The Sharma household hummed with the quiet anticipation of a ritual poised to seal destinies. The morning sun filtered through the jali screens of Aisha's room, casting intricate shadows that danced like whispered secrets across the marble floor. She stood before her armoire, hands hovering over rows of sarees, her heart a silent drumbeat in the stillness. Today was the roka ceremony, a pre-engagement ritual that Rohan Kapoor had insisted be kept intimate—"Family only," he'd said, his voice smooth but firm, like a riverbed hiding sharp stones. "No press, no pageantry. I like things clean, controlled." Beneath his velvet words, Aisha had sensed steel, a rigidity that made her pause.

She chose a pale rose silk saree, its delicate weave shimmering like dawn on a lotus pond. Simple, elegant, it felt like her—a quiet rebellion against her mother's love for garish opulence. Her fingers reached for Nani's lotus clip on the dressing table, its silver petals gleaming with a soft defiance. She fastened it into her hair, the familiar weight grounding her, a symbol of purity rising from mud, of resilience against chaos. The mirror reflected a serene bride-to-be: almond eyes framed by kohl, a hesitant smile that didn't quite reach them. At twenty-two, Aisha clung to dreams of love spun from Austen and Tagore, but Rohan's shadowed gaze from the lunch at The Saffron Room lingered, a crack in her fairy tale.

She whispered a prayer to Ganesha, her voice barely audible: "Guide me, please. Let this be right."

Downstairs, the house was a flurry of preparation, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood incense and marigolds. Mrs. Sharma, in a mustard-yellow saree, barked orders like a general, her gold bangles clanging like war drums. "Aisha! Stop mooning like some poetess! The Kapoors will be here any minute, and you need to look like a bride, not a librarian!"

Aisha descended, smoothing her saree, the lotus clip her anchor. "Maa, I'm ready," she said, her tone soft but edged with defiance. "And I'm keeping the clip. It's Nani's. It makes me feel... steady."

Mrs. Sharma's eyes narrowed, her lips pursing as if she'd bitten a sour imli. "Steady? Aisha Sharma, you're about to be engaged to Rohan Kapoor! You need to sparkle, not look like you're praying at a temple! Wear the emerald set, for heaven's sake!"

"The clip stays," Aisha said, her voice firm, a rare spark flaring. "It's elegant. And it's me." She brushed past her mother, catching Mr. Sharma fussing over a tray of mithai, muttering about "impressing the Kapoors." The peacock painting above the mantel loomed, its tail feathers a garish boast, mocking her parents' obsession with status.

The doorbell chimed, and Aisha's stomach twisted, a knot of nerves and curiosity. She took a deep breath, the lotus clip gleaming like a defiant star, and joined her parents in the drawing room. The Kapoor entourage had arrived: Dadi, regal in a sage-green saree, her silver bun tight as her scrutiny; Vikram, Rohan's cousin, with a mischievous grin and a kurta that looked like it had been ironed by a storm; and Rohan, standing by the French doors, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of water he hadn't sipped. His cream sherwani accentuated his lean frame, his hazel eyes sweeping the room like a hawk's, sharp yet veiled in charm.

"Aisha," he said, turning as she entered, his gaze sweeping over her like a heatwave, lingering on the lotus clip. "You look beautiful. Like a rose caught in dawn's light."

"Thank you, Rohan," she replied, careful, her fingers grazing the lotus clip. "You clean up nicely too. I was half-expecting a suit, like you're closing a business deal."

He stepped closer, just near enough to blur the line of propriety, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "A suit for a roka? I'd never insult tradition like that. Besides, I had to match the radiance of my future bride."

Vikram snorted, elbowing Rohan. "Bhai, save the poetry for the wedding vows. You're making me gag, and I haven't even touched the jalebis yet." He winked at Aisha, his grin infectious. "Aisha, you sure you want to sign up for this guy? He's all charm and no chill. Last week, he lectured me on sock organization for an hour."

Aisha laughed, the sound easing her tension. "Sock organization? That's a dealbreaker, Vikram. I'm a fold-and-toss girl." She glanced at Rohan, hoping for a real smile, but his expression was guarded, like a locked gate.

Dadi chuckled, her bangles jingling softly. "Vikram, behave. Aisha, beta, don't mind this clown. He thinks life's a comedy show. But Rohan..." She turned to her grandson, her eyes sharp but warm. "He's a good boy, deep down. Just needs someone to soften those edges. Don't you think?"

