Veer’s POV

(After One Week)

It had been seven days.

Seven long, painfully quiet days.

And in those seven days, the mansion that once echoed with orders, footsteps, and authority had fallen into a silence so sharp it almost echoed.

The silence of guilt.

The silence of disappointment.

I had told my family everything—everything except the conditions she had been forced to sign, and the truth about the food poison. Those weren’t mine to tell. They were her scars, not my confessions.

When I’d finished explaining what I did, their reactions weren’t loud. They didn’t shout or accuse.

They just looked at me.

And that silence… was worse than any bullet wound.

My mother hadn’t spoken to me since that night.
Vivaan, Aaryan, Kabir, and Neil tried to behave normally in meetings, but the shift in their tone was unmistakable. Formal. Controlled. As if they were standing across a line they didn’t want to cross anymore.

But the one who broke me wasn’t them.

It was her.

Aranya.

She hadn’t uttered a single word to me in a week.
She followed the house routine like clockwork—silent, distant, doing everything perfectly but with no life in her eyes. She didn’t speak to anyone unless absolutely necessary.

And she still slept on the floor.

Every night, I told her to sleep on the bed. Every night, she ignored me. And every night, I found myself sitting on the couch, staring at the fragile curve of her shoulders as she turned her back to me—like a reminder of everything I had destroyed.

The worst part was that she was doing exactly what I had once ordered her to do:
Stay quiet. Stay away. Don’t act like family.

And now, I hated it.

I wanted her to talk. To fight. To show anger, disgust—something.
But all she gave me was silence, and somehow, that hurt more than any screaming could.

Even my family avoided talking to her beyond a few polite words. Maybe because of guilt. Maybe because they feared my reaction. Either way, she was alone in this house, and it was my doing.
The only thing I still did right was feed her.

Every day, I cooked her meals myself, always taking the first bite so she would know it was safe. She still hesitated, but at least she ate.

Yesterday, the doctor said her condition was improving slightly—her system was stabilizing, but she still needed rest, care, and a calm environment.

Three things I had failed to give her.

I was sitting in my office room inside the mansion—the same room where most of my sins were planned—when a knock pulled me out of my thoughts.

“Come in,” I said, my tone low.

The heavy wooden door opened, and my mother stepped in.
She was composed as always, her presence commanding without effort. Behind her, two servants entered, carrying a large suitcase. They placed it on the table and quietly left.

My mother waited until the door closed before speaking.
“This is for my daughter,” she said firmly, her eyes not meeting mine. “Give it to her. It has her dress and jewelry for today. And she will wear only this.”

I looked at the suitcase, then at her. “You can give it to her directly, Maa.”

She stopped mid-turn and faced me again. The quiet fury in her eyes was sharper than any weapon I’d ever held.

“I would have,” she said slowly, “if the devil ruling this house wouldn’t punish her for accepting something from me.”

Her words hit me hard.

Every syllable, deliberate and cold.
“Maa…” I started.

But she cut me off. “Do you even know what you’ve become, Veer?”

Her voice was calm, but the tremor beneath it was unmistakable. “You built an empire where even ministers bend to your will. You made the underworld bow before you. But here, in your own home, your wife walks like a prisoner afraid of her own husband’s shadow.”

I swallowed hard, saying nothing.

She took a step forward, her expression softening just enough to hurt more.
“You think power makes you strong. But what good is it if the people you claim to love only fear your punishment?”

The words burned deeper than she knew.
“Maa…” I exhaled, stepping closer. “I know. I know I’ve done unforgivable things. I won’t ask for forgiveness, because I don’t deserve it. But I’m trying. I’m trying to fix what I destroyed.”
She held my gaze for a long moment, searching my eyes for something. Maybe honesty. Maybe guilt.

Whatever she saw, it made her shoulders ease slightly.
“I hope you do, Veer,” she said quietly. “Because if you lose her again… you won’t just lose your wife.” Her voice faltered, just a little. “You’ll lose your mother too.”

And she turned to leave.
The door closed behind her with a quiet click that echoed louder than any gunshot.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the suitcase she left behind.

For the first time, she had called someone my daughter—words she hadn’t used since Anika.
The irony burned deep in my chest.

