Author's POV:

Jhanvi stood on the chawkhat of her home, her eyes red and raw. 

The house she once considered a sanctuary now felt like a gilded cage.

The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and expensive perfume, the walls vibrating with the thumping bass of celebratory music.

 Everywhere she looked, people were laughing and dancing, oblivious to the storm brewing within her.

In the middle of the courtyard, she saw a young pregnant woman laughing as her husband trailed behind her, a plate of food in his hand, his eyes full of adoration.

The sight hit Jhanvi like a physical blow. A sudden, sharp pain lanced through her skull. 

She gasped, clutching her temples as she sank to her knees right there on the porch.

Her eyes snapped shut, and for a split second, the Rishikesh decorations vanished.

She saw a different hall—grand, filled with warmth. She felt a weight in her belly, a life growing inside her.

 A familiar, deep voice echoed from behind her, vibrating with a love so pure it made her soul ache:

"Anjali... jaan. Bas thoda sa kha lo, phir jitna man kare utna naachna."

"Jhanvi! Kya hua baccha?"

The voice of Mrs. Bisht shattered the vision. Jhanvi's eyes flew open, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. 

She looked up to see Mr. and Mrs. Bisht hovering over her.

"Kuch nahi... bas sar dard de raha tha," Jhanvi lied, her voice trembling. 

She forced herself to stand, her legs feeling like lead.

Mrs. Bisht nodded, appearing convinced, but Mr. Bisht's eyes lingered on her, filled with a silent.She moved inside, but the memories weren't done with her. 

As she walked through the decorated hall, every flash of light felt like a trigger. She saw herself again in that blurry past, rushing through a house filled with laughter, turning around as that same voice called out to her.

The face was clearer now. It was Aryan. 

His eyes were crinkled in a smile, his hand reaching out to catch hers.

She sat down on the ornate sofa next to Dev, her head spinning. 

Dev didn't look at her; he sat like a king on a throne, his presence dark and suffocating.

 The performances began—friends and cousins dancing to upbeat Bollywood tracks 

but to Jhanvi, they were just moving shadows.

Another spike of pain. She closed her eyes again.

The music in her head changed to a soft, romantic melody.

 She was in Aryan's arms, swaying slowly. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered:

"Kaisa lag raha hai, Mrs. Taneja? "

Jhanvi's eyes snapped open. Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it. 

Taneja? Mrs. Taneja? The name felt real .

Dev sensed her discomfort. Without warning, he placed his hand firmly on her thigh. 

Jhanvi flinched violently, trying to pull away, but his fingers dug into her skin through the heavy fabric of her lehenga.

"Kya hua, Gulaab?" he leaned in, his voice a deadly, low vibration against her skin.

"N-Nahi... k-kuch nahi," she stammered, her voice failing her.

Dev's hand didn't move; instead, it began to slide upward, possessive and mocking. 

Jhanvi shifted away instinctively, her face pale. Dev's jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his free fist.

"Jitna door jana hai jao, Gulaab," he thought, his eyes fixed on the dancers while his mind drifted to a darker place.

 "Kal toh tum mere saath hogi. Mere ghar mein, mere bistar pe. Aur tab main wahi karunga jo mera mann chahega. "

After a while, the announcer called the couple to the floor. Dev stood up and gracefully extended his hand toward Jhanvi.

 It was a gesture meant for the audience—a display of a perfect, loving fiancé.

Jhanvi stared at his hand as if it were a coiled snake. 

She ignored it, standing up on her own.

A hush fell over the room. Guests began to whisper and gossip, noticing the cold distance between the two. 

Dev's fake smile didn't waver, but his eyes turned murderous. He leaned in , catching her arm and pulling her close under the guise of a whisper.

"Mere sabar ka baandh tum subah se tod rahi ho, Gulaab," he hissed. 

"Zara nazar ghuma ke toh dekho."

Jhanvi's eyes darted around the room.

 In every corner, tucked behind pillars and standing near the exits, were Dev's bodyguards.

They weren't just standing guard; their hands were inside their blazers, and their eyes were fixed directly on Mr. and Mrs. Bisht.

Jhanvi's heart plummeted. She immediately reached out and gripped Dev's hand. 

"S-Sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Dev led her to the center of the dance floor, his arm snaking around her waist with bruising force.

 As the music started, they began a slow, rhythmic sway. 

Jhanvi kept her gaze lowered, refusing to look into his demonic eyes.

During a turn, Dev deliberately collided with a passing waiter. 

A tray of glasses hit the floor, shattering into thousands of tiny, jagged shards.

The loud music drowned out the sound of the breaking glass, and the guests were too distracted to notice.

The waiter hurried to apologize, but Dev leaned in and whispered a command that 

made the man freeze.

"Don't clean it. Leave."

Dev turned back to Jhanvi, his eyes gleaming with a sick, twisted excitement.

 He let go of her waist and stepped back.

"Nacho," he commanded, his voice barely audible over the music but carrying the weight of a death sentence.

Jhanvi looked down. The floor beneath her bare feet was littered with broken glass

sharp, transparent needles hidden in the carpet's pile.

No one else could see them, but she could see the light glinting off the edges.

"Nacho, Gulaab," Dev repeated, his smile widening.

