Married To My Sister's Fiancé

She was the illustrious princess of the mighty empire of Durganadu—a realm celebrated far and wide for its legendary valour and indomitable warriors. The name Durga echoed through the ages with tales of strength, and the majestic lion emblazoned on their crimson flag roared silently with every gust of wind. That lion was more than a symbol; it was a reminder of who they were—a people forged by battle, hardened by discipline, and devoted to honour. Courage was their currency, and strength was their birthright. And Ridhima Sinha, princess of this formidable empire, felt like the only cracked stone in an unbreakable fortress. Despite being born into a royal lineage where even women mastered combat and wielded strength in a society dominated by men, Ridhima felt trapped in a gilded cage. She had grown up surrounded by power but never allowed to touch it—never permitted to command it. The expectations of royalty pressed heavily upon her slender shoulders, while her heart cried for freedom, love, and a place to belong. As she sat on her lavish bed, the silk sheets cool beneath her trembling fingers, she watched her maid Anu—her sole ally—move quietly around the room. Anu was not just a servant; she was the one constant in Ridhima’s life, the single thread of comfort woven through years of torment. She had travelled across borders to remain by Ridhima’s side even as storms gathered around her. “Princess… should I put these away?” Anu’s gentle voice broke through the silence as she picked up a golden hairpin, its ruby tip cracked from where it had been flung earlier. Ridhima didn’t respond at first. She simply watched. The sight tugged painfully at her heartstrings. “Do as you wish, Anu,” she murmured at last, her voice hollow. “It no longer matters.” Anu paused, worry flickering in her eyes. Her hands hesitated as she placed the hairpin carefully into the ornate jewel box. Ridhima hugged her knees to her chest, curling into herself like a child seeking shelter from the storm raging in her heart. If only Mother were here… The ache of longing was a blade twisted inside her. Her mother had been her anchor—her laughter warm, her touch soft, her presence a shield stronger than any army. When she died, Ridhima’s world collapsed. She had been only ten, too young to understand cruelty, yet old enough to feel it bury its claws into her life. The memory still stabbed at her. Her father, King Chandran Sinha, had changed after her mother’s death. His heart hardened, his temper sharpened. And toward Ridhima—always Ridhima—his gaze carried disappointment, disdain, and something even worse: indifference. Among her siblings, she stood utterly alone. Aryan, four years her senior, was a warrior groomed for greatness. He commanded a battalion at sixteen and lived to taste victory. Meghan, two years older, ruled the coastal dominion with fierce pride and political ruthlessness. Neither had ever cared to look at their youngest sister unless duty forced them. And then there was Aparna—her twin. They had shared a womb but not a destiny. Aparna was hailed as a goddess. Blessed. Beautiful. Powerful. Born with the mystical gift of their lineage—the gift of strength, the ability to command elements of battle. Ridhima’s own gift had emerged late, at ten—strange, gentle, and utterly unwanted. A power to heal, to create balms, to mend wounds. Her touch soothed pain instead of inflicting it. In a warrior clan, such power was viewed as weakness. “Worthless,” her father had once muttered when he thought she couldn’t hear. “A healer cannot wear a crown.” But her mother’s dying wish had kept her in the palace, binding King Chandran to a fragile promise he hated. And Ridhima grew up shunned, denied her rights, and treated like a ghost behind palace walls. Her sacred sanctuary, once adored and adorned with gold, velvet, and jasmine-scented breeze, now lay in ruins. The mirror stood fractured, its shards glittering like fallen stars. A crown—her wedding crown—lay bent in one corner, its jewels scattered like tears across the marble floor. A shattered vase lay near the balcony, wilted flowers crushed beneath her slippers. A perfume bottle, cracked and bleeding its contents across the rug, filled the room with overpowering sweetness that now sickened her. This is what my life has come to, she thought, a bitter laugh clawing up her throat. Her first night as a wife. It should have been filled with rituals, blessings, warmth, and soft whispers of a future. Instead, she sat among ruins created by the man she had been forced to marry—the foreign king whose gifts now lay broken at her feet. Anu cleared her throat gently. “Princess… I can request the guards to bring warm water for a bath. You look exhausted. You haven’t eaten since the ceremony.” Ridhima shook her head slowly. “I am not hungry, Anu.” Her voice cracked, betraying her. “Princess,” Anu whispered, stepping towards her, “please, let me help you.” Ridhima’s lips trembled. The maid’s eyes softened with pain. “Your husband… did he say something? His face when he stormed out—” “Don’t.” Ridhima lifted a hand. “I don’t want to think about him.” But she couldn’t stop. She could still hear his voice—cold, furious, accusing her of deceiving him. She could still feel the weight of his disappointment, the sharp sting of his rejection. The gifts he had brought—symbols of union and hope—were now destroyed by his own hand. Anu stepped closer cautiously. “My queen—” “Don’t call me that.” Ridhima flinched. “That title… it’s not meant for me. Not here. Not with him. Not anywhere.” “But you are,” Anu insisted softly. “No one can take that from you.” Ridhima looked away, her breath trembling. “He already has.” The silence that followed felt suffocating. After a long moment, Ridhima whispered, “Anu… just leave the mess for later. And leave me alone.” Anu’s gaze lingered on her, reading the tremor in her voice. “Princess, listen to me. You are not alone—” “I can’t argue now, Anu,” Ridhima cut in, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please.” A painful stillness filled the room. At last, Anu bowed deeply. “If you need me, call my name.” As she slipped out, the door closed with a soft click that echoed through the torn silence. Alone once more, Ridhima stared at the broken pieces scattered around her—pieces of her room, her marriage, her life. Her throat tightened, and she pressed a hand against her mouth to muffle the sob threatening to escape. “This is supposed to be my first night,” she whispered to the emptiness. “My first night as a wife.” Her voice trembled, crumbling. “And instead… it’s the night my world shattered.” A distant thunder rumbled outside as if the heavens themselves mourned with her. The wind slipped through the balcony curtains, brushing against her skin like a ghostly caress. She closed her eyes, letting herself feel—for the first time in years—every bruise life had etched into her soul. Her marriage had begun with broken dreams. And deep within, something told her this was only the beginning.