The mansion grew louder as evening fell.
Voices. Footsteps. Laughter that didn't belong to me.
I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the plain kurta I had worn that morning. I had nothing else to change into — my entire life fit inside a small bag back at the hospital.
My mother's medical file…
A half-broken phone charger…
Three pairs of clothes…
Nothing matched the elegance of this house.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.
A maid stood outside, eyes lowered politely. "Madam, Ma'am has requested your presence at the dining table."
Requested.
But her eyes said ordered.
I nodded, and she stepped aside as I followed her downstairs.
The dining hall looked like something pulled out of a royal movie — a long polished table, chandeliers, silver cutlery, and people who looked like they belonged here.
People who looked up the moment I entered…
and immediately wished they hadn't.
Whispers fluttered around the room like tiny knives.
"That's her?"
"Impossible."
"He actually married… this?"
Heat crawled up my neck, but I forced myself to walk toward the table.
Riyan sat at the head, checking something on his phone, completely detached from the scene around him. As if my existence was a background sound he'd learned to ignore.
The woman from earlier — the one in the silk saree — sat beside him. She gave me a cold, unreadable look.
"Sit," she said, barely moving her lips.
I sat at the far end of the table, as if distance could hide how misplaced I was.
A middle-aged man across from me adjusted his glasses and spoke loudly, making sure everyone heard:
"So, you are… the wife?"
He said "wife" like it tasted bitter.
"Yes," I replied softly.
He chuckled. "Unbelievable. Riyan, what were you thinking? Marrying someone without our approval? Without even informing us?"
Riyan didn't respond.
The woman beside him snapped, "Are you going to say nothing?"
He placed his phone down slowly.
Then lifted his eyes.
"To my family," he said calmly, "my decisions are not up for discussion."
Silence.
But it wasn't acceptance —
it was anger simmering under polished manners.
A young girl around my age leaned forward, curiosity burning in her eyes.
"So, Aarvi," she said sweetly, "where did you study?"
"Government college," I replied honestly.
"Oh."
The disappointment in her voice was sharp.
"And what do your parents do?"
My heart stumbled.
"My father passed away. My mother is unwell."
A small mocking laugh escaped her lips before she covered it with a cough.
"I see… how unfortunate."
Her words pierced more deeply than intended.
Or maybe she intended exactly that.
The woman in the silk saree suddenly spoke.
"A girl from an ordinary background, no social standing, no wealth… and she's now a Malhotra? Riyan, this is a joke, right?"
I lowered my eyes, trying to swallow the sting.
Riyan didn't defend me.
His silence balanced somewhere between indifference and quiet fury — but not for me.
For them.
He cut his mother off. "This discussion is unnecessary."
She leaned back, visibly offended.
"This marriage doesn't match our status. Everyone will question it."
He finally looked straight at me — not kindly, not cruelly, just a calculated warning.
"She knows the terms of this arrangement. That is enough."
Another reminder.
I wasn't a wife.
Just an arrangement he made in desperation or anger… I still didn't know which.
The food was served, but I could barely breathe, let alone eat.
As the meal went on, I kept my eyes low, avoiding the curious, judgmental glances thrown my way.
Then suddenly—
A servant walking behind me tripped slightly.
The jug he held wobbled —
and cold water splashed across my shoulder and lap.
A sharp gasp echoed around the table. My breath hitched as the cold soaked through the fabric.
The servant panicked. "I—I'm so sorry, madam—"
Before I could respond, the woman in the saree snapped at him,
"Are you blind? Look what you've done!"
I shook my head quickly. "It's okay—really—"
"It is NOT okay," she barked. "This is why we don't—"
"Enough."
Riyan's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
Everyone fell silent.
He didn't look at me.
He didn't look at the servant.
He simply stated, "Accidents happen. Clean it up."
The servant rushed for tissues, apologizing repeatedly.
But the stares…
those didn't stop.
The humiliation burned hotter than the water ever could.
When dinner finally ended, I stood to excuse myself.
That's when his mother spoke again.
"Riyan," she said coldly, "I hope you understand the consequences of this marriage. We are a respected family. Don't ruin us with impulsive decisions."
Riyan's jaw tightened.
Then he said something that made the entire room stiffen.
"I didn't marry her for respect. I married her for a reason."
My heart froze.
His family exchanged puzzled, alarmed looks.
But he didn't explain.
Instead, he stood, nodded once, and walked away.
I followed him silently upstairs, my clothes still damp, my dignity barely stitched together.
Halfway up, he suddenly stopped.
I almost bumped into him.
He didn't turn to face me — but his voice was low, unreadable.
"If you can't handle tonight," he said, "you won't survive what comes next."
My throat tightened painfully.
"I wasn't expecting kindness," I whispered.
His shoulders tensed…
just for a second.
Then he replied,
"I wasn't offering any."
And he walked away.
Leaving me alone in a house full of strangers…
and a marriage full of shadows.