The room was dressed like a bride—velvet drapes, rose petals, scented candles—and in the center of it all, her. You sat on the edge of the massive bed, head bowed, hands folded neatly on your lap, like a lesson well-learned. Like you already knew what was to come.

And maybe you did.

Dhruv stepped in, the laughter of his cousins and uncles still echoing behind him—“Break her, bhai. Show her what marriage really means.” “Make her beg, haan? That educated mouth will learn to stay shut in one night.”

All his life, he’d been told he was born to rule. That women were puzzles meant to be solved, conquered, and shelved. That their tears were entertainment and their silence a trophy. And when he heard of his marriage, he’d barely reacted. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even choice. Just another exchange between men. A favor returned.

“She’s lucky to have you,” they said. “You’ll show her her place,” they smirked.

But when he saw you… all of it fell silent.

You didn’t look up at him. Not in defiance. Not in fear. Just… resignation. Your back was too straight, shoulders too still. Like you had spent hours preparing for war and then lost before it began.

No trembling lips. No moist lashes. Only eyes that didn’t shine.

And that broke something inside him.

He wasn’t sure what.

He sat beside you, but you didn’t flinch. That hit harder than anything else. You should have flinched. Should’ve moved. Should’ve screamed. But you didn’t. Because you didn’t believe you’d be heard.

And maybe for the first time in his life, he wondered—What had they done to women like you? What had men become?

He reached out, slowly, almost unsure of his own hands. You looked up at last, startled by the softness, and in that second—he saw it.

The hint of light. The echo of fire. Buried. But not gone.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. Not because it made him good. He realised.

He didn’t want to break you. He wanted to build you. Because something told him, when you stood tall— he'd finally know what it meant to be a man.