ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ

Abhishree stood motionless before the mirror, her reflection staring back at her like a stranger she was trying to understand. The room was silent, yet her father’s voice echoed loudly in her mind, sharp and unyielding.

If you won’t marry, I will snatch everything I gave you in building that kingdom of yours—the trust of the people. And you know I could do that.

Every word had been measured. Every threat deliberate. He had not shouted. He had not needed to. Power did not require volume.

Her fingers slowly curled against the edge of the dresser as the memory shifted—dragging her back years. She was five again. Small. Frightened. That was the first time her father had raised his voice at her. The sound of it had shaken her more than the words themselves. She had cried the entire night, hiding beneath her blanket, wondering what she had done wrong.

And the very next day, he had returned home with her favorite chocolates. As if sweetness could erase the sting. As if gifts could soften fear.

Her throat tightened.

A single tear escaped her control, sliding silently down her cheek as she continued to stare at herself—at the woman who now ruled her own empire, yet still felt like that five-year-old child seeking approval.

Without breaking eye contact with her reflection, she bent down and pulled out a large petrol bottle from her bag. Her hands were steady, almost too steady.

She twisted the cap open.

And then, slowly, deliberately, she poured the petrol over her head.

It soaked her hair, ran down her face, blurred her reflection. The chill made her gasp, but she did not step back. She stood there, drenched, as if trying to wash away the pressure, the memories, the ultimatum that hung over her like a shadow.

The petrol dripped to the floor.

But the weight in her chest remained.

Abhishree walked toward the mandap with measured steps, the sound of distant rituals and murmured blessings echoing around her like a ceremony meant for someone else. The air was heavy with incense and expectation.

Her mother stood at a distance. Not beside her. Not behind her.

Away.

She did not reach out. She did not adjust Abhishree’s veil. She did not whisper a blessing. And Abhishree had asked for it that way. No touch. No pretended affection.

A woman who had perfected absence long before today.

Her mother did not even glance at her only daughter. There was no pride in her eyes, no emotion to conceal. For years, she had wanted a son—an heir, a name-carrier, a reflection of power. But fate had given her a daughter instead.

And that had always been the unspoken disappointment.

Not a flaw.

Not a failure.

Just… a mistake in expectation.

Abhishree had grown up carrying that silent verdict—that she had been born wrong, not as a son, but as a daughter. As though her existence itself had arrived in the wrong form.

Yet today, she did not let her steps falter.

She walked forward, spine straight, chin lifted, every inch the ruler she had become despite everything.

At the center of the mandap sat Mrutyunjay Raj Avasthi.

Waiting.

His posture relaxed, confident. His gaze fixed on her—not with tenderness, not with partnership—but with the assessing gleam of a man who believed he had acquired something rare.

Valuable.

A prize.

And as their eyes met beneath the sacred canopy, the fire between them had not yet been lit—

but something else had already begun to burn.

Abhishree stepped forward, the sound of the priest’s chants growing louder with each passing second. The sacred fire crackled at the center of the mandap, its flames rising and falling as though breathing with the ceremony itself.

Without hesitation, she walked to her place beside it.

The heat brushed against her skin, warm and unyielding. The glow of the holy fire reflected in her eyes, making them seem brighter—stronger—almost unreadable. She stood there in silence, her posture straight, her expression calm, as though the storm inside her had long ago learned how to stay hidden.

The fire burned between her and Mrutyunjay Raj Avasthi—sacred, symbolic, a witness to vows that were about to bind two lives together.

But as Abhishree stood before it, watching the flames rise, one truth echoed quietly within her—

Fire does not only sanctify.

Sometimes, it also tests what is forced to stand too close to it.

She smiled but it didn't reach her eyes and stepped into the holy fire as the fire consumed the petrol on her body along with her.