Author's POV

Three days.

That’s all that stood between Pranati and the mandap.

And every hour felt like the tightening of a rope around her throat.

The village had turned into a carnival of colours and clamor. Strings of marigolds hung from every veranda. Drums echoed from the temple gates. Cousins ran about with fabric swatches and laddoos. Somewhere near the back courtyard, Manju Akka yelled about missing haldi packets while Sai and Mahesh staged a fake swordfight with banana stems.

Nannamma’s house—where Pranati was staying—was overflowing with women. Someone was oiling her hair. Someone else was laying out the silk sarees, all labeled for the rituals. Amma and Dhana Akka were arguing over which blouse she should wear for the Mangala Snanam.

And Pranati?

She was just… existing.

A guest in her own wedding.

That night, as the village settled under moonlight, Shravan stood on the rooftop, staring into the distance with storm in his veins. He paced, restless, seething with desperation. He couldn’t let Siddharth linger around Pranati any longer. Not with the way she looked at him. Not after what he’d read in her diary.

He needed Siddharth out of the picture.

Out of her heart.

Out of this village.

He took the first step.

Using one of the old sim cards he kept hidden—the kind he once used in college for silly prank calls—Shravan crafted a trap. This time, it wasn’t for fun. It was war.

He recorded a cold, calculated message with the crisp voice of a stranger.

"There’s been a security breach at the Jumeirah Beach hotel. Staff under investigation. Immediate presence of the general manager required. Flights arranged. Please respond."

He sent it directly to Siddharth’s private Dubai number—the one hardly anyone knew.

Shravan knew Siddharth’s sense of duty was unshakable. He wouldn’t ignore something like this. He was too principled. Too rigid in his responsibilities.

But Shravan wasn’t done.

The next morning, he walked into Nannamma’s kitchen with an easy grin, tossing jokes with Pandu about banana bajjis and cutting chai. His laughter was warm, effortless, a performance polished to perfection.

And then, as he handed over a packet of turmeric, he lowered his voice just enough so that Dhanna akka, who was busy arranging haldi in steel bowls, would hear:

“Seems like Dubai’s in chaos these days. Heard something about hotel fraud... some of Siddharth’s staff detained, I think.”

It was a small lie. But a potent one.

A seed.

And like all good gossip in a South Indian household, it spread fast.

By mid-afternoon, whispers traveled through the courtyards like the smell of freshly fried pakoras. Pranati saw Padmaakka speaking with Siddharth near the old tulsi pot. Her voice urgent. His brows knotted with concern.

She watched from the corridor, her heart picking up pace.

Later, she overheard it herself—Siddharth’s voice, calm but troubled, as he told Nannamma, “I might need to fly back. Two, maybe three days. It could be nothing... but I need to check.”

And that was it.

He had fallen for it.

Shravan’s plan was working. The chessboard was tilting. And he watched with quiet triumph.

That evening, the sky was bruised with a monsoon purple. Clouds hovered low. The scent of jasmine and ghee lingered in the air.

Siddharth stood by the car, suitcase in hand, ready to leave for the airport.

He looked up one last time.

Pranati stood at the veranda steps, barely visible behind a lace of marigold strings.

Their eyes met.

His face was stoic. Masked in neutrality. Not a flicker of emotion on his lips.

But his eyes...

His eyes held a storm.

Thousands of unspoken words clung to that one glance.

Apologies. Regret. Love.

And something else—resignation.

Pranati felt the earth shift beneath her.

Her heart screamed for him to stop, to turn around, to fight for her.

But he didn’t.

And she—she couldn’t speak.

Because if he was really walking away, didn’t that mean he didn’t want her?

Didn’t want to fight for her?

She blinked away the tears that stung her lashes and turned away before they could fall.

Back in her room, she collapsed against the door, letting it shut behind her.

And then she broke.

Her sobs came in waves—messy, uncontrollable, raw. The pain of abandonment crashing through her chest.

She sank to the floor, still dressed in the turmeric-scented saree.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Not him. Not like this.

She didn’t expect Siddharth—the man who noticed the tremble in her hands, who stood silently behind her in moments of chaos—to vanish without a word.

And yet, he had.

She cried until her throat burned.

Until the house quieted and the echoes of the village festivities faded behind closed windows.

Outside, the celebrations continued.

Inside, a girl mourned a love that never even began.

And somewhere else, a man boarded a car, unaware of the trap he’d just walked into.

Two days.

That’s all that remained between Pranati and the wedding mandap.

The village buzzed like a festival in motion. Marigold strings adorned every veranda, blending the scent of fresh jasmine with turmeric and sandalwood. Music blared from loudspeakers strapped to temple walls—old Telugu melodies and wedding beats. The cousins had taken over the courtyard, dancing barefoot on the stone tiles still wet from the morning’s Mangala Snanam preparations.

Padmaakka’s kitchen was a battlefield of colours and sounds—haldi bowls clinking, chillies roasting, coconut water splashing onto steel plates. Inside, Nannamma barked instructions while trying to manage the overflowing guest list, and Dhana akka snapped at Pandu for forgetting the turmeric leaves for the haldi ceremony.

