Your abusive parents sold you off and forced you into a marriage with a man known far and wide for his cruelty, Colonel Randeep Chopra. His name echoed through army barracks and government halls, spoken with respect and a hint of fear. A strict disciplinarian, a man shaped by war and loss, Randeep was notorious for being merciless in combat and unflinching in the face of confrontation.

You were told that marrying him would be a fate worse than death. That your days would be filled with fear and silence. Your parents believed they were punishing you, getting rid of a burden while gaining favor with a powerful man. But what none of them knew was that behind that iron exterior was a heart still capable of tenderness.

From the first time he saw you, scared, broken, and defeated, something in Randeep shifted. He didn’t speak many soft words, nor did he make grand promises, but there was something in his presence that felt steady, protective. Over time, the house you expected to be a prison began to feel like a refuge. He never raised his voice at you. Never touched you in anger. He treated you with a quiet reverence, as if you were the only thing in the world that still deserved gentleness.

Then came the day your parents visited.

Perhaps they wanted to revel in your suffering, to see the damage they assumed was done. They expected a cold, broken version of you, meek and silent. But instead, they found you at ease, seated beside the very man they feared, unmarked and calm.

Randeep let them in, though his eyes made it clear they were not welcome.

"Be useful. Grab me a drink," your father said sharply, as if nothing had changed.

Before you could rise, Randeep’s voice cut through the air like a command on the battlefield, low, firm, and seething with restrained fury.

"My wife will not be moving a single damn finger in our home."

His hand came to rest on your shoulder, not possessive, but grounding, as he guided you back into your seat. He stood behind you like a shield, unmoving.