The hours leading up to noon blurred into a surreal, agonizing haze of forced pampering.
True to Rudra's word, Nurse Aditi returned shortly after he left the master suite. Her cheerful demeanor was slightly subdued, perhaps sensing the heavy, suffocating shift in the room's atmosphere. She didn't ask questions about the tears drying on my cheeks or the vacant, dead look in my eyes. With gentle, professional efficiency, she helped me out of the massive bed and guided me towards the en-suite bathroom.
Calling it a bathroom was a severe understatement. It was a cavernous spa made of white marble and gleaming gold fixtures. The massive sunken tub was already filled with steaming water, infused with expensive bath oils that smelled of lavender and vanilla.
Because my hands were heavily bandaged, I was completely helpless. I had to endure the deep, burning humiliation of being undressed and bathed like a porcelain doll. Aditi carefully washed my hair, her fingers massaging my scalp, but the soothing sensation couldn't penetrate the thick layer of ice encasing my mind. I stared blankly at the marble tiles, my body numb, my spirit utterly crushed beneath the weight of my father's sins and Rudra's terrifying new game.
"Your back is deeply bruised," Aditi noted softly, her voice filled with quiet sympathy as she gently sponged warm water over the painful, dark purple marks left from my hours of scrubbing the library floors. "I will apply a specialized healing ointment before the stylists arrive. It will help with the inflammation."
"It doesn't matter," I whispered, the words echoing hollowly in the vast marble room. "None of it matters anymore."
Aditi sighed, wrapping me in a thick, heated towel the size of a large blanket. "You must try to find some strength, Ma'am. The people coming today... they are not like me. They are paid to create an illusion, and they will not care about the reality beneath it."
Her warning proved to be devastatingly accurate.
Exactly at noon, the heavy oak doors of the master suite were thrown open. A team of five people marched into the room, bringing with them a chaotic whirlwind of rolling racks, massive makeup cases, and an air of intense, superficial urgency.
They were led by a tall, impeccably dressed woman named Clara, who possessed sharp, bird-like features and eyes that coldly assessed every inch of my being as if I were a blank canvas rather than a human being.
"Oh, dear," Clara muttered, circling me as I sat in a velvet chair, wrapped in a silk robe Aditi had provided. She tutted disapprovingly, her manicured fingers lightly tilting my chin. "Pale skin, severe dark circles, chapped lips, and absolutely zero life in the eyes. Mr. Singh said we had our work cut out for us, but this is a complete overhaul. Girls, we have exactly four hours to turn this tragedy into the billionaire's breathtaking bride. Let's move!"
What followed was an invasion of my personal space so complete and overwhelming that I simply detached my mind from my body to survive it.
I was pulled, prodded, and polished. Two women attacked my wet, tangled hair with expensive serums and high-tech blow dryers, pulling the strands taut until my scalp ached, eventually styling it into an intricate, cascading waterfall of dark, glossy waves. Another woman focused entirely on my face, applying layer after layer of high-end cosmetics. She used heavy color correctors to completely erase the bruised purple shadows under my eyes, a remnant of my fever and exhaustion. She painted my cheekbones with a warm, rosy flush that I hadn't felt naturally in days, and stained my lips a deep, rich crimson.
They chattered incessantly amongst themselves—about high-society gossip, about the extravagant charity gala being hosted at the Grand Taj tonight, about the exclusive designer labels hanging on the rolling rack. They didn't speak to me. To them, I wasn't a traumatized young woman who had just discovered her father was a murderer. I was simply the billionaire's newest accessory, a project that needed to be completed perfectly to secure their hefty paychecks.
"Now, for the dress," Clara announced, clapping her hands together. She walked over to the rolling rack and dramatically unzipped a thick, black garment bag.
I stopped breathing.
It was a masterpiece of haute couture. A breathtaking, floor-length gown made of the deepest, richest midnight-blue silk. It was so dark it almost looked black, but when the light hit the fabric, it shimmered with a hidden, oceanic depth. The bodice was tightly fitted, completely encrusted with thousands of tiny, hand-sewn sapphire and silver crystals that caught the light like a cluster of distant stars.
"Custom-made by Sabyasachi, specifically ordered by Mr. Singh early this morning," Clara beamed, running her hands reverently over the glittering bodice. "It is designed to make you look like absolute royalty. Stand up, please."
With Aditi's careful assistance, I stepped into the heavy gown. As Clara zipped up the back, the dress hugged my fragile frame perfectly, instantly transforming my posture. The fabric was incredibly heavy, weighing me down like a beautiful suit of armor. Or a glamorous straightjacket.
"Perfect," Clara breathed, stepping back to admire her work. But her sharp eyes immediately zeroed in on my hands, which were still heavily wrapped in white, sterile medical gauze. The thick bandages violently clashed with the breathtaking elegance of the midnight-blue gown.
"The hands," Clara frowned, turning to one of her assistants. "Mr. Singh explicitly mentioned a solution for the bandages. Where is the box?"
