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Vikrant turns to stare at Sharda, dumbfounded. Jhankar, witnessing his helpless expression, struggles to stifle her laughter. His irritation contrasts hilariously with Sharda’s praise.

"Sit down quickly beside each other," Sharda says cheerfully. "There is milk, water, and flower petals in this pot, and now we’ll drop a ring into it. The one who finds it first will be declared the winner of this game."

This ritual always fascinated Jhankar. She had often dreamed of the day her brother would marry so she could tease him during this game, and when it was her turn, she had imagined outwitting her husband with playful charm. But today, the circumstances are far from her dreams. Still, if she must play, she certainly won’t let this man, her unwanted husband, win.

As soon as Jhankar looks at Vikrant, he catches the fierce glint in her eyes. Her silent challenge amuses him. He turns toward Sharda with a calm smile and obediently sits down for the game.

Jhankar takes her place beside him but suddenly recalls how annoyed he was by the red marks on the bed sheet. A mischievous thought strikes her. Without warning, she brushesher vermilion-stained foot against Vikrant’s cream-colored pants. Predictably, a bright red mark appears. Vikrant stares at her, furious, but before he can utter a word, Sharda speaks up with a delighted tone.

"Wow! The goddess of the house is spreading blessings everywhere…"

Vikrant freezes, biting back his frustration. Jhankar again suppresses her laughter. Placing her bag beside her, she prepares to win. As soon as the ring drops into the pot, Jhankar plunges her hand in and retrieves it without delay, holding it up triumphantly for Sharda to see. Vikrant had assumed this game would be effortless, something meaningless and symbolic. But her swift victory catches him off guard.

Sharda smiles and drops the ring in for a second round. This time, Vikrant is alert and determined. He moves quickly, but before he can even locate the ring, Jhankar once again fishes it out and displays it with a victorious smile. Sharda’s eyes now rest on Vikrant, whose expression has shifted to one of disbelief. He’s not accustomed to losing, especially not to a girl who openly despises him. But she has now won twice. Smiling warmly, Sharda picks up the ring again and announces the rule.

"This game is played five times. The person who wins three rounds is the winner. But if Jhankar wins the next round, we’ll stop the game right here, because the victory will already be hers."

Upon seeing Sharda approaching with the ring in hand, Vikrant promptly adjusts his posture and prepares himself for the next round of the game. His body is alert, and his gaze sharpens as if a real battle is about to begin. Sharda carefully places the ring back into the pot filled with milk, flower petals, and water, andboth Vikrant and Jhankar position their hands over the surface, waiting for the right moment.

The moment the ring touches the liquid, both of them plunge their hands into the pot. But this time, Vikrant is quicker. With a swift and precise motion, he grabs the ring, a small yet undeniable smile flickering in his eyes as he watches Jhankar’s surprised expression. Although he wants to smirk, he feels it is not in his nature to show triumph without a reason. With controlled composure, he simply extends his hand and shows the ring to Sharda, who is closely observing the tension and subtle expressions playing across their faces.

Sharda, noticing the playful yet intense competition between them, begins to smile softly. The game is no longer just a ritual; it has become an emotional tug-of-war where victory is laced with pride, defiance, and unspoken emotions. Once again, she places the ring in the pot. This time, Vikrant doesn’t hesitate. His fingers dart into the pot like a trained reflex, and he successfully retrieves the ring a second time.

Before Sharda can declare the round, Jhankar speaks up, her tone laced with irritation.

“The ring didn’t fall into the pot properly, so how could anyone find it?”

Before Sharda can answer, Vikrant immediately interjects with a firm voice.

“The player who removes the ring from the pot wins. That’s the game’s only rule.”

Sharda chuckles softly at their exchange and observes both of them, who are now intensely staring at each other like opponents in a serious match rather than newlyweds performinga light-hearted ritual. With amusement twinkling in her eyes, she lifts the ring again and declares.

“You both are equal so far. And according to this tradition, the one who wins rules over the other. So now it remains to be seen who will emerge victorious.”

Both of them adjust their sitting positions. Vikrant, now slightly competitive, leans forward with determination. Jhankar, equally resolved, sits up straighter, her fingers poised like a predator waiting to strike. Sharda waits for the perfect moment, and then with a swift flick, she lets the ring fall into the pot again.

As soon as the ring sinks into the petal-filled milk, both of them dive their hands in. Their hands bump into each other repeatedly, slipping over the petals and swirling the water into a fragrant storm. Suddenly, Vikrant manages to find the ring again. His fingers wrap around it tightly, and he begins to pull it out. But Jhankar, quick and cunning, grabs his wrist, subtly pushing his hand back into the pot. In one smooth motion, she slides her index finger into his palm, hooks the ring, and yanks it away before he even registers what has happened.

“I won…”

She announces with a victorious glint in her eyes, proudly holding up the ring. Sharda starts laughing, clapping her hands in delight, completely unaware of the underlying tension. Vikrant, however, stares at Jhankar in disbelief. The ring had been firmly in his hand, yet he didn’t even realize when she maneuvered her way to victory. Her boldness surprises him, and for a moment, he forgets to respond. Jhankar, meanwhile, meets his gaze with a challenging smile, her unspoken defiance louder than any words.

After all the rounds and light-hearted tension, Sharda begins to feel the toll of her excitement and rituals. She looks visibly worn out. Understanding her fatigue, Vikrant supports her gently and escorts her to her room, where Sharda expresses her desire for Jhankar to spend some time with her. Respecting her wish, Jhankar stays back. The three of them engage in long conversations, with Sharda asking questions and telling stories from her own wedding days and even teasing them softly. They share a meal together—one that is simple but warm in its domestic intimacy. Suddenly, the maid enters the room and gently reminds her.

“Please take your medicine and rest now.”

Sharda glances at the wall clock and realizes how much time has passed. She turns to Vikrant and Jhankar, a satisfied smile on her face, and says softly.

“You both should go to your rooms and rest now.”

Jhankar becomes slightly uneasy hearing this. A weight settles over her chest. Her eyes dart sideways, and then she catches a glimpse of Vikrant. No matter how much authority he holds or how composed he appears, she reminds herself silently, "I will never allow this man to touch me." That certainty steels her nerves.

They both begin walking toward Vikrant’s room. He walks ahead, unlocking the door with casual familiarity. As he pushes the door open and steps inside, his eyes fall upon a stunning yet unexpected sight.

The entire room is decorated with red roses. Red petals scattered across the white bed, candles lit softly in the corners, creating a romantic ambiance unmistakably prepared for a wedding night. Vikrant halts at the doorway, stunned. A faint frown creaseshis brow. He is certain this was not Sharda’s doing, she would never arrange something like this without telling him. However, now that the marriage has occurred, it's possible that a well-intentioned maid or staff member decorated it, thinking it was the logical next step.

While he’s still trying to rationalize the setup, Jhankar steps inside quietly with her head bowed. But the moment she looks up and sees the room, her entire body stiffens. Her heartbeat thunders in her chest, rage and disgust rising like a tidal wave.