Jhanvi looked at her parents, then back at the guards. With a sob caught in her throat, she took a step. 

The first shard pierced her sole. She didn't scream; she couldn't.

She began to dance, her movements graceful and fluid for the crowd, while beneath her, the white carpet began to bloom with hidden spots of red.

 Every step was an agony, every turn a fresh wound,

but she kept dancing a broken doll performing for her monster.

After sometime;

The Sangeet was finally over, but for Jhanvi, the celebration had felt like a funeral.

 The house was finally quiet, the guests had retreated to their home, and the heavy silence of the night settled in.

Jhanvi sat on the edge of her bed, her breath coming in ragged, shallow shivers. 

She slowly reached down and lifted the hem of her heavy, blood-stained lehenga.

Her feet were a mess of cuts and bruises where the glass shards had pierced her skin.

 The physical pain was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in her chest.

With trembling hands, she picked up a first-aid kit. 

She began to clean the wounds, the antiseptic stinging her raw skin.

 As she wrapped the white gauze around her soles, a single tear escaped, followed by a silent, devastating sob.

She bit her lip to keep from screaming, her body shaking with the effort to stay quiet.

She looked at her bandaged feet and then at her bandaged hand. 

Every part of her body was being marked, branded, and broken by Dev.

She felt like a puppet whose strings were being pulled so tight they were starting to snap.

She leaned her head back against the bedpost, staring at the ceiling with empty eyes. 

The visions of the day—the pregnant woman, the voice calling her "Anjali," the name "Mrs. Taneja"—swirled in her mind like a thick fog.

She didn't understand them. She didn't know if they were real memories or just her mind breaking under the pressure of Dev's obsession.

She didn't feel like Jhanvi Bisht anymore, but she didn't know who else she could be.

The only thing she knew for certain was that the sun would rise soon, and with it, the Mandap would be ready.

She was a girl with no past she could trust and a future she was terrified to face.

As she finished the last bandage, she tucked her feet under the covers and curled into a ball,

 wishing she could simply disappear before the morning light touched the floor.

Meanwhile;

Aryan entered the quiet mansion, the weight of the house pressing down on him like a tomb.

 Advika was a warm, heavy weight in his arms, her breathing shallow and peaceful.

Aahan and Arushi followed him in, their faces etched with worry. 

Before they could speak, Aryan paused. "Mai sone ja raha hoon," he said, his voice devoid of any life. 

He began to walk away but stopped, turning back to Aahan.

"Aahan... kal se mai company dubara sambhalunga. Aur tu wahi karega jo tu pehle karta tha."

Aahan opened his mouth to protest, to tell him he didn't have to rush, but Aryan was already heading upstairs.

He pushed open his bedroom door.

 The first thing that caught his eye was their grand wedding portrait hanging on the wall Anjali laughing, her head resting on his shoulder.

He looked away, his eyes burning. Advika shifted in his arms, and he immediately moved to the bed, laying her down with a gentleness that only a father knows.

He sat beside her, caressing her soft hair. "Papa ko maaf kar dena," he whispered, his voice cracking.

"Jab aapko meri sabse zyada zaroorat thi, papa apne aap mein khoye hue the. I am sorry, my baccha." 

He stared at her small features, a sad smile touching his lips through the tears.

"Puri apni mumma pe gayi ho."

His gaze drifted to the side table, where a smaller frame stood—Anjali's favorite picture of herself, laughing at a joke he had made.

He stood up, his legs feeling weak, and picked it up. As he looked at her face, the dam finally broke.

His tears fell one by one, splashing onto the glass of the frame. 

He sat back down on the floor, clutching the picture to his chest, burying his face against it as he broke into a muffled, gut-wrenching cry.

He didn't want to wake Advika, so he choked back the sobs,

 his whole body shaking with the force of his agony.

After a long time, he stood up and walked to the large French window, looking out at the cold, distant moon. 

He held the frame against the glass, as if showing her the night sky.

"Dekho jaan... chand aaj bhi waisa hi hai," he whispered to the empty room.

 "Par tumhare bina is chandni mein woh baat nahi rahi. Kyun chod kar gayi mujhe? Kyun mujhe us maut se zyada dardnak zindagi de di jahan main tumhe dekh toh sakta hoon, par paa nahi sakta?"

He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, his breath fogging the window.

"Tum kehti thi na ki humein koi alag nahi kar sakta? Dekho... kismat ne humein aise mod par laya hai jahan tumhare liye main sirf ek anjaan musafir hoon. Mera naam, meri mohabbat, hamari beti... sab bhula diya tumne. Par main kaise bhulaun? Kaise bataun is dil ko ki woh dhadkan jispe sirf tumhara naam likha tha, ab kisi aur ki hone ja rahi hai?"

He closed his eyes, hugging the frame tighter. 

"Log kehte hain waqt har zakham bhar deta hai. Par mera zakham toh har pal gehra hota ja raha hai. Agar tum khush ho toh main door reh lunga... par is khamoshi ka kya karun jo mujhe har roz andar se kha rahi hai? I miss you, Anjali. I miss us."

The moon shone down on him—a lonely king in a palace of memories, mourning a queen who was alive but lost to him.