Engaged

Chapter-5

Amber

The flames danced in the night, licking at the sleek metal of his Bentley, devouring it like a starving beast. The scent of burning rubber and gasoline mixed with the crisp midnight air, but all I could focus on was him.

Sairaj stood at the top of the steps, his face cast in shadows, his body rigid. For a moment, he didn't move. Just stood there, watching, as the fire painted his sharp features in hues of gold and orange. I expected fury. Rage. Maybe even a curse thrown into the night.

But then... he smirked.

My fingers curled into fists. Bastard.

The explosion had sent heat rolling through the air, a violent burst shaking the stillness of the estate. My heart had thundered in my chest, and yet, I stood my ground near the steel gates, watching as the flames reached for the sky. Watching as his head turned-as his eyes found me.

For a second, the world narrowed.

The fire raged behind him, a burning wreckage of everything he thought he controlled, but it was nothing compared to the look in his eyes. Dark. Knowing. Unshaken.

Like I'd just played straight into his hands.

My breath hitched. I forced myself to hold his gaze, to let my lips curve into the slightest smirk before I turned on my heel, disappearing into the night.

I wasn't running.

No. I had just declared war, a war between just him and I.

I get on my bike and ride through the night, putting more distance between myself and Velmoria-his territory. The farther I go, the more the city fades behind me, replaced by the vast, open stretch leading to the other side of the river Varantha. As the river disappears from sight, the desert wind brushes against my skin, carrying the scent of dry earth and nostalgia. It reminds me of home.

The moment I step inside, I move quietly, making my way upstairs.

Just as I reach the top, my father emerges from his study. His gaze is sharp, his voice even sharper.

"You're getting engaged the day after tomorrow," he announces.

"It was supposed to be a week later", I state.

"Well, you burned his car. He decided he wants to get engaged to his reckless other half as soon as possible." My father's words final, no room for argument.

I don't flinch. I don't react. I simply nod and continue my way up.

The scent of petrol clings to me, a reminder of what I've done. The fire may have consumed his car, but the rage burning inside me blazes hotter, fiercer-unquenched. And it felt good.

I change into a fresh pair of night shorts and a satin shirt after a long bath, but nothing seems to ease my nerves.

What did he mean by punishment? And how does he have my ring? Who is he?

The questions tangle in my mind, an unsolved puzzle gnawing at my thoughts. I pick up my phone, the screen lighting up with at least ten missed calls from my best friend. Inaya.

I should call her back. But what would I even say? Saying it out loud would make it real. Too real.

I glance at my notifications again. Nothing. No texts. No calls.

Not from him

Not from Karan.

My so-called boyfriend.

The distance between us has been growing for the past year, an unspoken space neither of us has acknowledged. I'll have to end this eventually. Not just because of... whatever this is-this mess unraveling around me-but because something between us has always been off.

Karan and I... we never felt like more than friends.

I never felt that kind of love-the kind that consumes you, yet makes you belong. That hope had died early.

The more I learned about our world, the less I believed in something as fragile as love.

I wake up to the sound of a parade in my room-my sisters, their voices loud and insistent.

"Get up! The designers are here with outfits, jewelry, and whatnot!"

Did they just forget I'm being forced into this marriage? Or are they just choosing to turn a blind eye?

"Come on, Amber! There's so much we need to get done!" Ishika, my middle sister, chimes in, her usual bubbly self. "We have to choose your outfit, jewelry, how you want your hair done, fittings, everything!"

Life of the party. No matter what.

Alekha stands beside her, giving me a tight-lipped smile. I sigh, pushing myself up from the bed. "Choose whatever you like," I mutter, not having the energy to care.

Neeti bhabhi walks in, her gaze softer than the others. "The groom may not be of your choice, at least make your outfit yours."

Only, he won't be my groom.

I don't say it out loud, but the thought lingers.

Dragging myself out of bed, I take a long bath, trying to wash away the frustration clinging to my skin. I slip into relaxed brown pants and a beige satin shirt before heading downstairs.

The drawing room is a spectacle-designer outfits lined up on display, jewelry sets gleaming under the lights, hair accessories arranged as if I just stepped into an upscale boutique.

"This is too much", I tell my mother.

"You only get married once," she responds.

I roll my eyes, "Why is everyone acting like this is a happy event?"

