The morning was eerily quiet.

Amrutha woke up to the sound of birds chirping outside the large windows of her new room. The wooden ceiling loomed above her, carved intricately with age-old designs. The walls held paintings of ancestors long gone, their eyes sharp, as if watching her every move.

Her body ached from exhaustion, but she didn’t have the luxury to stay in bed. Not here. Not in this house.

She pulled herself up, wrapped the soft silk saree around her, and stepped towards the dressing mirror. Her reflection stared back—a woman who didn’t belong.

Her wet hair dripped down her back, soaking the blouse she wore. She was supposed to be a new bride, a woman who had stepped into a new phase of life. Yet, her eyes carried only fatigue, not the glow of a newlywed.

She had lived through one marriage before. But this?

This felt less like a marriage and more like a punishment.

She took a deep breath and stepped out.

---

The household was awake. The air buzzed with activity—maids cleaning the corridors, men getting ready to leave for their work, and the women gathered near the kitchen.

Amrutha hesitated for a moment before walking towards them.

As she entered, the women paused.

A tall, strong-looking woman stood near the stove—Rudhran’s aunt, Sevanthi Periyamma. She turned, her expression neutral but not unkind.

Beside her, a younger woman, dressed in a pale green saree, offered Amrutha a soft smile—that was Meera, Rudhran’s cousin’s wife.

And then, standing near the water pot, was Janani.

Janani didn’t bother hiding her dislike. Her arms were crossed, her lips curled in distaste, her sharp eyes scanning Amrutha as if she were an unwanted stain on this household.

The silence stretched for a second too long before Sevanthi spoke.

"You’re awake early, ma. That’s good."

Her voice was neutral, her words polite.

Amrutha nodded. "I thought I should help."

Meera smiled warmly. "Come, sit. Have some coffee first."

Before Amrutha could move, a cold voice cut through the air.

"New brides are supposed to serve coffee, not sit and drink it first."

The voice came from the entrance of the kitchen.

Rudhran’s grandmother.

She was old, draped in a crisp cotton saree, her sharp eyes scanning Amrutha with disapproval. Her thin, wrinkled fingers tapped against the wooden stick she carried, her posture strong despite her age.

"A widow serving coffee… what a bad omen," the old lady muttered, shaking her head.

The words struck deep, slicing through Amrutha’s already fragile heart.

No one spoke for a moment.

And then, Sevanthi sighed, as if exhausted already. "Amma…"

The old woman didn’t stop. "If she weren’t a widow, I would have been happy about this marriage. But what can I say? Rudhran ruined his own fate."

Janani smirked, her eyes filled with satisfaction at those words.

Amrutha swallowed the lump in her throat.

Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to speak. "I will serve the coffee."

She wouldn’t let them see her pain.

She wouldn’t let them see her break.

She took the tray of steel tumblers, the aroma of freshly brewed filter coffee filling the air, and stepped into the hall.

The heavy wooden doors of the main hall were open, revealing a group of men standing in a semi-circle. Their heads hung low, sweat glistening on their brows.

And in the center of them stood him.

Rudhran.

His voice—deep, sharp, unyielding—echoed through the stone walls like thunder.

"How many times do I have to tell you?!"

The men flinched.

"This is the third time this month!" he roared, his powerful presence filling the air.

Amrutha froze in place, her breath catching.

Before she could steady herself, his voice boomed again, sharp as a blade.

She flinched.

Her hands jerked.

The tumbler slipped from her fingers.

And in the next second—

The boiling hot coffee spilled all over Rudhran’s chest.

A stunned silence filled the hall.

The servants gasped. The women in the kitchen turned in shock.

Rudhran stood frozen. His dark eyes wide, his entire body rigid.

His uncle, who had been watching from afar, rushed forward in alarm. "Rudhran! Are you hurt?"

But Rudhran didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He simply stood there, the steaming liquid soaking into his crisp white shirt. His broad chest heaved slightly, but his face—his face was unreadable.

And then—

"Useless girl!"

The sharp, cutting voice of his grandmother shattered the silence.

The old woman gripped her wooden cane tightly, her wrinkled face contorted in fury.

"You don’t belong here, and now you dare to burn my grandson on the very first day?! Have you no shame?!"

The words hit like whips against Amrutha’s already raw heart.

Her breath hitched.

She didn’t think.

She simply ran.

---

She ran past the shocked faces, past the murmuring women, past the accusing eyes.

Her hands trembled as she grabbed the largest brass vessel filled with cold water from the kitchen.

She didn’t stop to explain.

Didn’t stop to think.

She ran back.

Rudhran still stood in the same place, his hands slightly curled into fists, his gaze now sharp, focused—on her.

She ignored the way his eyes burned into her.

She ignored the gasps and whispers of the onlookers.

She stepped onto a small wooden stool near him, lifting the heavy vessel above her head.

She had to cool the burn.

She had to help him.

And then—

She poured the water over him.

From head to toe.

The entire hall fell into a stunned silence.

The servants gasped so loudly it was almost deafening.

The old grandmother’s cane hit the floor with a sharp thud in pure shock.

His uncle’s mouth fell open.

Even Janani, who always had something sharp to say, stood in complete disbelief.

And Rudhran?

The man everyone feared, everyone obeyed—stood completely drenched, water dripping from his thick hair, rolling down his sharp jaw, soaking his white shirt until it clung to his muscled chest.

The moment stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then—

Amrutha reached out.

Without thinking.

Without realizing what she was doing.

Her trembling fingers went to his chest.

She started unbuttoning his shirt.

"It will stick to your skin," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, her hands working quickly.

Her breath was unsteady. Her fingers grazed his damp, warm skin. The feeling of him—of the sheer heat of his body beneath her touch—sent a strange shiver up her spine.

The moment was too intimate.

Too close.

The whispers grew louder.

"She is touching him…!"

"What is she doing?!"

Her saree was drenched too, clinging to her curves, the wet fabric exposing the delicate shape of her waist, her heaving chest, the soft tremble of her body.

And then—

She realized.

Her hands froze on the last button.

Her wide eyes snapped up—straight into his.

His gaze was locked onto her, intense, unreadable.

Time stood still.

Her breath hitched.

And then—

She dropped her hands, took a sharp step back, and fled.

Leaving behind a hall full of people too shocked to move.

And a man—a ruler, a king in his own right—standing there, completely drenched, with the lingering warmth of her touch still burning against his skin.

Bye bye