The first thing I did after becoming his wife... was try to stop being one.

The room still smelled of roses, incense, and camera flashes that had only just faded. Outside, somewhere down the long corridors of the Raj Bhavan, footsteps moved, guards shifted, doors closed.

Inside his room, there was only silence. Heavy. Expectant. Unavoidable. The chain around my neck felt heavier than gold.

A decision I never made.

My fingers reached behind my neck and unclasped the nuptial chain. The hook slipped free, and the chain fell into my palm, warm from my skin.

"I don't believe in this marriage," I whispered to my reflection. "Yeh shaadi meri marzi se nahi hui." (This marriage did not happen with my consent.)

The words trembled not weak, just furious. Behind me, the door clicked shut. I didn't turn immediately. I didn't need to.

"Iliana."

His voice. Calm. Controlled. Too calm for a man who had just forced an entire nation to watch him marry a woman who refused to look at him. "Put it back on," Agasthya said.

I turned slowly.

He stood near the door, still in his sherwani, sleeves slightly creased now, expression unreadable. Cameras loved that expression. The country trusted it.

I hated it.

"Nahi," (No.) I said quietly.

"I'm not your alliance," I said, my voice rising despite myself. "Main koi political deal nahi hu. Aapne jo kiya hai na... woh zabardasti hai." (I am not some political deal. What you've done... is called forcing someone.)

Something shifted in his jaw.

"Give me the chain," he said, holding out his hand.

"No." My fingers tightened around it. "Main yeh shaadi nahi maanti. Samjhe aap? I don't accept this." (I don't believe this marriage, do you understand?)

He began walking toward me. Not rushed. Not angry. Just certain.

Each step sounded louder than it should have on the marble floor. My heartbeat followed the rhythm, uneven. He stopped in front of me. Close enough that the air felt different. Close enough that I could see the faint line of exhaustion under his eyes. Close enough that I remembered he had planned this.

All of this.

"Iliana," he said quietly, "don't do this."

"I already did," I shot back.

For a moment, we just stood there. My anger burning hot. His silence colder than it should have been.

Then his hand moved. Firm around my wrist. Not rough. Not gentle either. Just impossible to ignore. He took the nuptial chain from my palm.

"Aap mujhe force nahi kar sakte," (you can't force me) I snapped, trying to pull back. "Aap PM ho sakte hain, par mere upar haq—" (You may be the Prime Minister, but you don't have any right over me.)

"Enough."

One word. Low. Final. It stopped me more than a shout would have. My breath caught.

He lifted the chain slowly. His other hand came up to the back of my neck, fingers settling there steady, warm, unyielding. Not soft enough to comfort. Not harsh enough to hurt.

Just... claiming.

"Don't. Do. Not. Take. It. Off. Again" he said quietly. " Do you understand?"

My heart slammed against my ribs.

"Why?" I demanded. "So the cameras can believe your perfect alliance?"

His gaze didn't move.

"This isn't for the cameras."

The chain brushed my collarbone as he brought it around my neck. Slow. Deliberate. His fingers worked the clasp with calm precision, fastening it as if sealing something already decided.

Theclick sounded louder than it should have.

"I hate this," I whispered. "I don't want this marriage. I don't even want you."

A flicker crossed his face. Dark. Controlled. Gone before I could understand it.

"Whether you want it or not," he said quietly "that doesn't matter anymore."

My chest tightened.

He let his fingers slide away from my neck then slow enough that I felt the absence of them more than the touch itself. He stepped back, creating space, restoring distance. But the air didn't ease.

"Iliana," he said, voice low, measured, almost patient. "Don't think you will be able to remove it again."

I lifted my chin. "And what if I do remove it?"

Silence. Not long. Just long enough. His gaze didn't waver from mine. Then, very calmly:

"Try and see."

The words were quiet. Almost conversational. But something in them made my stomach drop.

He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve as if the conversation bored him. As if this was already settled.

"You won't like what happens," he added softly.

My fingers curled at my sides. "Aap mujhe threaten kar rahe hain?" (Are you threatening me?)

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked at me really looked this time. Not angry. Not emotional. Just certain in a way that felt worse.

"I won't hurt you," he said.

Relief almost came. Almost. Then he continued.

"But consequences..."

A small pause.

"...don't always go directly to the person who made the mistake." My breath stopped. He didn't need to say a name. He didn't need to explain.

Somewhere in my chest, something cold settled into place because I knew exactly what he meant. Exactly who he meant. He stepped toward the door, pausing only once.

"Don't test me on this," he said his tone low and controlled almost as if he was holding himself back then he added. "Please."

Please.

The word didn't soften the warning. If anything, it made it worse. The door opened. Closed. And I was left standing there the weight of gold against my throat suddenly heavier than before.

I hated him. Hated this house. Hated this marriage. But my fingers didn't move toward the clasp again. Because in that moment, I understood something terrifying:

Agasthya Chauhan wasn't a man who raised his voice.

He didn't need to. He made decisions. And everyone else lived with the consequences. Somewhere beyond these walls, my past still existed. A name I wasn't allowed to say. A life I wasn't allowed to return to.

And he knew it. He had always known it.

The nuptial chain rested cold against my skin, but the warning he'd left behind burned hotter.

This marriage had not begun tonight.

It had been planned long before I realized I was part of it. And the most dangerous part?

I didn't know what he wanted more —

my compliance...

or my resistance.

Because something told me...

Agasthya Chauhan didn't force people into his life unless he was prepared to keep them there.

No matter what it cost. No matter who paid for it.

And as I stood in a room that now felt less like a bedroom and more like a carefully built cage, one question pressed harder than the chain around my throat:

How far would he go to make sure I never walked away?

Because if tonight was only the beginning... I had no idea what tomorrow would demand.