Aisha nodded, her fingers brushing the lotus clip. "I hope so, Dadi. I want a partner who's... real. Not just a hero from a story." She looked at Rohan, searching for a crack in his armor, but his smile was impenetrable, a mask of moonlight.

The ceremony began in the courtyard, beneath a canopy of marigolds, their golden petals a symbol of celebration but also of transience, wilting by day's end. The priest droned mantras, sacred threads looped over wrists, rice and turmeric passed hand to hand. Rohan's palm brushed Aisha's as they exchanged token gifts—a silver bangle for her, a silk scarf for him. His fingers lingered too long, a touch that was meant to be tender but felt rehearsed, calculated, like a chess move.

"This is just tradition," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "Our real rituals begin after the wedding."

Aisha's stomach turned, but she smiled for the guests, the perfect bride—composed, obedient, radiant. The lotus clip felt heavy, a silent warning. As Dadi dabbed her forehead with kumkum, blessing her with a warmth that felt like Nani's embrace, Rohan leaned close again, his voice a whisper meant only for her.

"Come upstairs when this ends. I want to talk. Alone."

Aisha stiffened, her smile faltering. "Alone?" she asked, her voice barely audible over the priest's chants.

His eyes held hers, sharp as a blade. "Just a conversation, Aisha. To get comfortable. To understand what's ahead."

The rituals ended, and the families moved to the drawing room, where Mrs. Sharma's voice rang out, orchestrating photos and sweets. Aisha excused herself, her heart pounding, and climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom, the lotus clip her lifeline. The room was dim, the balcony doors open to the city's glittering lights, a constellation of promises and perils. Rohan stood there, back turned, his silhouette sharp against the night.

"You called me?" she asked, closing the door behind her, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.

He turned slowly, his sherwani catching the moonlight, his eyes unreadable. "Yes. I thought we should get comfortable. Understand what's ahead." His tone was smooth, but there was an edge, like a river hiding jagged rocks.

Aisha crossed her arms, the lotus clip gleaming defiantly. "I thought that's what the engagement period was for. Unless you're planning to quiz me on Kapoor family trivia already."

Rohan's lips twitched, a ghost of amusement. "No quizzes, Aisha. Just clarity. Do you think you're ready to be a Kapoor wife?" He stepped closer, his presence filling the room, his voice low and deliberate. "It's not just sarees and smiles. It means being strong. Poised. Knowing when to speak. When not to."

Aisha's spine straightened, her eyes meeting his. "Is that a job title or a sentence?" she shot back, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

He stopped mere inches from her, amusement flickering in his eyes, but it was fleeting, replaced by something colder. "It means being mine," he said, his voice soft but heavy, like a stone dropped into a still pond. "You'll have everything you need—security, status, a home. But it comes with expectations."

Aisha's breath caught, the lotus clip cold against her scalp. "And what about love, Rohan? Compassion? Space to breathe? Or is that not part of the Kapoor package?"

His expression tightened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Then, softer, almost tender: "You intrigue me, Aisha. You're fire hidden in silk. But don't mistake affection for leniency." He reached out, his hand brushing her cheek, a gesture meant to be tender but feeling rehearsed, like a line from a script. "You're mine now. You'll learn to trust that."

Aisha didn't pull away, but her spine stiffened, her eyes searching his for a hint of the man behind the mask. "And what about you, Rohan? When will you let me see who you are beneath all this... control?"

His eyes flicked with something sharp—anger, perhaps, or something deeper, darker. Then he smiled, a slow, deliberate thing, like a predator savoring the chase. "In time, Aisha. One step at a time."

The door opened, and Dadi entered with quiet grace, her sage-green saree rustling softly. "Ah, I thought I'd find you two hiding," she said, her voice warm but her eyes sharp, catching the tension in the air. "Come, everyone wants more pictures. You can't escape the cameras forever, beta." She smiled at Aisha, but her gaze lingered on Rohan, a silent question in her eyes.

Aisha followed her out, the lotus clip heavy against her scalp, a vow to stay rooted. Behind her, Rohan's gaze lingered on her back, a weight she could feel, like shadows creeping closer. The night settled over the house—dense, quiet, watchful, the marigolds in the courtyard bowing under the weight of the morning's rain.

Aisha was no longer dreaming; she was walking blindfolded into a game where love was a costume, and control wore a crown. The lotus clip gleamed, a silent sentinel, as the unseen shadow moved closer, its edges sharp and cold.