The hall was filled long before Shriya arrived.
Crystal chandeliers poured light onto polished marble floors, reflecting off medals, insignias, and carefully pressed uniforms.
Power gathered in the room like heat—politicians murmuring behind practiced smiles, generals standing straighter than their years allowed, musicians tuning instruments that would soon play joy into a ceremony built on fear.
There were celebrities too, faces the country loved to recognize. But they were background noise.
The men in uniform were the ones who mattered.
They stood in clusters, shoulders squared, voices low, laughter sharp. Every badge carried weight. Every stripe meant authority. This was not just a wedding; it was a public alignment of power. A declaration. A promise between families that had learned long ago how to rule quietly.
At the altar stood Silas Miller.
He wore his uniform like it was a second skin—dark, immaculate, heavy with medals that caught the light every time he moved. His posture was perfect. His expression unreadable. Cameras adored him. The live broadcast panned over the room, commentators speaking reverently about legacy, honor, and tradition.
The Miller family had always been spoken of like a myth.
Generations of high-ranking officers. Political figures woven into the country's decision-making like veins through a heart. And beneath the polished surface, rumors—always rumors—of underworld dealings, of things done in the dark for the sake of stability.
No one ever said them too loudly.
Shriya stood just beyond the entrance, her breath shallow, her fingers numb.
Her dress was heavy. Not in weight—but in meaning. White fabric falling around her like something borrowed from a life she was not living. Every step toward the hall felt like she was walking against water, her body resisting, her instincts screaming.
Her family had asked her one last time.
If you don't want this, we will cancel it.
They would have taken the blame. They would have endured the whispers, the political fallout, the ruined alliances. They would have stood in front of the storm for her.
And she had said no.
How could she tell them that cancelling would not save her—that it would kill someone else?
Steven Robertson, her father, stood beside her now, his arm firm and steady as he offered it to her. His uniform was just as decorated as Silas's, badges maxed, reputation intact. A man the country trusted.
But his eyes betrayed him.
"I'm sorry, daughter," he whispered as they waited for their cue.
The words cut deeper than anything else that day.
Not congratulations.
Not you look beautiful.
I'm sorry.
Shriya nodded because if she spoke, she would break.
They began to walk.
The doors opened, and the hall turned toward her in unison. Applause rose, warm and approving, echoing off the walls. Cameras zoomed in. Somewhere, millions of people watched a woman walk toward a future they thought was glorious.
Shriya saw none of it.
She saw MK.
Not physically—MK was not there—but everywhere else.
In the way the hall was too loud. MK hated crowds like this. She would have leaned in, whispered something sarcastic, made Shriya laugh just to ground her.
In the way the white dress brushed her ankles. MK had once joked that white was overrated, that love didn't need to look pure to be real.
In the ring waiting on the cushion at the altar. Gold. Cold. Too perfect.
It didn't fit the way the other one had.
Her heart began to pound harder as they reached the front. Steven kissed her forehead gently before stepping away. That small act of tenderness almost undid her.
The priest's voice filled the hall, calm and practiced. Words about unity, about commitment, about love blessed by tradition and witnessed by many.
Shriya kept her face composed. Years of discipline helped her hold the mask in place.
No one would guess she was drowning.
She stared at Silas, at the man she was about to bind herself to. He looked at her like a prize already claimed. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Possessively.
She thought of MK's eyes instead.
How they softened when she smiled.
How they darkened when she was hurt.
How they searched Shriya's face like the answer was always there.
The priest paused.
"If anyone here has reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."
Silence fell like a held breath.
Shriya felt something desperate rise in her chest—a ridiculous, impossible hope that the earth would split open, that the ceiling would collapse, that something, anything would stop this.
Nothing did.
"If there is no one," the priest continued, "we shall proceed to the vows."
Silas spoke first, his voice steady, confident. Promises rolled off his tongue smoothly—love, protection, loyalty. Words he had been trained to use.
Shriya repeated after the priest when it was her turn.
Each vow felt like a lie she was carving into stone.
In sickness and in health.
MK had held her once when she was sick, stayed up all night, complaining and caring in equal measure.
For richer or poorer.
MK had given without counting. Loved without bargaining.
Till death do us part.
Shriya almost laughed at that.
This is a scam, she thought bitterly. Are all marriages built on this kind of lie?
The ring was placed into her hand.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted it. She remembered another ring one that felt sacred.
This one felt like a shackle.
She reached for Silas's hand.
That was when the doors burst open.
The sound was violent—wood slamming, gasps tearing through the hall. A figure stormed inside, breathless, furious.
"How could you do this to my friend, you piece of—"
The sentence never finished.
A fist landed hard against Shriya's face.
The impact was explosive. Pain bloomed white-hot as she stumbled backward, the world spinning, her body hitting the floor with a sound that echoed louder than the music ever could.
Shouts erupted. Chairs scraped. Security surged forward.
Jesse stood there, shaking, adrenaline burning through her veins, her eyes wild with rage and heartbreak. She barely registered the slap that followed—someone striking her so hard her vision blurred, her body crumpling to the ground.
"How dare you," a deep voice thundered.
Shriya pushed herself up despite the pain, despite the ringing in her ears.
"Stop!" she screamed, her voice tearing through the chaos as Silas moved toward Jesse.
She grabbed Jesse's arm, dragged her up, ignoring the stares, the cameras, the scandal unfolding in real time. She pulled her out through a side corridor, into a secluded space where the noise dulled but the pain did not.