Gold swallowed everything.

The Kapoor estate, a sprawling haveli in the heart of Mumbai, pulsed with gold. Chandeliers burned like stars caught in glass, casting molten reflections on the marble floors. Silk swayed from vaulted arches, jasmine garlands perfumed the air thick enough to choke, and laughter sparkled through the corridors like champagne—effervescent, glittering, drunk. It wasn't a wedding. It was a performance. An empire sealing itself with vows and spectacle.

Aisha stood before the full-length mirror, her maroon lehenga hugging her like a velvet cage. Heavy embroidery snaked around her bodice like gilded vines, every thread laced with tradition and command. Beneath her veil, the lotus clip shimmered defiantly, silver against the gold storm, a whisper of something untouched, unraveled.

She couldn't breathe. Not from nerves. From weight. Of fabric. Of future.

Her bangles clinked as she shifted, each movement a quiet rebellion. Her skin prickled, heat blooming beneath the layers, her chest rising and falling beneath the corseted blouse that left little room for breath, or doubt.

Outside, the shehnai played. The notes curled through the air like a lover's fingers, soft at first, then insistent.

Mrs. Sharma's voice barged in like a drill sergeant's slap. "Smile, Aisha! You're the bride, not a widow. Don't ruin the moment with your sulking!"

Aisha didn't turn. "Maybe I'm just thinking, Maa. Some thoughts don't wear lipstick."

Her mother huffed, fluttered, powdered, adjusted. All noise.

Meera entered like a monsoon breeze. "He's here, Aisha. Rohan. Oh, you should see him. Ivory sherwani. Gold buttons. Looks like sin dipped in silk."

Aisha's pulse kicked. Not from excitement. From awareness.

Downstairs, Rohan Kapoor stood still while the world swirled around him. His sherwani gleamed like bone dust—rich, ancient, dangerous. His jaw was clean-shaven, his gaze razor-sharp. Women watched him like a bonfire. He barely noticed. His eyes were fixed somewhere beyond the crowd—on a staircase, perhaps. Or on a memory.

Vikram whispered into his glass. "God help the girl marrying him. She'll either drown in pearls... or in fire."

The music shifted. Bridal drums. Thunder wrapped in rhythm. Aisha's feet moved.

The air changed.

Each step down the staircase made her body buzz. She saw him—tall, still, commanding. His eyes devoured her. Not with lust. With possession. Like a thief who didn't steal. He claimed.

She reached him. He offered his hand.

She placed hers into it.

His fingers curled around her palm, warm, firm. Too firm. A claim, not a greeting.

"You're breathtaking," he said, voice low enough to make her skin hum.

"Hope you're ready for me," she whispered, eyes lifting beneath lashes. "I'm not just a pretty petal."

He leaned in, lips grazing the edge of her ear.

"Good. I don't want petals. I want roots. Deep ones. Ones that won't run."

The pheras spun around them like smoke. The flames licked high, casting gold on their skin. As they circled, his hand hovered at the small of her back, guiding her, claiming her without saying a word. Her back tingled under his invisible brand.

"Do you take this man—"

"I do," she breathed.

"—to honor, cherish, and obey?"

Her eyes flicked to his. Dark. Steady. Demanding.

"I do," she said, voice silk-wrapped steel.

And then they took seven rounds around the holy fire...

and the priest announced" You are now husband and wife."

Rohan's grip around her waist tightened as they posed for photos. The cameras snapped, flashes strobed like lightning. She smiled like a goddess. He looked like a king returned from conquest.

And yet, under the bridal layers, her skin burned. She could feel the heat of him at her side. The scent of him—vetiver, musk, and smoke—wrapped around her like a secret.

As the crowd clapped, he leaned into her again. "Tonight, I undress more than this silk, Aisha. I'll peel the lies from your voice. The hesitation from your breath. I'll make truth sing from your skin."

Her lashes fluttered.

She didn't pull away.

The night stretched on—dances, toasts, sugar smiles. But her eyes kept drifting to him. And his to her. Like magnets trained to collide.

Beneath her dupatta, the lotus clip pulsed, pressed into her scalp. She was not wilting.

She was watching.

And when he pulled her into the bridal suite that night, when the doors shut and the world fell away, the war would begin.

Not one of pain.

But of dominance.

Of want.

Of a man who conquered with control and a woman who refused to surrender.

The marigolds wilted. The guests slept.

And Rohan Kapoor turned to his new bride with a gaze that could melt gold.

End of Chapter 7