Sakshi arrived from Mumbai that morning, dragging a suitcase with a cracked handle, a dupatta flying in the breeze, and exhaustion written on her face. But one look at Pranati, and her excitement faltered.

Pranati was barely present.

She smiled when prompted. Walked when guided. Sat still while a cousin oiled her hair and another painted haldi onto her arms.

She was a doll being prepped for a stage she never wanted to perform on.

During the mehendi ceremony, the courtyard smelled of eucalyptus and henna. The mehendi artist, a chatty woman with a long braid and green bangles, asked in her singsong voice, "What name should I write, amma? The groom’s name, hmm? Shravan?"

There was a pause.

A long, empty pause.

Pranati looked down at her palm, already half-covered in intricate vines and paisleys. Then she whispered, "Just an 'S'. That’s enough."

The artist blinked. "Only S? Sure, amma. As you say."

And the moment passed.

But Sakshi noticed. The dead weight in her friend’s tone. The way she avoided every lens, every mirror, every mention of Shravan.

That evening, Sakshi cornered Anu. "Why did Siddharth anna suddenly go back to Dubai?" she asked casually.

Anu shrugged, dabbing ghee onto her elbow. "Some emergency at his hotel, I think. Staff issue or fraud or something. Padmaakka said it sounded serious."

"Hmm," Sakshi muttered, unconvinced. Something didn’t sit right.

The next day was the pelli kuturu ritual. Pranati was bathed in turmeric water, dressed in a bright yellow saree with fresh flowers in her braid. The house pulsed with the energy of aunties shouting directions, cousins dancing on speaker beats, and neighbours dropping by with trays of sweets and silver gifts.

Outside, children played under mango trees while the uncles gathered to discuss politics near the front gate.

Inside, the house was a flurry of activity.

As dusk fell, Sakshi was sent to Padmaakka’s house to fetch a packet of kumkum. The upstairs room—Siddharth’s old room—was dim, untouched since he’d left. A suitcase lay under the bed. A few shirts hung in the cupboard.

She spotted a stack of papers tucked beneath a book on the bedside table.

Unsent letters.

Her breath caught.

She pulled them out, flipping through pages scribbled in dark blue ink. The last one was dated the day before he left.

Letter from Siddharth:

Pranati,

I never learned how to say things when they mattered. I stood behind you so many times—at the temple, in the courtyard, near the jasmine vines—but never once stepped forward. Because I was afraid. Afraid that if I said something, you’d run. Afraid that my silence was the only way I could still be close to you.

But I see now that silence is its own kind of cruelty.

I don’t want to be the shadow you occasionally glance at.

I want to be the man you reach for.

I watched you smile for photographs that didn’t belong to you. I saw the way your fingers trembled when Shravan touched your shoulder. I saw the light in you dim each time someone called you lucky to be marrying him.

And it broke something in me.

I love you, Pranati. Fiercely. Quietly. Entirely.

I wanted to say it before it was too late. But now I fear it already is.

Forgive me for walking away. I thought it was the right thing. I thought you’d be happier without my silence lingering in the background.

But I never wanted to leave you.

S.

Sakshi read the letter twice. Then again.

She didn’t wait.

She sprinted across the courtyard, dodging uncles and laddoos, bursting into Pranati’s room, where she sat silently with cousins braiding flowers into her hair.

"Everyone out," Sakshi said.

Once the door shut, she placed the letter in Pranati’s hands.

Pranati read it.

And shattered.

Tears fell silently at first. Then came sobs that bent her body forward.

"He loved me," she whispered. "He loved me and he left."

"Call him," Sakshi urged.

Pranati tried. But the call wouldn’t go through.

Switched off.

Again.

Number not reachable.

Again.

Nothing.

That night, Pranati didn’t sleep.

She sat at the window, staring into the darkness, the letter clutched in her lap like a lifeline.

The next morning was the wedding day.

The sun hadn’t fully risen when Amma entered her room to wake her.

But the bed was cold.

The blankets untouched.

The room was empty.

Panic.

She searched the bathrooms, the hall, the garden.

No sign of her.

She screamed for Nannamma.

One by one, the house was alerted.

Pranati was missing.

Chappals lay untouched near the veranda. Her flower basket sat half-filled by the kitchen. The bridal saree hung on the hook, unworn.

Chaos erupted.

Shravan’s face paled. Amma sobbed. The cousins scattered in every direction.

And miles away, in a dilapidated old house with broken windows and a leaking roof—

Pranati sat tied to a chair, unconscious.

A single diya flickered near her feet.

And the storm had only just begun.

I know you guys want to kill Siddharth for this and i want you guys to do this honour in the comment section plss. This book is coming to its end only a chapter is left now.... and don't worry i'll give a happy ending to this..... so plss buckle up the storm is coming on his way. Thank you guys.

And if you want the next chapter to be update soon plss like and comment.