The assistant quickly retrieved a flat, velvet box and opened it. Inside lay a pair of elbow-length, dark blue silk gloves, perfectly matched to the exact shade of the gown.
"Mr. Singh is truly a visionary," Clara praised, gently sliding the smooth, cool silk over my bandaged hands and up to my elbows. The gloves completely concealed the raw, bloody, infected reality of my knuckles. They hid the undeniable proof of Rudra's cruelty, replacing it with an image of high-society sophistication and vintage elegance.
It was a brilliant, sickeningly calculating move. He was making sure the world saw exactly what he wanted them to see: a pampered, flawless queen, not a broken, tortured prisoner.
"You may all leave."
The low, rumbling baritone cut through the chatter of the stylists like a sharp blade.
I looked up. Rudra was standing in the doorway of the master suite.
He was dressed in a classic, immaculate black tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders and lean waist with devastating perfection. The crisp white shirt, the black silk bowtie, the expensive platinum watch glinting on his wrist—he looked like a dark prince stepped straight out of a billionaire's fantasy.
The styling team immediately scrambled, packing up their massive cases with frantic, terrified speed. Clara offered a deep, respectful nod to Rudra before practically fleeing the room with her assistants in tow. Nurse Aditi quietly slipped out the side door, leaving us completely alone in the cavernous bedroom.
Rudra slowly walked towards me. His dark, obsidian eyes swept over me from head to toe, taking in the glossy, styled hair, the flawless, painted face, the glittering midnight-blue gown, and the silk gloves hiding my battered hands.
He stopped a few feet away, his expression completely unreadable.
"Turn around," he commanded softly.
I obeyed mechanically, turning my back to him, facing the massive, gilded floor-length mirror standing in the corner of the room.
I stared at the reflection, and a cold shudder violently racked my spine. I didn't recognize the woman looking back at me. The terrified, faded girl in the oversized cotton suit who had scrubbed the library floors was completely gone. In her place stood a stunning, flawless, breathtakingly beautiful woman who looked incredibly expensive, incredibly powerful, and incredibly dead inside.
"You look exactly the way I envisioned," Rudra murmured, his voice low and vibrating, stepping up right behind me.
I watched him in the mirror. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating from his large body, the intoxicating scent of cedarwood and dark spice wrapping around me, suffocating me. He didn't touch me, but his mere proximity was a heavy, dominant weight pressing down on my fragile shoulders.
He reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket and pulled out a long, flat, black velvet jewel case. He snapped it open.
Even in my numb, detached state, the sheer brilliance of the jewelry inside made my breath hitch. It was a massive, intricate necklace made entirely of flawless white diamonds, centered around a single, gargantuan, teardrop-shaped blue sapphire that perfectly matched the color of my gown. It was a piece of jewelry that belonged in a museum, worth tens of millions of dollars.
"My father will see the photographs of tonight's gala," Rudra said softly, his dark eyes meeting mine in the reflection of the mirror as he lifted the heavy diamond necklace from the velvet case. "He will see you wearing a dress that costs more than his entire legal defense fund. He will see you dripping in jewels that could buy a small country."
Rudra draped the cold, heavy diamonds around my neck. The freezing metal rested against my collarbones, the massive sapphire settling right in the hollow of my throat.
"And he will know," Rudra whispered, leaning down so his lips were mere inches from my ear, "that the daughter he sold to save himself is now living a life of unimaginable luxury, completely forgetting the family she left behind in the dirt."
He fastened the complex clasp at the nape of my neck. The click of the lock sounded terrifyingly like the closing of a prison cell door.
The necklace was incredibly heavy. It felt less like a piece of jewelry and more like a glittering, diamond-encrusted dog collar. A velvet trap binding me to the very monster my father had created.
"I look like a lie," I whispered, my voice trembling, unable to tear my eyes away from the stranger in the mirror.
"You look like my wife," Rudra corrected smoothly, his large hands settling firmly onto my bare shoulders, his long fingers pressing into my skin with a possessive, territorial grip. "And tonight, you will perform the role of your life. You will smile. You will hold my arm. You will look at me as if the sun rises and sets in my eyes. If any reporter asks, you are the happiest bride in the entire world."
He turned me around to face him. He looked down into my hollow, tear-stained eyes, his own gaze devoid of any warmth, any mercy.
"Do not fail me tonight," he warned, a dangerous, lethal edge returning to his low voice. "Remember who holds your father's life in his hands. Remember the paperwork sitting in my safe. One wrong word, one slip of the mask, and the police will be at his door before midnight."
"I understand," I replied, the two words draining the very last drop of fight from my soul.
Rudra offered his arm, the dark fabric of his tuxedo sleeve a stark contrast to the glittering jewels at my throat.
"Then let us go, Mrs. Singh," he said, a cruel, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "The world is waiting to meet you."
I took a deep, shaky breath, burying the broken, terrified girl deep inside the darkest corners of my mind. I raised my chin, plastered a flawless, empty smile onto my crimson lips, and slipped my gloved, injured hand through his arm.
I was walking into the lion's den, not as a victim, but as the lion's most prized, glittering possession.