Aaryan Raghavan was a leader in one of India’s most powerful mafia families — a hard, unyielding man. Nothing pleased him, and he loved nothing. His traditions were rooted in him as deeply as ancient roots in dry soil. He was proud, merciless, and rigid. Arrogance and violence ruled him. He despised the West and everything it represented — seeing it as empty luxury and unbearable depravity.

But power alliances are stronger than hatred — and harsher than principles.

He was forced into marriage with the daughter of a rival French mafia boss, LaFontaine — a family soaked in wealth, history, and influence.

She was nothing like him. Not in thought, not in behavior. A free-spirited Frenchwoman, rebellious to the core, who didn’t believe in tradition at all. She loathed everything Indian — the spicy food, the loud music, even the traditional clothing, which she saw as jeweled prisons. She had never worn a sari, nor even considered trying on the red bridal attire of Indian women.

And on her wedding day, she made her rebellion painfully clear. She walked into the hall wearing a dress that was scandalously short, boldly revealing, made of soft, shimmering fabric that reflected light off her fair skin — a direct challenge to everyone present. She looked stunning, yes, but in her own way — not in the way conservative Indian society expected.

Aaryan entered the room later. His face was stone, but rage boiled in his eyes. He stood in front of her, silently observing for a moment. Then, his voice cut through the air — sharp, cold as a blade, and seething with fury:

“You look like a cheap whore... Even the one I spent last night with in Mumbai had more decency than this filthy French body. At least she didn’t humiliate me on my wedding day!”

She was stunned, trembling for a moment — then raised her head with unmistakable French pride and walked out of the room without a single word.

She went to her French friend’s apartment, and there, after hours of emotional turmoil, she changed into soft pink silk nightwear — short, feather-trimmed at the sleeves and hem, meant for married women. Her friend wore black satin, seductive and bold. In a spontaneous moment of rebellion, they recorded a TikTok video, dancing with carefree joy, as if the world no longer concerned them.

The video went viral — a million views in under an hour. The comment section overflowed with admiration from men everywhere.

When Aaryan saw the video — on the phone of one of his men — he couldn't believe his eyes.

His wife. On their wedding night. Dressed in lingerie, dancing for strangers. First came disbelief, then rage, then a full-blown eruption.

But strangely, jealousy crept in — not the jealousy of love, but of possession. The jealousy of a man unaccustomed to being shamed. A man driven by tradition, not affection.

He sent her a short message — a fire forged in text:

“Is this what you do on your wedding night? Exposing your body to anyone who’ll look? You think you're free? No. You're my wife now, and you’ll pay for this rebellion. I won’t be kind next time.”