Frustrated, I flip through the fabrics, my fingers skimming over silks and velvets-until something catches my eye. Orange and gold. Like flames.

"This one," I say, my voice steady.

The designer immediately gets to work, adjusting it to my measurements. Neeti bhabhi selects the jewelry, making decisions I don't bother to argue with.

I don't stay to watch.

Instead, I turn and head straight to the study, ignoring the pretend- happiness my family is so desperately trying to paint over my misery.

The day passes in a blur. The mansion buzzes with preparations, every corner adorned with flowers and golden lights, draped in colors fit for a bride. Like a dulhan.

I excuse myself from the dinner table, needing a moment to breathe. As the time draws closer, an uneasy knot tightens in my chest.

My phone buzzes. I pick it up quickly, expecting it to be Karan.

It's not.

An unknown number.

"I liked the engagement gift, fiancée."

I freeze.

I'm not his fiancée yet.

I don't respond. Asshole.

A second text follows.

"The more you run, the more the devil chases."

I clench my jaw, ignoring the messages and shoving my phone aside. Exhausted, my body gives in to sleep, but my mind remains tangled in unseen chains.

-

Morning arrives too soon.

I stare at my reflection, the orange lehenga draping over me like fire itself. It makes me look regal, divine even. But it makes me feel nothing like myself.

It makes me feel his.

Like he claims.

Like control is slipping through my fingers-control over my own life, my own choices.

Neeti bhabhi places the maang tika gently on my forehead.

"Mujhe toh koi burai nahi lagti unme, Amber. Aisi surat pe kaun fida nahi hoga?" she says, trying to cheer me up. (I don't find anything wrong with him, Amber. Who wouldn't fall for a face like that?)

I give her a slight smile.

"Oh, come on! He's hot as hell!" Ishika's voice rings from the stairs as she enters, all grins. "He looks nothing less than a knight in shining Armor, except he ain't your saviour."

I glare at her.

"What?" she shrugs. "Have you even seen him?"Alekha passes her a stern look, Inaya ignores.

The truth is-I have, I have seen him.

Too closely.

I've seen the way his dark eyes sharpen with unreadable thoughts. I've seen the tattoos inked over his shoulder and arm, a beautiful disaster etched into his skin. I've seen how he towers over me, every inch of him radiating danger, power.

But it's all a facade.

He's pure sin wrapped in sparkles.

Viraj, my elder brother, steps into the room, his presence grounding yet heavy with unspoken words.

"You don't have to do this," he says, his voice low but firm.

My eyes meet his, searching for something-reassurance, maybe. An escape I can't afford.

"That means declaring war, bhai," I whisper. "And putting everyone's life at risk."

He inhales sharply. Neeti bhabhi rubs his arm gently, as if offering silent comfort, understanding the weight he carries.

"Chalo, Sairaj intezaar kar raha hai," my mother's voice comes from behind. She steps forward, adjusting the dupatta over my head, sealing my fate in folds of silk and tradition.

I take a deep breath.

One step. Then another.

I descend the grand staircase, the soft jingle of my bangles drowned by the whispers that rise as I step into the hall. The hum of conversation, the flashes of cameras-it all fades into white noise.

Because I feel one particular gaze on me, dark, undeniable, unhidden and shameless.

His.

My eyes lift, meeting the storm brewing in his dark ones.

He stands at the foot of the stairs, dressed in a crisp black suit, looking like lethal art sculpted into human form. Impeccable, untouchable-except I know better. The sleek way his hair is styled back only sharpens the dominance he wears like second skin. His hands are folded, his stance deceptively calm as he watches me approach.

Then, he extends his hand.

I hesitate.

For just a second.

Then I place mine in his.

His grip is warm. Steady. A contrast to the cold weight in my chest.

He leads me forward, right under the golden glow of the chandelier, where the whole world watches. But all I feel is him.

His mother approaches, a red dupatta in her hands, and places it gently over my head. Blessing. Binding.

Noor, Atharva's wife, steps forward next, sliding bangles onto my wrists-heirlooms that match hers.

They should symbolize belonging. Family.

But they feel nothing less than shackles.

Vidhi, his sister, steps forward, carrying a small swing decorated in a thaali, the rings resting on it like gleaming symbols of inevitability.

My pulse thrums against my skin as I watch her approach, every movement measured, every second stretching longer than it should.

