Devrat Rathore

The shehnai was playing. The sacred fire was burning. Hundreds of diyas flickered beneath the sandstone arches of the Rathore Estate, their flames dancing against walls decorated with marigold garlands, mogra, and crimson fabric.

Everything about the wedding screamed power. And yet, something was terribly wrong. The bride was....missing.

At the center of the grand mandap sat Devvrat Rathore.

Thirty-four. Chief Minister of Rajastan. Heir to one of India’s most powerful political dynasties. And currently, the groom without a bride.

He sat before the havan kund in an ivory sherwani, his posture perfectly composed, his expression unreadable.

Not angry. Not embarrassed. Not even surprised. That was what frightened people most about Devvrat Rathore. The man never needed to raise his voice. He simply looked at people. And they remembered exactly who they were standing in front of.

Across the courtyard, ministers whispered among themselves. Senior bureaucrats Politicians exchanged nervous glances. Journalists waited beyond the gates, completely unaware that the most anticipated wedding of Rajasthan’s political elite was beginning to collapse behind closed doors.

Because everyone knew the Rathores. For decades, their name had been intertwined with power. Prime ministers sought their support. Chief ministers owed their careers to their influence. Judges, police commissioners, cabinet ministers and industrialists all knew better than to underestimate the family.

But above every Rathore stood one man. Virendra Rathore.

The patriarch. Devvrat’s father. Though officially retired from politics, Virendra’s influence had never retired with him. His word still carried more weight than most government orders. And tonight, his only son’s wedding had turned into a disaster.

Then you arrived. You had never belonged in a place like this.

You had been raised in a small town in Udaipur by your grandmother. Your parents had died when you were too young to even remember their faces. You had grown up with little more than a simple home, a quiet life and the few people you loved.

Kajal was one of them. Your best friend since school. So when her wedding invitation arrived, you had never imagined that you’d be leaving the Rathore Estate as someone else’s wife.

Kajal had called you days before the wedding, excited and nervous, telling you that her parents had arranged her marriage to Devvrat Rathore. You had been shocked.

Everyone knew who Devvrat was. The youngest Chief Minister in the country’s history. Brilliant. Calculating. Untouchable. A man whose name alone could make political careers disappear.

But none of that mattered when you reached the Rathore Estate. The haveli looked like something pulled from another century.

Massive sandstone walls rose against the Aravalli hills. Rajputana architecture surrounded sprawling courtyards lit by hundreds of lamps. Musicians played beneath carved balconies while servants moved through the estate carrying silver trays and crystal glasses.

Cabinet ministers stood beside maharajas. Actors spoke quietly with industrialists. Foreign delegates exchanged pleasantries with political leaders.

Everywhere you looked, there was wealth. Power. Influence. And beneath it all, the silent understanding that this wasn’t merely a wedding. It was politics dressed in silk and gold. The rituals began.

But the bride never came.

At first, everyone assumed Kajal was nervous. Then the minutes became an hour. Then whispers began. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. So you rushed upstairs to her room.

Empty. Her jewellery was still there. Her bridal lehenga lay untouched. Her phone was abandoned on the bed. And then you saw the envelope.

Your name was written across it. Your fingers went cold as you opened it.

I’m sorry. I know this will ruin everything. I can’t marry Devvrat. I love someone else, and I’m leaving with him. Please don’t look for me.

Your stomach dropped. Kajal hadn’t panicked. She had run away. And she had left you behind to face the consequences.You rushed downstairs.

The moment the letter reached Devvrat’s mother, the Rathore Estate seemed to hold its breath. The letter travelled from her hands to Virendra. Then to Devvrat.

He read it once. Only once. He folded the paper with deliberate calm and placed it on his knee. Silence descended over the mandap.

Virendra rose, “The wedding will happen.” His voice left no room for argument.

An uncle stared at him in disbelief, “But there’s no bride.”

Virendra slowly turned his head. His eyes landed on you, “There is.”

Your blood ran cold. Every face turned toward you.

“No...” The word escaped your lips before you could stop it. “Nahi...”

You took a step backward. Devvrat stood. The courtyard fell even quieter. He walked toward you, slowly and unhurriedly. Every step of his ivory sherwani across the marble floor sounded louder than the wedding music that had stopped moments ago.

He stopped directly in front of you. Close enough that you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes. His face gave nothing away.

“Do you think they’ll make it out of Rajasthan alive before my father finds them?”

You couldn’t answer.

His voice dropped, “If this wedding is called off, my family will find them before sunrise.”

Your heart pounded. He wasn’t threatening you. That was the terrifying part. He was telling you what would happen.

“And if I marry you?” Your voice barely came out.

Devvrat stared at you for several seconds, “They disappear.” A pause. “Forever.”

