Dassani Brides

Chapter 8

The grandfather clock in the east corridor echoed its steady ticking through the vast silence of the palace. Each chime was sharp, slicing through the still air like a knife, cutting deep into Geetanjali’s heart. She could not stop counting—six days remained. Every single hour slipping away felt like the noose tightening, the weight of an unbearable ultimatum pressing harder against her chest.

Shiv had not spoken the words again. He never needed to. The cold, unreadable look in his eyes was enough—a reminder burned into her soul: the week was running out. He moved through the house like a shadow, always with matters of business in hand—stacks of papers, endless meetings with men wearing crisp suits, clipped conversations filled with duty but no emotion.

For him, this was not hatred or cruelty; this was merely fulfilling an obligation laid down by family and tradition, something as mundane and necessary as signing a contract or balancing accounts.

For Geetanjali, it was a sentence—a prison that held her captive with invisible chains tied tight around every breath she took.

She went about her daily life like a machine, carrying trays of tea, folding linens with hands that felt numb, overseeing the servants with practiced obedience. But inside, her heart stormed with fear and quiet rebellion. Fear clawed at her bones, but the fire of defiance in her chest blazed fiercer with every day that passed. The nights were the hardest to endure.

She lat awake in the pitch-black darkness of her chamber, staring at the cold ceiling, endlessly replaying Shiv’s merciless words: “You have a week. After that, I will not tolerate any more defiance.” The sentence hit her again and again like a hammer, the cruelty of it sinking deeper into her soul.

Her mind would wander to Komal and Sudha—her beloved younger sisters, whose futures now felt more fragile than ever. She remembered their warm faces so vividly, the way their small hands clung to hers on that chaotic platform years ago, the day when their entire world was torn apart by violence and loss. She remembered running, desperate, through crowds with her sisters, protecting them as best she could—except for that one day she could not, unable to shield them from Shiv’s reach.

It was the one day she had failed them and lost them. The thought crushed her still.

And now, this man who was her husband, who had coldly given her a week to submit, was threatening to destroy their life in ways she never thought possible. If she failed them again, what lesson would she be teaching her sisters? Would they see her as weak—someone who bows to men with power and money? She wondered if somewhere, far away, Komal and Sudha lay awake at night, longing for her. Did they still believe she was strong? Would they ever forgive her for the cracks in the armor, for the fear she could no longer hide?

Her hope rested on Meera, who moved quietly through the palace halls, shadowed and mysterious.

They had met in the kitchen that afternoon, amidst the rising clang of brass vessels and the fragrant scent of simmering lentils. Meera’s steps were slow, her presence light but deliberate. She rinsed her plate in silence and finally said without looking at Geetanjali, “You’ve stopped eating.”

Geetanjali’s lips trembled, but she forced out a weak answer, “There’s not much appetite left in me.”

Only then did Meera lift her gaze, eyes sharp and unblinking. There was no warmth there, only a cool curiosity flickering beneath her surface.

“What is it now... or should I say who?” Meera’s whispered voice carried over the simmering stove, fragile yet blunt.

Geetanjali’s heart pounded wildly. She wanted to shout, to beg, to confide, but words felt like weapons with edges too sharp to handle—too dangerous to wield. This was a game of treacheries, where gripping too tightly left your hands raw, and loosening your hold risked falling into the pit of despair.

Before she could respond, Meera wiped her hands on her saree, lifted the hefty steel thali, and began to walk away, leaving behind a single chilling sentence:

“You think too much—like you don’t trust me. Just like everyone else.”

Nearly choking on the lump in her throat, Geetanjali whispered the words she had long held captive, “I... want to meet my sisters. Even if it’s just to know they’re alive. I want to know they’re safe.”

Meera stopped and turned just slightly. “What can I do? I don’t know your sisters. Never met them. And honestly, the way you say it, it sounds like you've tried to find them and were punished for it.”

“How do you know?” Her voice cracked, curiosity warring with fragile hope.

Meera’s lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. “There are signs if you watch closely. I connect dots. Like your desire to meet your sisters—it could be the foundation of a plan to escape. You want out.”

That hope was a fragile flame. Geetanjali’s voice softened, full of desperate promise, “I’ll tell you everything—if you promise me you’ll help me find them.”

That night, she crept into her room, the weight of daylight’s fears crushing her shoulders. Shiv was already there, seated by the study table, a silhouette cast against the lamplight. His pen clawed sharply across pages of never-ending documents. He did not look up as she entered, untouched by her presence.

Careful, she placed a glass of water on the bedside table. Her hands trembled; would he notice? Would he find out?

She sat quietly on the bed and pulled a book from the small pile she had amassed since marriage—a ritual, a means of escape in a room shared mostly by shadows.

Minutes passed with the scratching of his pen until it stopped.

Then his voice rose, flat and hard, lacking warmth or mercy—only the cold finality of a verdict.

“Five days left.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She had not realized he was counting time as cruelly as she was.

At that moment, a devastating truth sank its talons deep into her: their lives were bound not by love, not even hatred, but by the relentless ticking of the same clock. She measured the days in dread; he in duty. Two souls sharing a space yet worlds apart—drawn inexorably closer to a fate neither wanted but both were forced to face.

Geetanjali’s world had become an endless cycle of shadows and silences and duties. Within the ornate palace, with its shimmering chandeliers and marble floors, she felt like a bird trapped in a gilded cage—its wings tied, its spirit crushed beneath the cold gaze of family tradition and power.

She was a refugee from a broken land, brought here by fate and kindness, only to be slowly erased—reduced to a shadow of her husband. The girl who once saved strangers and defied death was now a silenced figure walking softly beneath the storm.

The wedding that was meant to be her sanctuary became her prison. Shiv, her husband, was the keeper of those bars—stern, duty-bound, unmoved by the pain he inflicted, yet tortured by his own trapped existence.

This was no marriage of hearts. It was a relentless war, and she was determined to fight back.

Her journey was far from over.