𝗥𝗔𝗔𝗬𝗔𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗞𝗨𝗥

He didn’t want a wife. Especially not you. You were forced into his life, and now you're trapped in his dark world — unwanted, unloved, and disrespected… for now. 𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 — Forced to Be His Bride The scent of roses and sandalwood still lingered in your hair as you sat on the edge of the oversized bed, your bridal lehenga heavy on your skin, and your heart heavier in your chest.

The grand wedding hall had finally gone quiet. The laughter, the clinking of glasses, the distant sound of dholaks, and the whisper of gossiping relatives had all faded into silence. Now, the only sound was the ticking of the antique clock hanging above the marble fireplace in the dimly lit bedroom.

His bedroom.

The room didn’t feel like it belonged to a man who had just gotten married. No flowers. No warmth. Just sleek black furniture, cold gray walls, and a massive window that stared out over the lights of the city — his empire.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, unsure if it was the air conditioning or the fear that made you shiver. This wasn’t a marriage. This was a deal — a bond signed by power, not love. You were a pawn in a game you didn’t ask to play.

Tomorrow, the rest of the world would celebrate your marriage. There would be rituals, traditions, and customs. First rasoi. Griha pravesh. Greeting his family like everything was normal.

But nothing was normal.

You didn’t know what kind of man he was — at least, not beyond the stories. The whispered warnings. The headlines that danced between mafia and mogul.

A man who built his empire with blood, not blessings.

A man who never smiled, but the whole city feared his silence.

You’d only met him a handful of times before this night. Each time, his presence swallowed the room. He never yelled. He didn’t have to. One look from him was enough to silence even the boldest.

You remembered how he stood at the altar today — tall, intimidating in black sherwani with sharp silver embroidery, not even pretending to look pleased. His eyes met yours only once. Cold. Unreadable.

And now he was your husband.

Your hand trembled as you removed your earrings. Would he come to the room? Would he say something? Touch you? Ignore you?

The door creaked open.

You froze.

His footsteps were slow but purposeful. You didn’t turn. You didn’t dare.

You could hear him remove his coat, the soft clink of his watch landing on the glass table.

Then silence.

You felt his gaze on your back. Studying you. Deciding what version of himself to reveal tonight — the businessman or the beast?

And finally, his voice broke the silence.

“You're still wearing that heavy thing?” His tone was flat. Not unkind, not gentle — just… cold. “Take it off. You’re not here to impress anyone.”

You slowly turned to look at him, startled by the command.

He walked to the window, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and stared out into the night.

“We have guests tomorrow. Play the perfect wife. Smile. Obey. Say nothing about what you don’t understand.” He didn’t even look at you as he spoke.

This was your reality now. A marriage bound by duty, not desire.

But deep down, something told you — beneath his cruel tone and unreadable eyes — he was more than a villain. He was dangerous, yes. But also protective. Possessive. And one day, that coldness might melt — maybe not into love, but something that burned just as powerfully.

You were no longer just a girl.

You were the wife of Raayan Thakur — the ruthless king of Mumbai’s underworld and its most untouchable businessman.

And this was just the beginning.