Two hours later, Saanvi stood in the Presidential Suite of the city’s most expensive hotel. Facing her was Natasha, Aryan Rathore’s loyal secretary. Natasha gestured for her to sit and placed a legal agreement on the table.
"Why me?" Saanvi asked hesitantly. "There are thousands of girls in this city—rich, beautiful... I am nothing compared to them."
A cynical smile touched Natasha’s lips. She opened a file. "That is your greatest strength, Saanvi. You are 'nothing'."
Natasha leaned in, her voice low and serious. "Aryan sir’s grandfather, the late Bhanwar Singh Rathore, was a visionary—and a bit eccentric. He left a condition in his will. Aryan sir can only remain Chairman of the Rathore Group if he marries. But the condition is: the girl must not come from an influential, political, or big business family."
"But why? That seems backwards," Saanvi blurted out.
"It’s a strategic defense, Saanvi," Natasha explained. "Bhanwar Singh feared that if Aryan married into a corporate empire, the marriage would become a 'hostile takeover.' An influential family would infiltrate the boardroom, manipulate shares, and eventually force a merger. He wanted the reins to stay solely with the Rathores."
She paused. "He wanted a girl who would keep Aryan grounded, not one who would trap him in corporate politics. He wanted someone with a 'clean' background—no ex-boyfriends who could blackmail the company, and someone from a humble background who would respect the discipline of the Rathore empire instead of challenging it."
Natasha’s eyes pierced Saanvi’s soul. "You are the 'perfect' candidate. Your father’s dry honesty left you with a spotless character but no bank balance. And your mother’s illness..." she paused with a cold, professional pity, "...has pushed you to a cliff where you must choose between self-respect and life. We needed someone who would move at our command. Your circumstances guarantee that."
"Don't mistake this for a wedding," Natasha added, pointing to the check. "It’s a business transaction. Twenty lakhs and your mother’s life—in exchange for one year of acting out a 'marriage'."
The Witness of Fire
In the VIP room of the Registrar's Office, Saanvi stood draped in a heavy red Banarasi saree. The jewelry sparkled, but it couldn't hide the darkness in her eyes.
The door swung open, and Aryan Rathore entered. In his black sherwani, he looked like a Greek God, but his aura was as cold as stone. He didn't look at Saanvi once. He glanced at his expensive watch and sat by the sacred fire.
"Pandit ji, hurry up. I have a meeting," Aryan said coldly. The words felt like an arrow to Saanvi’s heart. This was her wedding—the day she had once dreamed of—but for her 'husband,' it was just a break between business meetings.
As the fire roared to life and the chants began, the priest asked the couple to stand for the pheras (circumambulation). Weak from stress, Saanvi’s foot slipped on her heavy saree. Before she could fall, a hand as strong as iron gripped her wrist.
Saanvi looked up. Aryan’s deep brown eyes were staring at her. There was no concern in that touch, only authority. He pulled her upright and whispered in her ear, his voice sharp:
"Steady yourself, Saanvi. Daughters-in-law of the Rathore family do not fall like this. I have bought your responsibility with a price; now you must learn to stand on your own feet. I despise weak things."
The words felt like molten lead. As the seven rounds were completed, each step took Saanvi further from her past and closer to this golden cage. When Aryan applied the vermillion (sindoor) to her forehead, Saanvi clenched her fists. That red mark wasn't a symbol of a blessed union; it was the seal on a deal she had signed out of desperation.
"The marriage is complete," the priest announced.
As they stepped outside, a torrential downpour began. Standing before the massive, intimidating gates of 'Rathore Mansion,' Saanvi realized she had saved her mother’s life, but she had burned her soul in that 'witness of fire.'
The doors opened, and the darkness welcomed her.
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