The rain didn't fall in this village. It attacked.
Sheets of it came crashing down on the narrow, muddy road as if the sky was spitting rage. Trees bent like frightened servants, stray dogs howled. And through the downpour came the black Scorpio—tyres slicing through puddles, leaving chaos in its wake.
Meera clutched the edge of the seat, drenched despite the closed windows. Her duffle bag sat between her legs, heavy with nothing. Three salwar suits, a water bottle, her dead phone, and one worn-out diary. That was all she had taken.
The driver didn't speak, just glanced in the rear view mirror, eyes meeting hers. Pity. Or maybe curiosity. She didn't care.
They were heading toward the haveli—the one that even birds avoided after sunset. The Thakur's place.
"Yeh kaun si jagah hai?" she finally spoke, voice low.
"Dulhan ke liye banaya gaya hai," the man beside her answered. He wasn't the driver. He was worse. He was Thakur Veerraj Singh's right hand. The man who showed up with a contract and a threat.
Meera scoffed. "Shaadi toh zabardasti ki hai. Kam se kam rasta toh theek karte."
He looked at her. "Zabardasti sirf tab hoti jab haan nahi hoti. Tumne toh khud sign Kiya."
She looked away. Her fingers were white from clutching the seat. He wasn't wrong. She had signed. Because when your father owes 37 lakhs to the wrong people, and you don't have a rupees or a way out, you do stupid things. Like marrying a man who everyone swears is cursed.
Veerraj Singh Thakur.
Thirty. Unmarried. Untouched. Untouchable.
People said his blood was black. That anyone who crossed him disappeared. That no woman had ever been next to him — because none survived it.
And now, Meera Rajvanshi was being delivered to his doorstep.
The haveli appeared like a ghost through the rain. Three floors of crumbling royalty, iron gates taller than trees, and guards in black like they were protecting a crime scene. Lightning cracked behind it. She almost laughed.
This was her life now. Married to a man she hadn't even seen.
And she stepped out soaked instantly, her suitcase was taken from her hands. A woman in a pale green saree approached.
"Bahurani," she said with a blank face. "Andar chaliye."
Meera didn't move. "Mere hone wale pati? Kahaan hai woh?"
The woman blinked, "Thakur Sahab bahar nhi aate."
Of course not. Why would the devil leave his den?
Inside the haveli it was quite. Too quite. The walls smelled like old secrets. She walked down the hallway wet feet making gold sounds on the marble. Every painting on the wall seemed to watch her.
The room they brought her to was huge. Not warm. Just... big. The bed looked untouched. there were no photos. No mess. No sign of life.
The woman handed her a red bridal saree. "Change Kar lijiye. Shaadi raat ko hogi."
Mera took the fabric but didn't move.
"Woh yahan aayega?" she asked.
The woman didn't answer. Just left.
The wedding took place in the inner courtyard. No guests. No music. Just a priest. The rain and shadows. He is stood across the fire, tall, broad, face partly covered with a black shawl. She couldn't see his eyes.
But she felt them. Burning through the wet silk of a saree.
"Naam?" the priest asked.
"Meera." She replied.
His voice when it came was deep and solid. "Veerraj Singh Thakur."
No one said congratulations.
Mangalsutra. Sindoor. Done.
She was a bride now. Of a man who hadn't said a word to her. A man who, after the ritual l, just walked away without a look back.
Meera sat there. In front of the dying fire, her fists clenched.
If he thought he could break her like this, he was wrong.
She had signed the papers. but she hadn't signed away her spine.
Let the games begin.
"Hope you have liked the chapter cuties.
This is just the beginning of the fire of obsession."
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