I let out a long breath and ran a hand through my hair.
“How the hell am I supposed to convince her to wear this,” I muttered to myself, “when I’m the one who told her not to take anything from them?”

I paced slowly around the room, thinking.
Come on, Veer. You’ve handled hostile takeovers, broken syndicates, and negotiated with enemies who would slit your throat. You’re the number one businessman in the country. The underworld calls you Raavan for a reason.

I looked at the suitcase again, frustration twisting inside me.
But convincing her? That was a battlefield I didn’t know how to win.

I loosened my shirt cuffs, rolled my sleeves up a little, and finally took the suitcase from the table.

The weight felt heavier than it should’ve been. Maybe because it carried more than just clothes—it carried my mother’s hope… and my own fear of failing again.

Outside, I could hear faint preparations in the courtyard. Past few days , Navaratri in this mansion had been only about quiet prayers and rituals. No songs, no colors.

But this day, Neil had insisted on doing something different—organizing a puja and a small Garba celebration to bring back some happiness.

Something to make her smile again.
A smile I hadn’t seen since the day we met.
I took a deep breath and looked toward the hallway leading to her room.

This shouldn’t be hard, I told myself. It’s just a dress. Just a conversation.

But my chest tightened with something unexplainable.
Because deep down, I knew the truth—this wasn’t about the dress.
It was about trust.

It was about whether she would even look at me the same way again.
I straightened my shirt, adjusted my watch, and exhaled slowly.
And for the first time in years, Veer Pratap Singh Chauhan—the man the world feared—felt something close to nervousness.
With the suitcase in hand, I turned toward the door, ready to face the one battle I wasn’t sure I could win.

🦋Author’s POV🦋

The door clicked open, and Veer walked in with the suitcase in one hand and a very visible look of discomfort on his face — the kind of expression only seen when the mafia king himself was trying to negotiate peace… with his wife.

Aranya was sitting near the window, her long hair cascading down her shoulders, the faint breeze playing with a few loose strands. She didn’t turn to look at him. Didn’t even move. Just quietly gazed out at the garden, where the diyas from the evening puja still flickered in soft gold.

Veer stood there for a moment, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Uhm… Maa sent this.”

No response.

He took a few steps closer, placing the suitcase on the couch. “It’s for tonight’s puja.” His tone softened, almost hesitant. “She… she said it’s for her daughter.”

That made her glance at him — just for a second — but then she looked away again.

[A/n the king is tasting the level of ignorance😂]

“Aranya,” he said quietly, “I know you don’t want anything from me. Or from this house. But… maybe just this once, don’t think of it as from me. Think of it as—” he paused, the words catching in his throat, “—a gesture. From someone who still wants to see you happy.”

Her lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “Funny. You think happiness can be worn.”

He winced slightly, stepping closer. “I don’t. But sometimes, it’s a start.”

There was silence for a few seconds — only the sound of wind outside and her quiet breathing.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck — business deals worth billions were easier than this conversation.
“I cooked for you a whole week,” he muttered, half serious, half teasing. “This is your turn to listen to me once.”

That made her actually look up, raising an eyebrow. “Oh really? You want a medal for that?”

He smirked slightly. “I’ll settle for you not ignoring me.”

Her eyes flickered — the tiniest trace of surprise there. And for a second, he thought maybe she’d soften. But instead, she folded her arms, standing her ground. “I don’t take orders, Sir.”

That word sir hit differently this time — cold, sharp, yet a little shaky.

He exhaled deeply and walked closer, closing the distance between them until only a breath separated them. “Then don’t take it as an order. Take it as… a request.”

Her breath hitched. She turned her head away, but the air between them had shifted — heavy, charged, and too close.
When he handed the suitcase to her, his fingers brushed against hers — just a fleeting touch — but it felt like static racing up both their arms.

Aranya blinked rapidly, stepping back as if the contact burned. “You can leave it there.”

“Right,” he said, his voice lower than before. “I’ll… leave it there.” But he didn’t move. He just looked at her, the faintest hint of something warm in his eyes — something that scared her more than his anger ever did.

And that’s when—

Veer stood there, the suitcase still in his hand, but his gaze was locked on her. Aranya’s back was to him, but when she turned slightly, their eyes met — and in that instant, the world seemed to shrink.

