Meera stood in her bathrobe, clutching the saree as if it were a lifeline. Her mind raced, but no solution presented itself. She was paralyzed by uncertainty. Shaurya's sharp voice cut through her fog of thoughts like a blade.

"Why aren't you ready yet?" he demanded, impatience etched into every line of his face. "I told you to be ready on time, Meera."

"I... I'm sorry," Meera stuttered, flinching from the edge in his voice. "There are only sarees and night suits here. I-I don't know how to wear a saree."

Shaurya's eyes narrowed in irritation. "Go change into the underskirt and blouse," he instructed, waving a dismissive hand. Meera's eyes widened, panic flickering like a small flame within her.

"I—I m-mean I-y-you," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

With an exasperated sigh, Shaurya crossed the room to the closet, pulling out his own clothes. "I'm taking a shower. You have fifteen minutes to change and do whatever kind of makeup you want. Don't test my patience any further."

As the bathroom door closed behind him, Meera flinched and her heart pounded like a drum in her chest. She quickly slipped into the underskirt and blouse, fingers trembling. Her hands hovered over Shaurya's shirts. Hesitantly, she chose one, slipping it on and fastening the buttons with clumsy fingers. The shirt was her shield, flimsy though it might be, against the thought of standing before him half-dressed.

She sat before the mirror, applying minimal makeup with shaking hands, thoughts spiraling back to how she was going to live her entire life with someone who was annoyed just by mere presence of hers. The whole ordeal made her feel like a burden on Shaurya.

With her own father desperate to kill her made her feel completely unwanted and abandoned. Her only hope was to contact her brother. He was the only one she could trust.

After what you did even your brother ran away to protect his reputation leaving us to deal with this cruel society... again

Her mother's word rang in her ear wounding her soul, yet she still held on to that one percent of hope.

The bathroom door opened startling her and dragging her back to her present , Shaurya emerged in a cloud of steam, a towel slung low around his hips. Meera's cheeks flamed as she averted her eyes, a stranger to such intimate proximity with a man.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. What's wrong, butterfly?" Shaurya's voice was a smooth drawl as he approached, tilting her chin up with a finger. "Seen better?"

His words were a taunt, accusing her of some imagined indiscretion. Meera blinked back tears, trying to swallow the lump of humiliation rising in her throat.

"Give me the saree and remove the shirt," Shaurya ordered unbothered to her unease, his tone brooking no argument.

"W-what?" Meera's voice quivered with disbelief.

"With this shirt, how do you think I would make you wear the saree?" he hissed, eyes flashing.

Hands trembling, Meera obeyed, removing the shirt with deliberate slowness, feeling exposed beneath his gaze. Shaurya closed his eyes, a groan rumbling in his chest. Then, with unexpected gentleness, he took the saree and began draping it around her.

"Hold still," he murmured, guiding the fabric with practiced ease. Meera stood frozen, his hands a paradox of warmth and precision. The saree settled over her shoulders like the embrace of dusk, enveloping her in an intricate dance of color and texture.

"See? Not so hard," Shaurya said, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he tucked the final pleat. His fingers brushed against her waist, and a shiver traced its way down her spine.

The transformation was complete, but Shaurya wasn't finished. From a bag on the bed, he retrieved three items. The glint of a ring caught Meera's eye first, a delicate band that sparkled with an inner fire. Shaurya took her hand, sliding the ring onto her finger with a sense of ritual.

"Do you know why this is called the ring finger?" he asked, his voice low.

"N-no," Meera whispered.

"This finger's veins are said to be directly connected to the heart," Shaurya explained, his grip tightening. "This ring is a reminder that you are now my wife, and the only person to own your heart is me."

Meera nodded, his words a binding more potent than any vow spoken before witnesses. Her heart clenched under the weight of his assertion, a pulse of fear mingling with an inexplicable thrill.

Next, he took the vermilion, his movements deliberate as he filled her hairline with the vivid red powder. "This marks you as a married woman," he intoned. "A reminder of who you belong to."

The final symbol was the mangalsutra, a string of black beads and gold that he tied around her neck. "Never take it off," Shaurya said, his breath warm against her nape. "It shows the world who owns you."

Meera shuddered, the contact electric, as her thoughts danced back to her sister-in-law's words about these symbols representing love and devotion. Yet here, they felt like shackles.

"Remember, Meera, you are an Agnivanshi now. Meera Shaurya Pratap Agnivanshi. If I were you, I'd focus on the reputation of that name."

As Shaurya's fingers finished securing the mangalsutra around her neck, his possessive words about ownership and control felt heavy and suffocating. The symbols seemed to weigh her down, binding her to a future she hadn't chosen.

In that tense silence, Vikrant's voice cut through her thoughts with unwavering clarity

"Meera, you should never have to wear anything or act in a way that makes you uncomfortable. True Relationship respects who you are and values your individuality. Remember, Meera, you are your own person. You will always be Meera first before you are either a Rajvanshi or a Raizada . You don't have to carry the burden of upholding all the expectations in the name of protecting the reputation. Before being my wife or the Raizada's daughter-in-law, you will always be an individual with your own identity. Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise."

"Don't you have a mouth? Speak up," Shaurya seethed, his frustration simmering.

"J-ji, Shaurya, I understand," she managed, her voice a fragile thread.

"Good girl, wifey." He patted her head as if she were a compliant pet, then turned back to the closet.

.
.
.

They rode in silence to the car, Meera's mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. As they settled into the seats, Shaurya gave the driver an order, his voice slicing through the quiet.

"To the Rajvanshi mansion," he said, and Meera's breath hitched, anxiety coiling within her like a spring.