The air in the room hung heavy, saturated with the thick, cloying scent of marigolds and sandalwood incense. Outside the latticed window, the city was a distant murmur, but here, in the bridal suite, silence pressed against the silk-draped walls. Anya sat stiffly on the edge of the vast, petal-strewn bed, her lehenga a weighty cage of embroidered crimson and gold. Her hands clenched in the lap of the fabric, the raw silk scratching against her palms.

Veer moved toward her, his heavy sherwani rustling, the gold thread catching the soft lamplight. He stopped inches away, his shadow falling over her face.