The air in the old haveli hung heavy with the scent of marigolds and incense, a cloying perfume that masked the undercurrent of regret and unspoken betrayals. Ishani stood before the ornate mirror in her chamber, her fingers trembling as she adjusted the pallu of her crimson bridal saree. At 32, she was no stranger to the weight of silk against her skin, nor to the bitter taste of a marriage dissolved like sugar in monsoon rain. Her first wedding to Veer had been a whirlwind of laughter and stolen kisses under the banyan tree in their family courtyard. He was gentle, Veer—33 now, with eyes like soft monsoon clouds and hands that cradled her as if she were a fragile diya flame. Their divorce had been quieter still, a mutual unraveling after years of infertility's quiet siege, a miscarriage that had left her body a battlefield of unspoken grief. But love, stubborn as river reeds, had pulled them back together. They were to remarry today, sealing the cracks with fresh sindoor and vows whispered like secrets.

Or so she thought.