||𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞||

Prologue

“Every bride who walks into this palace never walks out the same. Some leave in shrouds. Some leave in silence. But none leave whole.”

The words clung to my mind like a sickness as I stepped into the grand Rathore palace, my crimson bridal lehenga trailing behind me like a river of blood. The scent of marigolds and incense hung thick in the air, suffocating, almost masking something rotten beneath.

I was his now—Veer Singh Rajput’s wife.

The man beside me was silent, his face unreadable beneath the golden glow of the ceremonial fire. When his fingers brushed against mine during the rituals, they were ice cold. He placed the mangalsutra around my neck with practised precision, not tenderness. When he smeared sindoor in my hairline, his touch felt like a mark of possession, not love.

The palace swallowed me whole as I was led deeper inside. The walls were lined with paintings of ancestors, their kohl-rimmed eyes watching my every move. The west wing loomed ahead, its doors locked and untouched. The servants averted their gazes, their silence loud enough to hear. I wasn’t welcome here.

Veer’s chambers were cold. The heavy velvet drapes blocked out the moonlight, and the air smelled faintly of sandalwood and something else—something old, something decayed. I turned to face him, my heart hammering.

“You should rest,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth.

I swallowed. “Aren’t you going to…” My words trailed off into the tense silence.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “Do not expect love from me, Anika.” His tone was final. A warning.

I stared at him. “Then why did you marry me?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned towards the door. “Do not go near the west wing,” he murmured before disappearing into the darkness.

The door clicked shut. And then, I heard it.

A whisper. Soft. Feminine. Broken.

“Run.”

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