Her hazel eyes, glistening faintly with unshed tears, were searching his, questioning, guarded… yet curious. And his dark eyes, usually cold as steel, softened slightly, flickering with something she couldn’t name — concern, possessiveness, longing.
For a heartbeat, they simply looked at each other. No words. No movement. Just two souls meeting in silence, the tension between them palpable. His chest tightened — that unnatural pull toward her, that impossible need to protect, to soothe, to claim.

Her lips parted, and Veer’s hand twitched ever so slightly, almost as if he wanted to reach out but restrained himself. And she shivered, not from the chill of the evening, but from the electricity of the moment.

The air around them seemed to hum. Every unspoken word, every withheld emotion, every shared pain — it hovered between them like a fragile spark, threatening to ignite. Her heart raced, and for a fleeting second, she forgot the fear, the anger, the hurt. All she could feel was him.

Veer’s gaze softened further, his jaw tightening just a fraction, and he whispered — almost to himself — “Ember…”

Her name on his lips was different. Gentle, intimate, and impossibly heavy with emotion. Her eyes widened slightly, and she realized she had stopped breathing.

BANG! The door burst open.

“Am I interrupting a confession or a kidnapping?” Neil’s voice barreling in, breaking the fragile bubble around them, leaving Veer momentarily flushed and Aranya flustered.

Veer pinched the bridge of his nose. “Neil.”

Neil strolled in casually, hands in pockets, wearing an all-black shirt and jeans, a silver chain around his neck glinting under the chandelier. His smirk widened as he looked between the two of them. “Oh, so this is the secret project, huh? Operation Convince-Your-Wife-To-Exist?”

Aranya blinked, caught completely off guard, while Veer’s death glare could have melted steel.

Neil leaned against the doorframe dramatically. “Veer Pratap Singh Chauhan, the man who made grown assassins cry — now standing here like a lost puppy, holding a suitcase like it’s a love letter. If the underworld saw this, half of them would retire.”

Aranya bit her lip, trying not to smile.
“Neil,” Veer warned.

But Neil wasn’t done. “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Your reputation as the great, no 1. business man of the industry  is safe with me.” He winked at Aranya. “Don’t worry, bhabhi— I mean— Mrs. Veer Chauhan—he looks scary, but he’s actually soft like paneer inside.”

Aranya’s eyes widened. Veer’s head snapped up.
“Neil.” That single word carried enough threat to end a war.

Neil grinned wider, already backing away toward the door. “Relax, I’m leaving. You two carry on your... marital merger meeting.” He gave a mock salute and slipped out before Veer could throw something at him.

The silence that followed was thick — awkward and strangely warm.

Aranya turned her face away, but a small laugh escaped her — soft, unintentional, but it made Veer freeze. That sound. It was the first time he’d heard her laugh.

He looked at her — really looked — and something inside his chest tightened.
She quickly masked her face again, pretending to fix her hair. “Your friend’s impossible.”

Veer’s lips twitched. “He’s survived because of that.”

She turned to the suitcase, fingers brushing over the handle. “You’re really not going to stop until I wear it, are you?”

“No.” His tone was gentle, but firm. “Not tonight.”

“Fine,” she said finally, sighing. “But not because you said so.”

He smirked. “Of course not. You never listen to me anyway.”

Her lips curved — just slightly. “You finally noticed.”

He chuckled lowly, the first real laugh he’d let out in days.
And as she lifted the suitcase and walked toward the dressing room, Veer watched her go — the faint smile still lingering on his lips. Maybe, just maybe, tonight would be different.

🦋Author’s POV🦋

The mansion buzzed softly with the sounds of celebration — faint laughter from the courtyard, clinking of diyas being placed, the rustle of silk and brocade. The air was thick with the scent of marigolds, sandalwood, and something else Veer couldn’t quite name — anticipation.

He sat on the grand sofa, every inch the king his name demanded — Veer Chauhan, the man whose single glance could silence a room. Yet tonight, as the family gathered in the hall, waiting for her, his expression was unreadable.

He leaned back, legs crossed, one hand resting lazily on the armrest while the other scrolled through his phone. He looked calm — almost bored — but beneath that calmness was a storm that only he could feel.

