The hall looked exactly like something out of a dream—soft golden lights, delicate florals, a quiet kind of luxury that didn’t scream for attention but held it anyway. Everything was perfectly curated, every detail in place, every expression rehearsed into warmth.

And yet, standing at the entrance, none of it felt like mine.

“Kiara,” my mother said softly, her hand brushing against mine for a brief second, grounding and urging at the same time. I turned slightly, meeting her eyes, then my father’s. They looked proud. Relieved, even.

That made something inside me tighten.

“Shall we?” my father asked.

I nodded.

And then I walked in with them.

The moment I stepped inside, the murmurs rose, subtle but present. I could feel eyes on me, scanning, observing, admiring. I didn’t look around. I kept my gaze steady, my steps measured, my posture straight. If I had to do this, I would do it properly.

We reached the stage, and only then did I look up.

He was already there.

Aarav stood at the center, composed as always, dressed in a way that fit him effortlessly. There was no visible discomfort, no sign of resistance. Just calm, controlled presence—as if he had already accepted this in a way I refused to.

For a brief, unwanted second, a thought crossed my mind.

He looks good.

It irritated me instantly.

Because it didn’t matter. Because it shouldn’t matter. Because none of this should matter.

I stepped beside him, my parents moving away after a quiet exchange with the elders. The space they left behind felt too noticeable. Too final.

The priest began speaking, his voice steady, weaving through the air with words about union and tradition. I barely registered them. My attention shifted instead to the tray placed before us.

Two rings.

Simple. Elegant. Binding.

“Groom first,” someone said.

I felt his presence shift closer. My hand rested in front of me, still, composed. For the smallest fraction of a second, something in me resisted—not visibly, not enough for anyone to notice—but enough for me to feel it.

Still, I didn’t pull back.

I don’t back down.

His fingers wrapped around mine, firm and steady. Not gentle, not harsh—just controlled. Certain. I looked up instinctively, and our eyes met.

There was no softness there. No hesitation. Just awareness. The same awareness that sat heavy in my chest.

This is happening.

His grip tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to ground the moment. The ring slid onto my finger smoothly, without pause, without error. Precise.

Of course it was.

When he let go, my hand felt… different.

Not heavier.

Just marked.

I didn’t like that feeling.

When it was my turn, I didn’t hesitate. I picked up the ring, stepped closer, and took his hand. Warm. Steady. Unbothered. I ignored it. Slid the ring onto his finger quickly, efficiently, and let go immediately.

The applause came instantly, loud and celebratory, filling the hall in a way that felt disconnected from everything I was feeling.

People began approaching us—family first, then relatives, then familiar faces from our shared circles. Blessings, smiles, congratulations. I responded where required, smiled when expected, said the right things at the right time.

I knew how to do this.

I had always known.

Photographs followed. Endless photographs. Posed smiles, practiced angles, standing too close beside him while cameras flashed over and over again. Our shoulders brushed occasionally, our hands almost touching more than once, but neither of us acknowledged it.

Food was announced soon after, the crowd shifting, dispersing slightly, laughter and conversations filling the space as if this was just another celebration.

It felt surreal.

At some point, I excused myself.

“I’ll just go get my things,” I said to no one in particular.

Aarav, apparently, had the same idea.

We ended up walking in the same direction, the hallway quieter now compared to the noise outside.

For once, there were no words between us.

Just silence.

And then—

My foot caught in the layers of my lehenga.

It happened too fast to process. One second I was walking, the next I was losing balance, the fabric pulling me down with it.

Before I could react—

A hand caught me.

Strong. Immediate.

His.

Aarav’s arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me back before I could fall. My hand instinctively gripped his shoulder for balance, the movement bringing me closer—too close.

For a moment—

Everything stilled.

His hand was on my bare waist, firm against my skin where the fabric didn’t cover. The warmth of it registered instantly, sharp and undeniable. My breath caught—not loudly, not visibly, but enough for me to feel it.

I looked up.

And he was already looking at me.

Close enough to notice everything.

The slight unevenness in my breathing. The way my fingers still held onto his shoulder. The way neither of us had moved yet.

There was no anger in that moment.

No irritation.

Just something unfamiliar.

Something neither of us named.

Time stretched.

And then—

“Okay wow.”

The voice broke through the moment like a crack.

“Are we interrupting something?”

Riya.

Of course.

Followed by Rohan’s barely contained laugh and Anika’s amused expression.

“Should we leave?” Rohan added, clearly not intending to.

The moment shattered instantly.

I stepped back as if I had just realized what was happening, pulling away from Aarav, my hand dropping from his shoulder. He let go just as quickly, his expression returning to its usual controlled neutrality.

“Watch where you’re walking,” he said, his tone even.

My eyes snapped to his. “Maybe don’t stand in the way.”

“Pretty sure I just stopped you from falling.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t have time to.”

I held his gaze for a second longer than necessary before looking away. “I would’ve managed.”

“Clearly.”

I exhaled sharply, already irritated again, already back to what was familiar.

Good.

That was better.

I adjusted my lehenga without another word and walked ahead, ignoring the quiet chuckles behind me.

The ride back home felt longer than usual.

No one spoke much. My parents were quiet, probably exhausted, probably relieved.

I stayed silent too.

Because if I spoke—

Something would break.

The moment I stepped into my room, the door closed behind me with a soft click.

And everything I had been holding in—

Cracked.

I didn’t move for a few seconds.

Just stood there.

Still dressed in the same clothes, the same jewelry, the same everything.

Then slowly, I walked toward the mirror.

And looked at myself.

The girl staring back looked perfect.

Hair in place. Makeup untouched. Jewelry shining under the soft light.

A ring on her finger.

I stared at it.

For a long moment.

Then I let out a breath that trembled despite my effort to control it.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to happen,” I whispered.

The words felt heavier out loud.

My hands moved automatically, removing the jewelry piece by piece. Earrings. Necklace. Bangles. Each one placed on the table with more force than necessary.

But the ring—

The ring stayed.

Because I couldn’t take it off.

Not really.

My vision blurred before I even realized it.

And then—

The tears came.

Quiet at first. Controlled. Just a few slipping past despite my effort to stop them.

Then more.

And more.

Until I wasn’t controlling it anymore.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, my hands tightening in the fabric of my lehenga as my shoulders shook.

“I didn’t even get a choice,” I choked out, the words breaking between breaths. “I didn’t even—”

I stopped, pressing my hand against my mouth, trying to steady myself.

It didn’t work.

Because it wasn’t just about the engagement.

It wasn’t just about him.

It was about everything I had imagined.

Everything I had thought I would have.

A choice.

A say.

A moment that would feel like mine.

And instead—

This.

A decision made for me.

A future decided without me.

A relationship built on something I didn’t even want.

I wiped my tears harshly, but they didn’t stop.

Because deep down—

I knew.

This wasn’t something that would just go away.

This wasn’t temporary.

This was real.

And I was already trapped in it.