⚠️ Content Warning

This chapter contains mature and sensitive themes:

✦ Suicidal thoughts & self-harm

✦ Attempted sexual assault

These elements are central to Siyara’s emotional journey but may be distressing.

Read with care — your well-being matters more than the story. 🖤

If these topics trigger you, please skip this chapter or return when you feel safe.

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The music swelled, violins twining with the beat of tablas. Laughter rippled as relatives clapped and urged,

“Come on, bride and groom! One dance—it’s tradition!”

Siyara’s stomach knotted. She shook her head faintly, lips parting to decline. But before she could speak, Aarav was already on his feet. He extended his hand toward her not asking, not waiting, simply claiming.

The crowd clapped louder, chanting his name.

She rose because refusal wasn’t an option. He guided her to the center of the floor, his palm firm against her back. The music shifted into something slow, romantic. Lights dimmed to a golden haze.

“Look at them,” someone whispered, “a match made in heaven.”

But inside, Siyara burned. Not heaven. A prison dressed as paradise.

Aarav bent his head slightly. His words brushed her ear, low enough that only she could hear.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly. “Are you afraid of me or of admitting what you feel?”

Her lips barely moved. “I feel nothing.”

His hold tightened, his fingers digging just enough into her waist to remind her of his strength. Outwardly, it looked like a lover’s embrace. To her, it was a chain.

The family whistled and cheered. An aunt clapped, laughing, “Aarav, don’t squeeze her too hard, beta, she’s delicate!”

Siyara forced a hollow smile, her gaze locked on the chandeliers above so she wouldn’t drown in his.

The music carried them in slow circles. To everyone else, they were the perfect couple his eyes fixed on her, hers lowered in shyness. Only she knew it wasn’t shyness but suffocation.

When the song ended, the applause thundered. Aarav leaned closer, his lips almost brushing her temple as he murmured, with a flicker of warmth hiding steel underneath. “You danced with me tonight, Siyara. Soon… you’ll learn to stay in step with me forever.”

Her breath faltered. The room celebrated. And she smiled because she had no other choice.

The applause still echoed in her ears when Siyara leaned toward Aarav’s mother, voice low.

“Mom… may I go to the washroom?”

Her mother-in-law smiled warmly, stroking her cheek. “Of course, beta. Take your time.”

Aarav’s gaze flickered, sharp as ever, but he said nothing. He only inclined his head, a silent agreement that felt more like surveillance than freedom.

Siyara slipped away through the corridor, her heels clicking against marble, her heartbeat louder still. She walked faster, past the laughter, the music, the relatives calling her name, until she reached the sanctuary of her room.

The door shut with a soft click.

She stood before the mirror, staring at her reflection. The heavy jewelry, the silk draped perfectly, the glow of a bride admired by all none of it felt like her. Her eyes, rimmed with kohl, betrayed the truth. They were glass cages holding back storms.

She pressed her palms against the table, shoulders trembling. The urge to cry burned at the back of her throat. To rip the necklace off, to tear away the mask, to scream that she did not belong here.

But she didn’t.

Her breath came slow, forced, disciplined. She swallowed the tears, straightened her spine, and let silence cradle her instead of sobs.

In the mirror, the girl staring back at her was both prisoner and performer. And Siyara whispered inside herself:

“If they want a bride, they’ll see one. But if I ever get a chance to breathe… I’ll run.”

Siyara stepped out of her room after composing herself, her heartbeat still unsteady. The corridor stretched ahead, hushed and dim.

But before she could take another step, a rough hand shot out of the shadows, yanking her back. Her body slammed against the cold wall, the impact stealing her breath.

She gasped, panic surging through her veins. A man loomed over her, his grip iron around her wrist. Another hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the scream clawing to break free.

His breath was ragged, his eyes gleaming with something dark. His voice hissed low, hot against her ear:

“Give yourself to me. I won’t tell anyone.”

Her body trembled, fear slicing through her. But rage ignited, fierce and unyielding. Siyara twisted, forcing her nails into his arm. With a surge of desperate strength, she shoved him back, tearing herself free.

Her palm cracked against his cheek, the sound sharp as a whip.

And then her scream split the silence, raw and defiant, echoing through the halls like a blade cutting the dark.

The echo of her scream hadn’t faded when footsteps thundered down the corridor. Faces appeared Aarav’s relatives, guests from the reception, his mother, his aunt, the elders.

And there, clutching his cheek where her slap still burned, Aarav’s uncle stepped forward, his voice breaking into pained theatrics.

“She—she forced me!” he shouted, pointing at Siyara with trembling fingers. “I tried to stop her, I told her it was wrong, but she wouldn’t listen! When I resisted, she slapped me and screamed to make me look guilty.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Whispers hissed like snakes.