He was a vision in rose pink and ivory, his form draped in a sherwani that seemed spun from a summer sunset. The raw silk jacket, a vibrant hue of pink, was a canvas for intricate white embroidery that bloomed across the fabric like delicate, frosted flowers. Underneath, a simple ivory kurta grounded the look — sharp, timeless, powerful.

He looked like a man born to command — his every movement measured, deliberate, dangerous.

Across the room, everyone else was tense. The entire Chauhan mansion — known for its composure and control — looked like a room full of nervous students awaiting results.

“Veer, you are not worried that she’ll come or not?” Chachi asked, her tone lined with confusion. She couldn’t understand how he could sit there so calmly when every other heart in the house was pacing.

Veer didn’t even lift his eyes from his phone. “If she is willing, she will come. So why should I be worried?”

The answer was simple, but it hit like command — cold, effortless, final.
A few exchanged glances nervously, unsure whether to take comfort or fear from that tone.

“Yes, Chachi, why would he be worried? Just leave it. I’ll tell you something,” Neil’s voice broke through, casual and mischievous, hands slipping into his pockets as he leaned forward with a grin.

Immediately, everyone’s attention turned toward him — they had learned by now that whenever Neil Khanna opened his mouth, chaos usually followed.

Neil smirked, raising his brows dramatically. “You know, everyone fears the tiger… but the one who scares everyone is scared of his tiger wife.”

The room went still.
Veer’s eyes slowly lifted from his phone, the faintest flicker of warning flashing through that steel-gray gaze. The kind of look that made trained assassins rethink their existence.

But Neil, as usual, had the survival instincts of a toddler in traffic.
“What? Don’t glare at me like that, bro. I’m just saying — if Raavan can bow before his Goddess, who are you to act so tough?” Neil continued, grinning wider when he saw the corners of Kabir’s and Aaryan’s mouths twitching.

Vivaan coughed to hide a laugh. “He’s going to kill you one day, Neil.”

“Kill me? Please. He’s too busy getting killed by those big brown eyes upstairs.”

“Neil…” Veer’s tone was low — the kind that could melt glaciers.
But Neil just winked. “Relax, Veer Chauhan. Everyone fears your anger… but we both know the only person who can actually destroy you wears a dupatta.”

The tension in the air cracked, replaced by muffled chuckles.

And then—

The sound.
A soft, delicate tinkle of anklets, cutting through the laughter like a heartbeat.

Every head turned. Even Veer’s hand froze mid-scroll.
The grand staircase — wrapped in fairy lights and marigold strings — framed her perfectly as she descended.

Aranya.

She moved slowly, gracefully, her gaze fixed somewhere far away, untouched by the whispers and the stares.

She turned slightly, and the creamy white fabric of her lehenga caught the light, swirling around her like a cloud spun from moonlight. Along the hem, intricate embroidery in pink, blue, and gold bloomed like a hidden garden, each thread shimmering faintly under the chandelier’s golden glow.

Her blouse, simple yet elegant, hugged her form, while the fuchsia dupatta draped over her shoulder shimmered with delicate patterns and tiny golden tassels that swayed with each soft step.

Minimal jewelry — just a pair of jhumkas that danced with the rhythm of her walk — and a light touch of makeup that highlighted her natural glow. But she didn’t need adornments.
She was the adornment.

And Veer… forgot to breathe.

His phone lowered slowly as his gaze fixed on her — not as the man who owned half the city, but as someone seeing light after darkness.

For a moment, the hall faded. The sounds dimmed. It was just her — her quiet defiance, her grace, her strength wrapped in silence.

Anika’s eyes widened the moment she caught sight of the figure descending the staircase. “Oh my god! She’s so pretty!” she gasped, clutching Kabir’s arm dramatically. Her brothers — Aaryan, Vivaan, and Kabir — all turned at once, and for a second, the world seemed to hold its breath.

And then there was Veer.

The man who commanded empires, whose single glare could silence entire boardrooms — sat on the sofa, frozen. The phone in his hand slipped slightly as his gaze locked on Aranya. Every trace of the infamous Raavan melted away, replaced by something softer… quieter.

Neil, of course, noticed immediately.

He leaned closer to Anika and stage-whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Anika, I think you should put a black mark on your bhabhi — to protect her from your Raavan brother’s evil eyes.”

Anika blinked. “Even I think so!” she said seriously, nodding her head as if this were a life-or-death situation.

