Page 64 of The Defiant Wife

The tears return. Softer this time. Quieter.

Not because of the wedding.Not because of Veeraj.Not even because of the photograph. But because tonight, perhaps for the first time in my life, I finally stop waiting for my parents to become the people I needed them to be.

And somehow . . . That loss hurts more than anything else.

18. THE VOWS WE DON'T SPEAK

VEERAJ

Marriage, I've discovered, is significantly less romantic when it begins with a public relations disaster.The thought comes to me as I stand beneath a mandap decorated with white jasmine and soft golden marigolds.

The ceremony is small.Painfully small by royal standards.Just immediate family.Just the people who matter.

No politicians. No cameras. No crowds. No spectacle.

Bhai sa had insisted on that.And for once, I am grateful.The sacred fire crackles quietly between us.The priest chants mantras in a calm, steady rhythm.The scent of sandalwood lingers in the air.

Everything feels strangely distant. Muted.Like I'm watching someone else's life unfold.Across from me sits my bride.

My wife.The thought still feels absurd.

Diya keeps her gaze lowered.She hasn't looked at me once.Not properly.Not since yesterday.Not since I apparently lost my mind and proposed marriage in front of both our families.

The realization makes me suppress a sigh.

Because now that the anger has faded and logic has returned, I can't stop thinking about one thing.I never asked her.Not once.I didn't ask what she wanted.I didn't ask whether she agreed.I didn't ask whether marriage to me was something she could even tolerate.

I simply decided.Just like her father had.The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.Around us, family members speak softly amongst themselves.

Dhruv is seated beside Sitara, whispering something that makes her elbow him in the ribs.Vihaan looks entirely too pleased with himself.Poorvi keeps trying not to laugh every time she catches him staring at us.

Bhai sa sits beside Meher bhabhi sa, calm and composed as always, though every now and then I catch the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

I choose to ignore it.

Entirely.

The priest pauses to prepare the next ritual.The brief interruption creates a pocket of silence around us.

And before I can overthink it, I lean slightly closer. Close enough that only she can hear me."Diya."

Her shoulders stiffen immediately. Not exactly encouraging.

I stare at the fire for a second before speaking. "I'm sorry."

For the first time all morning, she reacts.Barely.Just a tiny pause. A tiny inhale.

But I notice. I always notice her, apparently.Her gaze remains fixed on the flames.She says nothing.I continue anyway."I was inconsiderate."

The words feel unfamiliar. Not because they aren't true. Because admitting them out loud rarely comes naturally to me."I wanted to shut your father up."

A very noble goal, in my opinion."But I didn't ask what you wanted."

Finally, she turns her head slightly.Not enough to look at me.Enough to show she's listening.I take that as progress."I forced your hand."

The confession settles heavily between us.The fire crackles softly. Aadhya throws flowers at us when it's absolutely not needed as she giggles and waddles back to her mother.

"I made a decision that affects your entire life." My voice lowers further."And for that . . . I am sorry."