The wedding hall was a vision of grandeur — white and gold drapes, floral arches, and soft candlelight reflecting on the polished floors. Guests whispered in awe as Poornima Rathore entered, her red lehenga glimmering like fire, every step measured, every jewel catching the light.

Veeresh Rajawat stood at the mandap, his posture perfectly composed, black sherwani immaculate. His eyes, calm and unreadable, tracked her entrance like a hawk. There was no warmth, no softening — only the icy, sharp gaze of a man in full control.

The rituals began. The priest’s voice chanted softly, Sanskrit verses filling the air. Veeresh guided Poornima through the steps, his hand firm on hers, leading her through the seven pheras, the kanyadaan, the sacred fire circling them.

Poornima’s heart raced. Every time his fingers brushed hers, every time their hands met during a ritual, she felt a cold shock running through her veins.

When it was time for the mangalsutra, Veeresh picked up the chain and placed it around her neck. The small bells jingled softly as it settled. Her head bent slightly to avoid the heat of the fire, and as she adjusted it, some sindur smeared onto her nose.

Veeresh’s dark eyes met hers. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips.

“Welcome to hell, Mrs. Rajawat,” he said, his voice low, calm, and icy.

The words pierced her like a dagger.

Her hands froze, her lips parted slightly in shock. Guests around them murmured softly, oblivious to the true meaning behind his tone, but Poornima felt it deep in her bones.

Hell.

The word wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

She lowered her eyes, gripping the ends of her dupatta tightly. Inside, her mind raced:

I married him. I’m his. But what have I done? What have I unleashed?

Veeresh’s hand remained firm on hers as they completed the rituals. He said nothing else — just the occasional sharp glance that reminded her with every movement that nothing, absolutely nothing, had softened in him.

The crowd clapped, the ceremony ended with applause, but the air between them was frozen. Poornima’s chest tightened, her pulse pounding in her ears.

Veeresh leaned slightly closer, enough for her to hear his next words, cold and final:

“Remember this, Mrs. Rajawat. Every day from now on, you belong to me — and I don’t forgive. I don’t forget. And I never show mercy.”

Her eyes widened, the weight of reality crashing down on her. She had entered a marriage, yes — but she had stepped straight into Veeresh Rajawat’s world, a world ruled by cold justice, silent punishment, and the long, unyielding reckoning for every tear, every insult, every mistake of her past.

And outside the mandap, life went on as usual, unaware of the storm that had just begun in that hall.

Inside, two hearts — one full of vengeance, the other full of regret — had become bound for life.