Siyara’s heart pounded. “No!” Her voice cracked as she stumbled forward. “He’s lying! He was the one who touched me—” her words trembled, but her eyes held fire. “From the moment I stepped out of my room, he followed me. He grabbed me, slammed me against the wall, and told me—” her voice faltered but rose again, raw with truth—“he told me to give myself to him, that no one would ever know.”

But her aunt’s face hardened, lips pressed into a cruel line. “Enough, Siyara!” she snapped. “Don’t you dare soil our family’s honor with such filthy lies. How dare you speak against your elders?”

“No, Maasi!” Siyara cried, desperation clawing at her throat. “I’m telling the truth—he tried to—”

But the uncle’s voice thundered over hers, smooth and practiced, dripping with false righteousness. “Believe who you will,” he said, lowering his head as if burdened by shame. “But I swear on this family, I never touched her. It is she who came to me.”

The room tilted. Siyara’s hands shook as she pointed at him, voice breaking. “No. I'll not. He is lying. He’s manipulating you all! ”

But the whispers grew louder, doubt blooming like rot. And in that suffocating moment, Siyara realized truth wasn’t enough. Not here. Not against him.

Siyara’s tear-filled eyes darted to him. In that single look, she begged him to see the truth, to believe her when no one else would. Her lips didn’t move, but her eyes spoke: Please… trust me.

Aarav stepped forward at last, the crowd parting in silence as his presence filled the corridor. His voice was calm, too calm, when he asked:

“What happened, Siyara?”

Her voice cracked, but she forced it out, trembling.

“He tried to misbehave with me… he touched me.”

The air snapped. In a single motion, Aarav grabbed his uncle by the collar and slammed him against the wall. Gasps erupted as Aarav’s fury finally broke its chains. His hands twisted, dragging the man down until a scream ripped through the corridor—bones cracking under the force of his grip. The uncle writhed, his arm snapping like dry wood.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Guests and family stood frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe.

Aarav turned then, his chest heaving, eyes burning into Siyara’s. His voice was low, steady, and terrifyingly powerful:

“No one touches what’s mine. No one hurts you, Siyara. Not while I breathe.”

Aarav’s voice had cracked the hall like thunder.

“Don’t you dare touch her again. None of you.”

The silence after still rang inside her skull. Even now, safe behind closed doors, Siyara felt the weight of all their eyes, all their doubts, smothering her like a shroud.

He had pulled her away, his grip iron but not cruel, dragging her into his room. She remembered the way his shadow loomed in the balcony, pacing, restless, every line of his body carved with rage. And she had sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the sheets, her lungs filling with broken air.

But no amount of distance could silence the echo of his aunt’s words, the poison in his uncle’s lies.

They won’t believe me. They never will.

Her chest burned. Her throat closed. Her steps carried her into the bathroom like she was sleepwalking into the end of herself.

The mirror was waiting.

And in its silver, her reflection stared back eyes swollen, lips trembling, dress torn like some cruel testimony. Her scars old, hidden, and the fresh red slash of shame on her wrist glowed under the bathroom’s pale light.

She pressed her hands against the sink, her head bowing, her tears falling hard and fast. The mirror whispered back every insult, every silence, every time she had been forced to bury her truth.

“No more,” her voice broke. “Why is this happening? Why… why me?”

The question echoed, hollow. No answer came.

Her palm pressed flat against the glass as if she could slip through it into another world a world without fear, without hands that cornered her, without eyes that doubted her. But the glass stayed cold, unforgiving.

Her body trembled. Her soul begged for release.

And then the thought flickered, small but merciless.

If I end it now… no one can hurt me again.

Her gaze slid to the counter.

There it was. A blade, gleaming under the pale light, a silent promise in steel. Her fingers reached for it, trembling, as if each heartbeat pushed her closer to surrender.

Her breath came shallow, uneven. She closed her eyes, whispered to herself like a prayer—

“I don’t fear death anymore.”

The blade kissed her wrist. The first sting was sharp, electric. Then heat. Then burning pain that spread like fire through her veins. She gasped, a sound that was half sob, half relief.

Blood welled quickly, dark and shimmering, spilling like a confession she had never spoken aloud. It dripped onto the floor, each drop echoing in the silence like a clock counting down.

Her knees weakened. The blade slipped from her hand, clattering against the tiles. Her body swayed, her dress heavy with crimson.

She sank slowly to the floor, her vision blurring. The room tilted, shadows thickening at the corners, the mirror stretching and twisting as if mocking her collapse.

Her lips parted one last time, a whisper breaking free with her fading breath—

“I don’t… fear anymore.”

The world spun, pulling her down into the dark.

Her body surrendered.

And Siyara fell into unconscious silence, her blood painting the tiles, the night swallowing her whole.