Sairaj takes my hand with practiced ease, his grip unwavering, commanding. The cold metal of the ring grazes my skin before he slides it onto my finger-smooth, effortless, final.

The diamonds catch the light, glittering like they belong. But they feel like mockery.

My turn.

I lift the ring, willing my hands not to tremble, willing myself not to run.

With slow precision, I slide the band onto his finger. A symbol of something I refuse to name.

The hall erupts in applause, pulling me out of my misery.

Flashes. Cheers. Congratulations.

I lift my gaze, meeting his once again.

His eyes, dark and knowing, hold a promise.

One I don't understand. One I'm not sure I want to.

And just like that, my fate was sealed with the devil.

But I won't give up.

Not yet.

The cameras flash, and I feel his hand snaking around my waist as he pulls me closer. I gasp, and his dark eyes drop to mine, sharp and knowing.

"Aadat daal lo, biwi... meri,"

(Get used to it, wife... get used to me.) he whispers, his voice a sinful caress.

Too close. His scent-cologne, smoke, and sin-threatens to pull me under, making me lose my ground.

"I'm not your biwi," (wife)

I hiss, keeping a forced smile on my lips for the crowd watching us.

"Bahot pyari jodi hai,"

(Such a lovely pair.) his mother comments, her voice full of pride.

He smirks, an arrogant, knowing tilt of his lips that sets my nerves alight. Asshole.

I try to slip away, to move toward my sisters, but he catches my wrist.

"A dance," he announces, leaving no room for refusal. Before I can protest, he leads me to the center of the hall, right under the chandelier.

The music starts.

Jism se ruh tak hai tumhare nishan... (From my body to my soul, your marks remain...)

My breath hitches as he pulls me flush against him, his arm a steel band around my waist. His other hand captures mine, his grip firm yet teasing.

"Tum ek behad khoobsurat dhokha ho, biwi,"

(You are a beautiful deception, wife.) he whispers, his lips brushing against my ear in the lightest touch. The contact sends a shudder through me.

My breath hitches, just for a moment-but my tone stays sharp, steady like a blade against silk.

"Aur tum... tum woh beraham saza ho, jo mujhe bina kisi gunaah ke mili hai."

He smiles against my neck, his whisper a silent warning-promising, possessive, and burning against my heated skin like a brand I could never wash away.

"Saza toh ab umrkaid ki hai... aur tumhe har saans, har lamha meri qaid mein rehna hai, meri jaan."

He twirls me effortlessly, making the lehenga flare around us like golden flames. My back presses against his chest, and his fingers skim my bare arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"I will never be yours. Never your wife," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

His smirk deepens, his hand sliding from my right shoulder to my left in a slow, deliberate motion, fingers barely grazing my throat. The meaning isn't lost on me.

"I will let you live in delusions," he murmurs, voice dark with promise, "until you wear my name's nuptial chain ."

My pulse pounds beneath his fingertips, betraying me.

The music swells, wrapping around us like an unspoken promise-or a curse.

His fingers barely graze my skin, but it feels like fire branding me. A shiver runs down my spine, though I keep my head high, refusing to let him see the effect he has on me.

"Aur tab tak?" (And until then?) I manage to ask, my voice steady despite the storm within me.

Sairaj smirks against my ear, his breath warm, intoxicating. "Tab tak, biwi..." (Until then, wife...)

His fingers trail down my arm before gripping my waist tighter, keeping me pressed against him.

"Mai tumhe yaad dilata rahunga ki tum sirf meri ho." (I will keep reminding you that you are only mine.)

I try to turn, to step away, but he doesn't let me. His grip is firm, possessive. My heartbeat hammers against my ribs, a silent war raging between my body and my mind.

"You're insane," I whisper.

His lips brush against my temple in the lightest ghost of a touch. "Aur tum meri ho." (And you are mine.)

The music slows, the moment stretching between us, thick with something dangerous. I should push him away. I should run.

But I don't

We stare at each other, too close, too lost. The world around us fades, his breath mingling with mine, his hold firm, unyielding. My heart pounds, an erratic rhythm that betrays the calm facade I fight to maintain.

Then, the loud claps shatter the moment. A rude awakening. A reminder.

I blink, stepping away as if the distance will break whatever spell he cast over me. But was it truly a nightmare... or something far worse?

