First love never dies.
It just comes back wearing a sherwani and a smirk.
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The bridal suite was suffocating in silence, thick with gold, roses, and resentment. The dim lights danced off her bangles as Kiara Simha ripped them off one by one, the clink of glass louder than the storm outside.
Behind her, the door closed with a heavy click.
She didn’t turn. She didn’t have to.
“You can stop standing there like you own the place,” she said coolly. “You already ruined it."
Ishaan Malhotra took a few slow steps into the room. “Nice to see nothing’s changed.”
“Oh, everything’s changed,” she replied, turning to face him — the man she once loved like a dream and now hated like a curse. “Seven years ago, I was stupid enough to love you. Today, I’m just your wife.”
His jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He looked older now — broader shoulders, colder eyes, a man carved by power. But it was still him. The same man she had caught half-dressed with the same girl he told her not to worry about, just days before their final exams. The betrayal had shredded her from the inside. Public. Ugly. Unforgettable.
And unforgiven.
“You don’t have to pretend,” she said, her voice sharp. “I know exactly who you are, Ishaan. Always have.”
“No,” he said, softly. “You only know what you think you saw.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t. Don’t you dare start rewriting history.”
He stepped closer, closing the space between them. “You never even let me explain.”
“Explain what?” she snapped. “That it was a mistake? That she meant nothing? That I imagined her hands on your skin?”
Ishaan’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t answer. Not now. Not here.
“You shattered me,” Kiara whispered. “And now I have to smile through this circus and call you my husband.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “We’re both trapped, Kiara.”
“No,” she said. “You might feel trapped. I feel hunted.”
Outside, thunder cracked across the sky.
Inside, the war had begun —
A marriage written in blood,
A love buried under betrayal,
And a secret that could burn it all to the ground
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