The towering gates of the Sehgal mansion creaked open, like iron jaws yawning to swallow her whole. The car glided in slowly, less like a wedding car, more like a funeral escorting her to a fate sealed in silence. In the backseat, Kridha sat unmoving. Her bridal saree, once red in colour, now clung to her in wrinkled folds, faded under the weight of despair. The glass bangles on her wounded wrists felt like shackles—cold, unwanted reminders of a celebration that never was.
Her heart thumped once. Twice.
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