Chaos reigned in the Rathore haveli.

Whispers turned to gasps, gasps to cries, and cries to stunned silence.

“The bride and groom… they’re gone?”

“They ran away? On the wedding day?”

“This is an insult! To the Rathore name!”

The elders gathered in the inner hall, voices raised and pride wounded. The bride’s family sat humiliated, the groom’s father burning with rage. Reputation—everything in a Rajput household—was now on the line.

And in the center of it all stood Veeresh, calm as a monsoon lake, though his blood ran wild underneath. He hadn’t planned for this. No one had.

Except fate.

Because when two people run away from their own wedding... someone must take their place. For tradition. For honor. For silence over shame.

And the only choices left… were Veeresh and Poornima.

---

She sat on the marble floor of her room, her bangles clinking nervously as the women draped her in silks hurriedly. Her eyes were wide, stunned, but she didn’t protest.

Not once.

Not even when they tied the odhni over her head, covering her innocence in royal red and gold. She didn’t cry. She didn’t ask why. She simply obeyed.

Because that’s what Rajput women did when duty called.

Poornima, the sweet 21-year-old girl with stars in her eyes… was now being turned into a bride in the span of one hour.

The replaced bride.

---

Veeresh stood in front of the mirror in his cousin’s room, where they had placed the groom’s clothes. The royal Rajput sherwani was rich maroon velvet, heavily embroidered with golden threads of their lineage, and a crimson safa lay waiting to crown his head.

He took a deep breath and touched the sword placed next to the sherwani. An ancestral piece. Heavy. Cold. Regal.

He hadn’t worn something like this since he was a child.

He never thought he would again.

Yet here he was—about to be wed in the eyes of hundreds.

To a girl he barely knew.

To a cousin who once smiled at him with kindness.

He could have said no. Could have walked away like the first groom. But he didn’t.

Because something in Poornima’s eyes earlier—something steady, something brave—made him stay.

And because maybe… just maybe… this was his only chance to belong again.

The replaced groom.

---

The drums roared louder as the hour struck.

The courtyard had been transformed once again. The sacred mandap was lit, the havan kund blazing in the center. Rose petals were sprinkled on the floor, torches glowed with pride, and the priest began chanting with renewed urgency.

Everyone watched in a stunned trance as Veeresh Rathore stepped into the mandap in full Rajput groom regalia—tall, poised, powerful.

And then… the bride arrived.

Poornima was almost unrecognizable.

She was draped in layers of tradition—her red lehenga cascading like fire, her gold jewelry shimmering with every step, and her face completely hidden behind the long ghoonghat (veil). The bangles on her arms chimed like whispers of fate.

She walked slowly, supported by two women, as all eyes turned toward her.

She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.

She was walking into her destiny.

And Veeresh… waited.

Their eyes didn’t meet.

They didn’t speak.

But the fire knew.

So did the ancestors.

So did the night sky that witnessed the quietest yet most powerful union—of two souls thrown into marriage not by love, not by choice, but by honor.

As the priest chanted the final mantras and tied their hands together, the veil still covered her face.

Veeresh looked at her—not through the lens of family or duty—but as a man looking at the woman fate had chosen for him.

A woman he now had to protect.

A woman he’d unknowingly longed for.

And without a word… they were bound.