her hair and fill it with the deep red sindoor, marking her as my wife in the most sacred way. As the powder settles, I see her chest rise and fall, and then a single tear slips down her cheek.

Something in my chest tightens painfully.

I can’t have that. I can’t let my wife cry, not today, not ever.

Leaning slightly, I murmur in a teasing voice, “This is the last time you cry, Mrs. ARAAV RAGHUVANSHI. Because from now on, you belong to me. And I don’t let what’s mine cry.”

I mean every damn word.

She blinks at me, then, she retorts, “Oh, please. I’m crying because I just signed up for a lifetime of d

ealing with you.”

A chuckle rumbles from my chest, amused, yet absolutely enchanted by this fiery woman.

My woman,My wife