The mandap glowed under a hundred marigold garlands, but Arjun had never felt so invisible in his life.

Aanya sat next to him, her face unreadable beneath layers of gold and guilt. The priests chanted verses older than any love story ever told, yet this one felt already broken-like a contract reluctantly signed, a page torn before it was written on.

She hadn't looked at him once.

When the mangal sutra touched her neck, she flinched, so subtly that only Arjun noticed. But he said nothing, of course. He never said much. He simply offered a slight bow to the elders, took Aanya's cold hand in his for the phere, and promised silently to at least not become the villain in her story.

If she hated him now, so be it. But he would not give her a reason to.