You looked toward the mandap. Toward the sacred fire. Toward the hundreds of people watching. There was no escape. Not without destroying Kajal. Not without condemning two people you loved to the Rathore family’s wrath. So you walked.

One step. Then another. Toward the man who had been a stranger that morning. Toward a marriage you had never agreed to. Toward a life you had never wanted. The rituals resumed.

The priest continued chanting as though nothing had happened. As though Kajal had never been the bride. As though you had always been meant to sit beside Devvrat Rathore. As though your life hadn’t just been exchanged for someone else’s freedom.

The pheras began. Devvrat walked beside you in complete silence.

Then, while the priest’s voice continued behind you, he leaned slightly closer, “You hate me already.”

His voice was barely above a whisper. His eyes remained fixed on the sacred fire, “Good.”

A beat.

“Acchi baat hai.” His jaw tightened, “Because if this marriage survives...” Only then did he look at you. His gaze was cold enough to make your breath catch. “...hatred might be the only thing that keeps you sane.”

The priest placed the silver sindoor box before him. Devvrat picked it up. For the first time, something shifted in his expression.

Not softness. Not love. Possession of circumstance. Acceptance.

He dipped his thumb into the vermilion. Then slowly raised his hand.The entire courtyard watched. His thumb touched your maang.

A single streak of red. The final ritual. The final surrender. The fire crackled between you. The priest announced the marriage. And somewhere beyond the palace walls, Kajal was running toward the life she had chosen, while you were being bound to the man she had abandoned.

Devvrat Rathore’s wife.

The newest member of the Rathore family. A stranger in a palace built on power. And perhaps the only woman in Rajasthan who had entered the Rathore Estate without knowing that she might never leave it the same way again.

The Rathore Estate had finally gone silent. Hours ago, the haveli had been drowning in music, cameras, politicians, and hundreds of carefully rehearsed smiles. Now there was nothing. Only the ticking of an antique clock somewhere down the corridor.And the sound of footsteps approaching the bridal chamber.

The door opened. Devvrat Rathore entered alone. The man who had stood beside you before the sacred fire was gone.

No sherwani. No ceremonial smile. No cameras watching. Just a black kurta, rolled sleeves, and an expression that gave away absolutely nothing.

He closed the door behind him. Click. The lock sounded unnecessarily loud in the silence. Devvrat didn’t look at you immediately. He removed his cufflinks and placed them on the table with meticulous precision.

Then his gaze finally lifted, cold and assessing, “You’re probably wondering what happens now.”

He took a slow step forward, “The answer is simple.” Another step, “Nothing.”

He stopped several feet away, “You were brought into this family because my father needed a bride beside his son before sunrise.”

His jaw tightened, “You became my wife because the Rathore name couldn’t afford a scandal.” A pause. “But don’t mistake a forced marriage for permission to underestimate me.”

His eyes remained fixed on yours, “Everyone downstairs is going to call you Rathore bahu tomorrow.”

A humorless smile, “They’ll watch how you walk. How you speak. What you wear. Who you look at.”

He moved toward the window, “Some will pretend to welcome you.”

His gaze shifted toward the darkness beyond the glass. “Others will spend the next few weeks trying to find the exact point where you break.”

Silence. Then his voice became quieter, “I suggest you don’t give them one.”

He turned back, “You want to know the worst thing about this family?” He walked toward you again, “They don’t threaten people.”

A beat, “They make examples of them.” His expression remained perfectly calm, “And because you’re standing beside me now, anyone who wants to hurt the Rathores will eventually realize something very inconvenient.”

He stopped, “They’ll have to come through you first.”

The room fell silent. Devvrat studied you for several seconds before speaking again.

“So listen carefully.” His voice dropped, “I won’t ask you to love me. I won’t ask you to trust me. And I certainly won’t ask you to pretend that tonight was something it wasn’t.”

He glanced toward the wedding jewellery still surrounding you, “But you carry my name now.”

His eyes hardened, “And in this house, that name is both a shield...” A pause. “...and a target.”

He stepped away, “Sleep now.”

He turned toward the door. Then stopped. Without looking back, he added, “Oh.”

A long silence.

“Kajal’s safe. She made it out.”

For the first time that night, something almost human crossed his face. His hand settled on the doorknob, “But don’t make the mistake of thinking that means this marriage is over.”

He looked back over his shoulder, “Tomorrow morning, the Rathores will meet their new daughter-in-law.”

His gaze darkened, “And they’ll be expecting someone frightened.” The faintest smile appeared, “Give them something else.”

The door opened.

Then Devvrat disappeared into the corridor, leaving behind nothing but silence—and the uncomfortable realization that your first night as a Rathore had only just begun.