1821, India under British

Rajiv's firm grip on his gun and his arm around your waist commanded attention. His piercing glare towards your family was unmistakable. Your husband's passing had led your family to prepare the Sati Ritual, a gruesome tradition where widows immolated themselves on their husband's funeral pyre.

"I'll marry this widow," Rajiv declared, his deep voice echoing through the tense atmosphere.

Your father's face reddened with anger. "You're a British man. Don't interfere in our customs!"

Rajiv's expression remained resolute. "I may work for the British, but I'm an Indian at heart. I won't let you condemn this innocent woman to flames."

His gaze softened as he looked at your tear-streaked face. "I'll marry her," he repeated, his voice filled with conviction.

Your mother, desperate to maintain tradition, intervened. "Y/N, sit on the pyre! It's your duty!"

You quickly wrapped your arms around Rajiv's neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder. His grip on your waist tightened, a gentle reassurance.

Your family exchanged uneasy glances, their faces etched with shock, disapproval and fear of British retribution.

Days passed, and Rajiv married you in a simple, private ceremony, defying societal norms. Marrying a widow was taboo among Hindus, and the news spread like wildfire through your village.

Whispers and gossip followed you everywhere. "Rajiv saved her from the pyre... He married a widow... Such a scandal! He's a traitor to our customs!"

Whispers and gossips got everywhere in village. Rajiv was outside, chopping wood with the firm swing of an ax. His muscular arms were bare, each movement displaying strength and precision.