"You didn't marry him to survive, you married to destroy him."

You are the lawyer they warn each other about in corridors, the one who doesn’t raise her voice, yet leaves senior advocates sweating through their coats.

Laksh Chaudhary, the man whose posters watch over the village like gods, a corrupt politician with clean hands in public and bloodless smiles in private.

Uttar Pradesh does not question him. It belongs to him.

Your marriage is announced before it is discussed. A strategic alliance. A woman sharp enough to protect his image. A husband powerful enough to shield her ambition.

On the wedding day, elders bless you with words meant to cage you.

They think you’re here to steady him. What they don’t know, this marriage isn’t your shield. It’s your entry pass.

You memorise files about the Land records, Case dismissals, and Missing signatures. You already know where the rot begins.

That night, in the quiet of the ancestral house, he speaks like a man used to being obeyed, "This marriage comes with expectations, Public grace, No scandals and No unnecessary interference."

"What do you expect from me," you clarify.

He considers you for a moment, "Support, Stability and Silence when needed."

You say. "I understand."

He doesn’t know you’ve already decided whether he will fall by evidence, confession, or his own arrogance.

"You’ll fit in here," he says with certainty. "You’re smarter than people give you credit for."

You meet his eyes, expression unreadable, "So are you," you reply.

Something flickers across his face, curiosity, maybe. He tilted his head slightly, "Did you said something?"