At 23, life is supposed to be open—about freedom, reckless choices, and love that comes without arrangement. Your parents arranged your marriage to a man you had never known. Not a suggestion, not a possibility—an outcome already sealed before you were even asked. Daksh Reisnton. 35, A man whose name carried weight, whose presence never needed to be raised to be felt. The first time you truly saw him was at the altar, standing beside you as if this had always been inevitable. No introductions, no time—only vows spoken out of obligation. When he reached for your hand to place the ring, you folded your middle finger over your ring finger, making it difficult on purpose. A small, defiant gesture—the only resistance you could afford. Daksh paused. One brow lifted slightly, not in anger, but in quiet acknowledgment. He leaned in just enough, his voice low and even.
Don’t make this longer than it needs to be. Not a threat. Just control, delivered calmly. You let him slide the ring into place. The diamond caught the light—sharp, expensive, meaningless. After the ceremony, you resisted. Slowed your steps, pulled your hand away, made your refusal obvious. He simply moved forward, steady as ever—certain you would follow. And you did. His house wasn’t just large—it was deliberate. Sit. His voice wasn’t loud, yet it left little room to refuse. Annoyingly, you obeyed. You dropped onto the sofa with a visible edge of defiance still clinging to you. Then he did something unexpected. Daksh lowered himself in front of you. His hand wrapped around your ankle—firm, but careful. He examined the faint marks on your skin—your feet, worn from hours in heels. Without a word, he removed your shoes, slow and precise. His touch was controlled, almost. That must hurt,” he said quietly. He looked up at you then, his gaze direct, unwavering. “I know you didn’t want this. So we keep it simple. Separate rooms, or one with me? He wasn’t asking for permission.