The car glided down the road like a silent hearse, the world outside blurring into streaks of muted color and noise. Inside, the silence between Raneya and Zaryab was louder than any scream.
She sat rigidly, her bridal lehenga a blood-red weight around her — not a symbol of celebration, but a noose sewn from tradition. Her mehndi-darkened hands lay cold in her lap, the scent of roses around her making her stomach churn. Every petal that had been thrown at her felt like a final handful of dirt on her living grave.
Zaryab, dressed like a prince out of a fantasy, stole glances at her. But even he couldn't deny it — she looked like a girl being led to her own funeral.
"You look… beautiful," he finally said, voice dipped in gentleness.
Raneya didn't respond.
"If you're scared, I understand. I'll try to make this work," he added, almost too carefully. "I'll be good to you."
Still, she stared ahead, unmoving. Her silence was a scream he chose not to hear.
As the car pulled into the grand estate — her new home — a strange coldness crept into her bones. Fireworks cracked in the air, rose petals rained again, but inside her mind… thunder. She wasn't entering a new chapter. She was walking into a cage.
The mansion stood like a fortress dressed in luxury — silk curtains, crystal chandeliers, polished marble. But it all felt staged. Every blessing murmured to her sounded like a warning in disguise.
Khala and Saniya lingered long enough to give her a warm look, then left, citing "privacy for the newlyweds." Raneya was alone now. Alone with Zaryab. The man the world praised. The man her parents forced her to trust.
Zaryab played the part well — smiling softly, showing her the house like a guide at a museum. "This is your room. That wardrobe's yours. If you ever feel overwhelmed, Saniya's just next door. You can always go to Khala's too."
It should have comforted her. Instead, it made the cage look prettier.
But a cage is still a cage.
She sat at the edge of the bed, drowning in fabric and dread. That's when his phone rang.
His expression changed instantly — from warmth to clipped efficiency. "It's urgent," he muttered, already heading out.
"Zaryab—" she called, her voice barely a whisper.
He didn't turn.
As his footsteps faded down the corridor, she wandered aimlessly, touching the cold surfaces of furniture that gleamed with wealth but pulsed with emptiness.
Then — she heard it.
His voice. Not gentle. Not kind. Cold. Brutal.
"No, it's not easy marrying a girl and convincing her to sell herself like that. She's stubborn. Not like the others."
She froze.
"She'll give in. They all do. I'm not running a charity—I'm running a business."
The words gutted her.
She followed the voice like a ghost trailing its murderer. Her heart thundered, her pulse a riot beneath her skin. This wasn't real. It couldn't be.
"She'll break eventually. They always do."
Her knees buckled. Her hand brushed a vase.
CRASH!
The porcelain exploded across marble.
Silence.
Zaryab turned.
He saw her.
"You heard everything," he said quietly, but his eyes burned with rage barely contained.
Her voice shook but rose like a blade. "You… trap women. You sell them. You—"
"A businessman," he interrupted smoothly, stepping toward her. "And now, you're my partner. My wife. Congratulations, Mrs. Zaryab."
Revulsion curled in her stomach.
"You're disgusting," she spat.
He chuckled, low and unbothered. "I've been called worse."
"I'm not your puppet."
"You'll learn," he said, voice soft with threat. "That's what good wives do."
Then, as if struck by lightning, she slapped him.
Time stopped.
His face turned with the impact. A red mark bloomed across his cheek.
For a second, he looked stunned.
Then, the mask shattered.
His fist came without warning — a blow to her stomach that knocked the wind from her lungs.
A second hit — her face snapped sideways. She fell, sprawling across the floor.
Pain.
Searing. Blinding. Endless.
She tried to crawl back, but he was on her — kicking, shouting, breaking something sacred inside her.
She screamed.
Fought.
Bit down her sobs.
But he dragged her by her hair, slammed her against the wall. His eyes were hollow — not a man, not a husband. A predator. A monster in a groom's disguise.
Then — he did what monsters do.
He took what was never his to take.
He didn't care for her screams. He didn't stop at her begging.
He broke her.
He tore through her body like he had already torn through her trust, her voice, her freedom.
And when it was over, she lay there — shattered, silent, blood mixing with tears on the floor of a palace that now reeked of death.
Zaryab adjusted his collar, voice calm as ever. "Welcome to marriage, Raneya."
A tear slipped from her eye. She didn't speak. Couldn't.
But somewhere beneath the wreckage, a spark lit.
A promise.
This isn't where her story ends.
It's where her revenge begins.