Veer, still lost, murmured without thinking, “Yes, Anika… do that.”

The hall went silent.

Neil’s grin stretched ear to ear. “See? Even the great Veer Chauhan agrees!” he said, dramatically clutching his chest. “The mighty mafia king has fallen — and the one who scares the world is lost in his wife’s beauty.”

Laughter erupted instantly. Even the usually reserved Vivaan and Kabir snickered, while Aaryan tried (and failed) to suppress a grin.
“Anika, do it fast! Otherwise, by the way your brother is staring, poor bhabhi will be completely burnt by his evil eyes!” Neil added, earning another round of laughter.

Veer shot him a deadly look that could’ve frozen hell. Neil only winked. “Relax, Romeo Raavan. I’m just saving your wife’s life here.”

Before Veer could respond, Chachi smiled warmly, her hands folded in admiration. “She’s looking so beautiful. May no evil eyes fall on her.”

Aranya, who had been standing near the stairs, lowered her gaze shyly. Her heart thudded painfully fast. She hadn’t expected such reactions. When she had opened the suitcase earlier, she had almost returned it — afraid the outfit might not suit her. Kavya maa always said "I looked like a maid, no matter what I wore…" the thought had echoed painfully in her mind.

Now, as the graceful matriarch stepped forward through the crowd, Aranya instinctively took a small step back — unsure, nervous. Devyani’s eyes softened. Without a word, she dipped a finger into her kajal and placed a small black dot behind Aranya’s ear.

“My daughter looks like a goddess,” she whispered gently, her voice trembling with pride. “You are like the moon — you shine brightest in the darkest night. May this moonlight never fade, and may no evil eye ever touch you.”

The word daughter hit Aranya like a wave. No one had called her that since her mother’s death. Her throat tightened, and her eyes welled up. Devyani smiled faintly, pulling her into a soft embrace — and for the first time, Aranya felt the warmth of a mother’s arms.

A hush settled over the hall.

Then, with the rhythm of his cane tapping lightly, Dadu stepped forward. His eyes gleamed with affection as he circled a small bundle of money over Aranya’s head to ward off the evil eye. “Ghar ki Lakshmi hai yeh,” he declared proudly. “Our house’s goddess of fortune.”

He placed a tender hand on her head, blessing her. “I know you’re sad, beta… but your Dadu from above is watching. If he sees his precious granddaughter crying, he’ll be sad too.”

Aranya’s tears spilled freely now, a bittersweet ache in her chest.
Dadu smiled kindly. “I know I can’t be your  grandfather, but if anyone dares to make you cry, just tell me. I’ll hit them with my stick.”

That earned a round of laughter, even from Aranya — a small, delicate smile that tugged something deep in Veer’s chest. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but a flicker of relief crossed his face. It had been too long since he’d seen her smile.

“I have a condition,” Dadu suddenly announced, adjusting his glasses. The laughter quieted instantly.

“Condition?” Chachi blinked.

“Haan!” Dadu said, pretending to be stern. “I don’t want her calling me ‘Bada Malik.’ From now on, she’ll call me Dadu. And if she wants, she can call Veer ‘Bada Malik.’”

The hall burst into muffled giggles. Veer’s eyes narrowed, while Aranya froze, looking unsure.

“Arre beta, don’t look at him!” Dadi jumped in, waving a hand dramatically. “You were calling Dadu ‘Bada Malik,’ right? So remember — ‘Bada Malik’ has more power than ‘Chota Malik.’ So you must obey Bada Malik’s order!”

Neil instantly started laughing. “Ha! Poor Chota Malik, losing authority in his own kingdom!”

“Right bhabhi!” Vivaan added mischievously. “Please don’t call me Malik either — it feels like I’m some villain from an old movie! Just call me Vivaan or Devar.”

Kabir and Aaryan joined the fun, clapping in agreement. “Or call him ‘Sanskari Devar No.1’ — that’ll fit better!”

The faintest smile curved Aranya’s lips again, a soft giggle escaping before she could stop herself.

Neil caught that and leaned closer to Veer with a teasing whisper, “You see that? Your wife just laughed — not bad, Mr. Raavan. Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

Veer rolled his eyes, pretending to be unfazed, but the subtle hint of pride in his expression betrayed him.
“Come on, bhabhi! Try calling him ‘Dadu,’” Anika encouraged, clapping her hands.

