The air was thick with the scent of red and white roses, mingling with the faint, metallic tang of fear. Blue candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls of the room, turning the opulent Indian bridal lehenga into a canvas of shifting light and dark.

Amoli, the bride, sat rigid in the center of the bed, her heavy jewelry glinting with every tremor. Her hair, elaborately styled with lilies and roses, felt like a heavy crown. Moonlight spilled through the open window, painting a silver path across the floor, but it offered no comfort. A cold gust swept through, rustling the white curtains and raising goosebumps on her bare skin, a chill that had nothing to do with the night.

Her blue eyes, usually bright with kindness, were now pools of despair, glistening with unshed tears that traced slow, burning paths down her cheeks, only to fall onto the rich fabric of her dress. She wasn't crying for her lost family; she was crying because of him. Because of the monster she had just married.

Then, the door exploded open with a resounding bang that shattered the fragile silence. Amoli jumped, a choked cry escaping her lips. Standing framed in the doorway was her husband, Varun, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, but his eyes held a predatory gleam, a promise of violence that made her stomach clench. He looked at her as if she were prey, and the horror of it stole her breath. This was their wedding night, and she was trapped.