Rudhran’s POV

The morning air was heavy.

Not with scent or weather—but with expectation.

Today, she would walk beside me.

As my wife.

For the first time, she would step into the village wearing my name, sit in the temple where my bloodline had prayed for generations. She would walk through the same path my mother once walked, wear the weight my mother once bore.

They would watch her.

Whisper about her.

Judge her.

And I would let them.

Because what mattered wasn’t their words.

It was her place beside me.

I stood outside the house, near the car, dressed in deep maroon. My mother’s choice. Traditional. Fitting. Unshakable. Like me.

I didn’t look back when the door opened.

But I knew the moment she stepped out.

Her anklet chimed. Her breath hitched. The air shifted.

She matched me.

Same deep maroon. Same gold trim.

We hadn’t planned it.

But maybe fate had.

I saw my grandmother’s eyes flick to her bare wrists. No bangles. No earrings. Her neck, empty. A deliberate silence. A challenge.

> “A married woman should look like one,” my grandmother had snapped earlier, handing her the saree.

She obeyed. Wore it.

But even wrapped in red, she stood like a shadow unsure of its shape.

I hated that.

> “Go sit. We’re leaving,” I said.

Then turned inside. I didn’t wait for her reaction. I couldn’t.

Because if I saw her hesitate again, I’d have to either hold her… or burn the whole damn house down.

And right now, I needed control.

Everyone got into their cars. She walked toward the last one, like a stranger in her own skin.

Typical.

Even the women of this house had no sense.

I sent my man to call her in this car.

Why don't she understand, sge is my wife. Her place is right beside me not with others.

It took one sharp knock on the window to correct it.

> “Ayya asked you to sit in his car.” my man whispered with head hung slightly low.

I didn’t ask.

I ordered my man and he did what I said.

She obeyed.

She always does.

She stepped in, soft rustle of saree against leather. The air shifted again when she sat beside me.

I didn’t turn to look.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t let her see what boiled in my veins.

She was trembling. I could feel it. Not fear. Just... fragility. Like she was too used to not being wanted.

My jaw locked.

> “Sit properly,” I said.

She straightened.

Good girl.

The car rolled forward.

And then I opened the box beside me. My mother’s jewellery. Heavy. Regal. Meant to carry power, not shine.

Her eyes widened.

I didn’t explain.

> “Wear them.”

She hesitated. I saw it from the corner of my eye.

> “I—”

She didn’t finish.

Didn’t have to.

I turned to her. My fingers moved before my mind could stop them.

The necklace touched her skin first. Cool gold on warmer flesh. My thumb grazed her collarbone as I adjusted it.

Her breath caught.

Mine did too.

But I didn’t show it.

> “This chain,” I said, pulling the sacred one from under her saree and placing it above it.

For all of them to see.

My name.

My claim.

My protection.

> “You have no other jewellery?”

> “No.”

> “Good.”

I looked away.

> “Then wear only mine.”

She didn’t reply.

But I saw her hand go up to touch the necklace once.

A small movement.

But for her? That was everything.

---

The temple rose like a god’s spine into the sky. The old stones hummed with history. Power. My bloodline.

As I stepped out, silence spread like wildfire.

Heads bowed. Hands folded. Children stared.

My shoes touched the temple stones. The old earth remembered me.

And then I heard it.

The whispers.

Not for me.

For her.

> “The widow wife.”

> “She married the day her first husband died.”

> “He doesn’t even love her.”

> “Not beautiful like Janani.”

I kept walking.

If I turned now, I’d burn someone with my stare alone.

But I heard it all.

And so did she.

Her steps slowed.

But she didn’t stop.

I didn’t wait.

Let them watch.

Let them speak.

Let them choke on their curiosity.

Inside, the rituals began.

I sat with my uncle. Fire lit in front. Prayers echoed. I folded my hands, not for God, but for the tradition I carried.

She stood behind.

Where my grandmother ordered her to stand.

> “A widow should not sit beside Ayya.”

If I argued, they’d never stop.

So I waited.

When the final mantras ended, the priest handed me the sacred offering.

And I turned.

Walked up to her.

Offered it to her—first.

Not my grandmother. Not Janani. Not my uncle.

Her.

Her fingers brushed mine.

Soft. Cold. Hesitant.

Gasps filled the air.

I didn’t flinch.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t need to.

I just turned and walked away.

---

The temple steps were uneven. Centuries old. I walked down.

She followed behind.

And that’s when I heard Janani.

> “She will always look like a widow.”

I didn’t stop.

But I clenched my fist.

I heard her stumble.

I felt it before I saw it.

That heavy saree pulling her down.

And my hand reached for her before I could even think.

Gripped her wrist.

Pulled her up.

Held her steady.

The smell of jasmine and heat and skin hit me.

My grip tightened for a second.

Then I let go.

> “Walk properly,” I murmured.

Low. Just for her.

The path cleared again.

The whispers stopped.

And behind me—

She walked.

Not as a widow.

Not as a shame.

Not as a burden.

But as my wife.

Whether they liked it or not.

And God help anyone who forgets that again.

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