The night drags on with rituals I barely register, my body moving on autopilot as family members hover around, offering blessings, words of congratulations I cannot bring myself to acknowledge.

When it all becomes too much, I slip away.

I know exactly where to go.

My usual blind spot-where no cameras lurk, where no prying eyes watch my every move. The cool night air brushes against my skin as I walk toward the secluded bench by the pond, the faint ripples in the water reflecting the silver glow of the moon.

I sit down quietly, letting out a long breath, the weight of the day pressing down on me.

A movement behind me.

Every muscle in my body tenses, my instincts kicking in-but then, a voice.

"Tired?"

His.

I don't turn, but my grip tightens on the edge of the bench. "Of you, infinitely."

A low chuckle.

Even without looking, I know he's smirking. It's visible in his voice, in the way the air shifts with his amusement. The dim light of the moon only accentuates the sharp lines of his face as he leans against the wall, exuding effortless dominance. A cigarette rests between his fingers, smoke curling around him like a sinister halo.

"Tired?"he repeats, his tone laced with something unreadable, as if my answer displeased him.

I exhale slowly, forcing my pulse to steady. "Of bearing your hands on me. Yes."

Silence.

For a moment, all I hear is the soft rustling of the leaves, the distant hum of voices from inside the mansion, and the gentle lapping of water against the edge of the pond.

Then, he moves.

The gravel crunches beneath his expensive shoes as he takes a step closer, closing the distance between us inch by inch. My body stiffens, but I don't turn.

Not yet.

And then-he leans in.

His hands settle on the back of the bench on either side of me, caging me in. He doesn't touch me, but his presence alone is suffocating. His warmth seeps through the space between us, the scent of his cologne, of smoke and sin, wrapping around me.

His voice is nothing but a murmur, a phantom against my skin. "You make it sound like I'm a villain, biwi (wife)," he muses, his jaw brushing against the dupatta draped over my shoulder. Not me, but close enough. Too close. My skin prickles with goosebumps, betraying me.

"But tell me... did it feel that way when you were in my arms?"

I clench my jaw, fingers digging into the fabric of my lehenga.

"You mistake tolerance for willingness," I say coldly.

He exhales a slow breath, the heat of it teasing the sensitive skin near my ear. "And you mistake defiance for control."

My hands tighten into fists. I finally turn to face him-

And my breath stutters.

Our faces are inches apart.

His breath, warm and intoxicating, fans against my lips, the ghost of a touch. His dark eyes gleam under the moonlight, a quiet storm brewing within them, his gaze sharp, consuming. My heart stammers, the space between us suddenly feeling too small, too dangerous.

But I refuse to back down.

"I will never be yours," I say, my voice unwavering.

His smirk doesn't waver. If anything, it deepens.

"We'll see, biwi (wife)," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over the fabric of my dupatta before he pulls away. His fingers brush against the bench for a fraction of a second, as if debating whether to touch me, before he straightens. My phone's screen lights up with Karan's name, and my eyes widen.

Then, as if this conversation never happened, he walks away, leaving behind the scent of smoke and something far more dangerous-his presence lingering in the air, in my veins.

And for the first time, I wonder...

Who is truly chasing whom?

He's playing a game, he's playing with me like a pawn.

I head back inside, the click of my heels echoing on the marble floors. The night's scent clings to me, but I force it-and him-away. Before stepping into the glow of the chandeliers, I glance back.his expression unreadable, a picture of lethal calm.

Asshole.

I mutter the word and turn, tightening my grip as I walk past my mother-in-law and father-in-law. I greet them with a polite smile, nod respectfully, and excuse myself, rushing to my room.

The moment the door closes, I rip off my bangles, the clink of metal sharp in the silence. I wipe the tilak off, yank out my hair jewelry, and throw the dupatta aside.

I hate this.

The weight of tradition, the suffocating silk, the expectations. But above all, I hate him.

I grip the vanity, my knuckles white, and try to calm my breat

h. I go to the balcony for some air to escape the weight pressing on me,I see sleek cars pulling out, and my eyes search for him.

He catches my gaze.

I should turn away first, but I don't. I stand there, trapped in something I can't name.

Author's note:

Will he find out who Karan is?

Tell me if you're team karan or Sairaj...🤔

Follow me on instagram for teasers and updates insta handle @shabdaura.

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