Aranya hesitated, looking at Veer instinctively. His eyes met hers — steady, unreadable, but softer than before. He gave a barely-there nod.

Taking a deep breath, she whispered, “Dadu…”

The room erupted with cheers and claps. Dadu beamed, placing his hand on her head again. “That’s my girl! Now it feels like this house has found its heartbeat again.”

Even Devyani smiled through tears, silently watching the two — her son, the man the world feared, and the woman who had unknowingly tamed his storm.

The hall filled with laughter, the soft sounds of bells and light teasing — a rare, fragile warmth blooming between broken hearts.
And just as Veer finally let his guard drop, letting himself soak in that fleeting peace—

A sudden voice echoed from the entrance, cutting through the laughter.

“My Aranyaaa…”

The entire hall froze.
The sudden shrill, dramatic voice echoed through the grand hall like a misplaced Bollywood background track. Every head turned toward the entrance — and there she was.

Kavya.

Her bright saree shimmered under the chandelier lights, the heavy jewelry clinking with each exaggerated step. Behind her walked Aarav and Vikram, both dressed sharply — but it was clear who was stealing the attention.

Kavya broke into what could only be described as a slow-motion run — her arms stretched out, her pallu fluttering as if an invisible wind machine was working overtime just for her.
Anika blinked, leaning toward Neil and whispering, “Neil bhai… why is she running in slow motion?”

Neil didn’t even look away from the scene. “Maybe she thinks she’s in a daily soap intro. We just need dramatic background music — ‘Tadadadada… !’”

Vivaan and Kabir both snorted, trying to cover their laughter. Aaryan bit his lip to keep from cracking up, but one look at Veer’s expression — stone-cold, eyes narrowing like a predator — and they instantly straightened up.

Kavya finally reached Aranya, clutching her like a long-lost heroine meeting her soldier husband after twenty years of war. “I missed you, my baccha!” she cried dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart.“Without you, the house feels so empty!”

Neil blinked twice, then muttered under his breath, “I swear if she says one more dialogue like that, I’m calling Filmfare to nominate her for Best Drama Performance.”

Aranya stood there, frozen, confused by the sudden display of affection. Kavya’s hug felt too tight, her tone too sweet — the same woman who once called her a burden now calling her baccha?

“Bhai, when you said she has Oscar-level acting, I didn’t think you meant she’d show up to the event mid-performance,” Vivaan whispered, earning a muffled laugh from Aaryan and Kabir.
Neil added dryly, “Forget Oscar, this is a full-blown Ekta Kapoor audition.”

Aranya gently pulled back. “Aap... yahan?” she asked softly.

“Of course, baccha!” Kavya exclaimed, her voice echoing dramatically. “When we heard there’s a grand Garba night at your in-laws’, how could we not come? We had to see our daughter dancing in her new home!”

Vivaan leaned toward Neil. “Ah, so the drama came dressed in lehenga too.”

Neil smirked. “Yeah, and she brought her co-stars.”

Behind her, Vikram smiled politely. “Namaste. We were invited to tonight’s puja and Garba, so we thought we’d join the celebration early.”

Veer’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on Kavya’s hand still resting too casually on Aranya’s arm.

Dadu smiled, his usual warmth returning.  Come in, come in.”

Devyani nodded gracefully, signaling a servant to bring refreshments, though her sharp gaze never left Kavya. She could smell the falseness from a mile away.

Veer sat on the sofa silently, watching everything. His expression was unreadable, but his fingers tapped the armrest rhythmically — a sign Neil knew too well. Veer was angry. Not shouting-angry, but quiet, simmering angry — the kind that made everyone else tense.

Kavya, of course, was oblivious.

The Rathores sat reluctantly, though the air in the room felt thicker now — the warmth from before replaced by awkward politeness and veiled tension.

Aarav finally spoke, his tone firm but calm. “Aaru, I brought a gift for you.”

Aranya looked confused, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta. She hadn’t heard that name in a while — Aaru. It sounded strange now. Foreign.

Before she could reply, another voice — deep, angry, booming — thundered through the entrance.

“HOW DARE YOU GET MARRIED WITHOUT ASKING ME, ARANYA?!”

The air froze.