PROLOGUE

Scene one:

The temple of Shiv Parvati had witnessed countless unions vows, blessings, beginnings.

But this was no beginning.

With each chant, Kaushiki Jaiswal’s world splintered.

The vermilion streak across her hairline wasn’t sacred; it was a wound carved in red. A brand of power, not love.

Kiyansh Singh Rathore stood beside her, jaw carved from stone, movements deliberate, merciless.

To the world, he looked victorious  unyielding, certain. To her, he was executioner, not husband.

He hadn’t married her to honor her.

He had married her to break her.

He wanted silence. He wanted her fearless eyes lowered, her pride gutted, her fire smothered.

But when she lifted her gaze dusky skin lit against temple flames, eyes sharp, burning she didn’t bow. She didn’t fold.

And that defiance, that maddening blaze, cut deeper than any blade.

The conch shells thundered, the diyas flickered, but Kaushiki heard none of it.

When they started taking the pheras, it looked like she was giving her life to a devil.

But she believed in the power of Shakti she was the daughter of Mahakal Himself.

And in that moment, she vowed that no matter what he did,

no matter how many times he tried to break her,she would not let him shatter her.

Then came the vermilion, and then the mangalsutra

both symbols of sanctity,

but to her, they looked no less than chains, cold and unyielding,

snatching her freedom away.

All she felt was the weight of sindoor pressed into her hairline and mangalsutra in her neck, not as a blessing but as a scar.

Her hands trembled where no one could see, nails biting her palms until her skin threatened to bleed.

Yet her eyes rose. Dark. Unbroken. Defiant.

Kiyansh’s face remained a mask, his hand steady. But when her gaze locked with his, the crack whispered through him silent, dangerous.

Not submission.

Not surrender.

Fire.

A fire that dared him to try harder. A fire that promised one day, she would make him burn for this.

He had chained her to him, believing he owned her ruin.

Instead, he had bound himself to the only woman capable of being his undoing.

She hadn’t known one act of kindness would cost her this much.

She hadn’t known that saving her soul sister would be branded a sin.

But now she knew men in power did not care for right or wrong. They cared only for their will.

She remembered once saying that women should be indifferent to men, untouched by their arrogance or their shitty opinions.

But indifference was no longer possible.

Because Kiyansh Singh Rathore had written himself into her blood, not with love but with ruin.

And she knew, with a certainty sharper than steel, that she would hate him for the rest of her life.

After the ceremony, he leaned close, his breath cold against her ear.

“Don’t be sad, darling,” he whispered, voice low and cruel. “This is just the beginning.”

Kaushiki turned to him, eyes brimming with fury and faith.

“I and my Lord Bholenath both know I’ve done nothing wrong,” she said steadily. “And as far as worrying is concerned. I'm not afraid Because truth always comes out. And when it does, mark my words Kiyansh Singh Rathore, you’ll regret every single thing you’ve done to me.”

His intention wasn’t love.

It was power.

Punishment.

And to crush the one thing she prized most her freedom.

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Scene two:

The Ganga moved slow and silver under the dawn. Priests chanted. Diyas floated.

But in the middle of the river, waist-deep, unmoving he stood.

Kiyansh Singh Rathore.

The man who made nations bend, who ruled markets and underworld alike, who had never bowed to anyone.

Now, stripped of all titles, all armor, all pride he bowed only to her Mahadev, her Bholenath, her father.

Every chant that left his lips was a vow. Every flame he fed was a prayer. Every drop of sweat and blood was an offering.

The same Ganga ghat she believed to be one of the most sacred place to purify your soul and heart. Now here he was, not only to purify but rewrite his soul for her.

Only one truth remained his golden goddess.

His Kaushiki

For five days he had taken nothing.

No food. No water. No rest but the sky. And yet, at sunrise and at dusk, his voice always rose through the mantras like fire clawing through stone.

“Mahadev… she is yours before she is anyone’s. Test me. Burn me. Break me. If I fail, take her away forever. But if I pass let me stand by her, not as her master, but as the man who kneels at her feet.”

He organized bhandaras, feeding thousands when he himself hadn’t touched a grain. He lit yagya fires until his hands blistered. He let the smoke sting his eyes, the hunger hollow his bones, the river numb his veins. And still he did not stop.

At night, when others slept, he lay on the rough mat, staring at the sky until his vision blurred, searching for her in the moonlight knowing she loved speaking to the moon.

He stared at it now as if searching her face, whispering silently 'Will you ever even look at me. Let alone giving me a chance. And forgiving me is a far long journey'

He whispered to the night, his voice raw but unshaken:

“Kaushiki… this time, I don’t want to conquer you. I want to deserve you. Even if it takes me a lifetime of burning."

The moon hung above, cold and patient, like it was listening.

His throat tightened, but his voice grew steadier, fiercer.

“Because you… you are my goddess. One who can only be worshipped. Nothing less than that.”

The night swallowed his vow, but he knew Bholenath had heard. The bruises, the hunger, the fire none of it was sacrifice. It was penance. A lion choosing to kneel, not from defeat, but from devotion.

Sometimes the lion in him roared against the silence.

He turned that rage inward.

His fists struck stone until his knuckles split.

His back bore welts from punishing lashes of his own making.

But every wound only repeated the same prayer in his blood: Rewrite me. Burn me. Break me. But let me be worthy of her.

Because if he could not master his own fury, how could he ever deserve her?

The world still feared him. His enemies still bled at his command.

But here, before her Mahadev, he was no emperor, no predator, no king.

Just a man, trying to rewrite his soul for the very women whom he tried to break.

Because Kaushiki deserved a man written by her Bholenath Himself.

And Kiyansh Singh Rathore would not stop until he became that man.

She vowed to hate him until her last breath.

He vowed to burn until he became worthy enough to deserve her.

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Here is the prologue....

Let me know in the comments section how it is..