I bit my lip and nodded.
But inside, what I felt wasn’t sacrifice, but humiliation.
The wedding was a lavish affair at an old colonial hacienda, restored as a palace in the heart of Mexico. I wore a deep red sari embroidered with gold, but my heart was empty.
The groom sat in a wheelchair, his face as cold as marble. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak.
His eyes were fixed on me, deep and mysterious.
The wedding night.
I entered the room nervously. He was still there, sitting in his wheelchair, the candlelight casting shadows across his handsome yet stern face.
“Let me help you lie down,” I said, my voice trembling.
He pressed his lips together slightly.
“It’s not necessary. I can do it myself.”
I took a step back, but then I saw his body shudder.
I rushed toward him instinctively.
“Watch out!”
But we both fell to the floor.
The thud echoed loudly in the silent room.
I landed on top of him, my face burning with embarrassment.
And in that precise moment, I froze, realizing…
… realizing that the muscles beneath his expensive silk shirt were rock-hard, perfectly toned, and pressing firmly against my own body. There was no atrophy, no weakness, no sign of a man whose lower limbs had been useless for five long years. But before I could process the sudden, overwhelming warmth of his hands catching me by the waist, a sharp, metallic object hidden beneath his vest dug straight into my ribs.
It was a sleek, tactical silencer pistol, strapped to an inner shoulder holster.
For a second, the world went completely silent. My breath hitched in my throat as I stared down into Arnav Malhotra’s eyes. The dull, lifeless gaze he had worn all evening during our lavish wedding at the Mexican hacienda was entirely gone. In its place were two piercing, lethal daggers of dark amber, burning with an intense, calculated alertness.
“Not a single sound,” he whispered. His voice wasn’t the weak, raspy tone of a reclusive invalid. It was a low, commanding baritone, vibrating with absolute authority.
