There were no flowers, no music, and no laughter. Sana sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, her head bowed so low her chin touched the heavy gold choker around her neck. She was draped in a deep crimson silk ghagra, the fabric stiff and cold against her skin. The ghunghat (veil) was drawn over her face, blurring the world into a red, hazy cage.

Across the small mahogany table sat the Qazi, his spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose as he reviewed the Nikah-Nama. Sidharth sat to his right, looking like a monarch who had just conquered a rebellious province. He wore a black sherwani, the high collar framing a face that was unyielding and triumphant.