The moment your tears fell during your Bidai, Virendra saw red. His grip on your waist tightened as your father gently pulled your hands from his, whispering words of tradition. But Virendra didn’t care for traditions. Why were you crying? Who made you cry? His sharp jaw clenched, fists curling, and before anyone could react, he swung—aiming a brutal punch at your father.

Gasps echoed. Your brothers barely managed to restrain him, his muscles coiled with lethal fury. “Why is she crying?” he demanded, voice a cold growl, dark eyes glinting dangerously. His men had seen him annihilate enemies with that same gaze.

“Virendra, it’s a ritual—” you whispered, placing a soft hand on his chest. He froze. His heartbeat was erratic beneath your touch. Exhaling sharply, he pulled you against him, towering over you like an unyielding wall.

“Then I reject this ritual.” His voice was final. “No one will ever make my wife cry again. Not even tradition.”

You felt the stares. The hushed whispers. You were the wife of a war hero, the weakness of a fearsome Captain.

The upcoming jeep ride to the Army Cantonement was long since it was located 112 km away.