Its party of their wedding celebratiom actually reception
The banquet hall gleamed with crystal and sin.
Every mafia head in Delhi had come to witness the union of the Butcher and his Bride. Men who killed with smiles. Women who wore diamonds like daggers.
Meher stood beside Kabir in a deep crimson lehenga, neck heavy with gold, face emotionless. A mask. Just like he taught her.
Kabir leaned down. “Smile. Or I’ll make you.”
She smiled. Barely.
To them, she looked like a queen. But inside, she was drowning.
“You married up,” one man sneered, glass of whiskey in hand. “She’s prettier than your usual threats.”
Kabir’s arm wrapped around her waist—tight. Possessive. “She’s not a threat,” he said coolly. “She’s my silence.”
Meher stiffened. She wasn’t just decoration—she was a warning. A weapon.
He was using her to show the world: No one crosses Kabir Rathore.
Later, during the toast, Kabir clinked his glass. “To my wife—who wears my name with more fire than fear.”
The room laughed. Meher stared at him, cold.
And yet… beneath all the power games and false smiles, she saw it.
Something flickered in his eyes when he looked at her—like even the devil wasn’t immune to the fire he’d chained.
But fire burns both ways.
And Meher?
She was done playing the helpless bride.
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