CHAPTER IV
"Of Palaces, Fears, and Silent Promises"
Sita and I had finally arrived… at her palace.
Yes — palace was the only word that did it justice. Towering arches, marble walls bathed in sunlight, and gates that looked like they had witnessed centuries pass by. It wasn't just a house — it was history dressed in gold.
Sita belonged to a wealthy family. Not just rich in money — but in status, reputation, legacy. Everything about this place echoed elegance and power.
I stood quietly by her side, taking it all in.
And for a fleeting moment, I wondered… Is my family even close to this?
I didn't have an answer. Maybe we weren't as wealthy. Maybe we didn't have a grand palace like this. But we were bigger — in size, in chaos, in tradition. We were a joint family, tightly knit, rooted deep in old customs and tangled relationships.
And that's what made everything… complicated.
Because unlike Sita, I couldn't just walk away from my family. I couldn't be someone who picked love and forgot where I came from.
And that's what Sita didn't fully understand yet.
I wasn't afraid of her palace.
I was afraid of mine.
I was afraid of the reactions, the judgments, the whispers behind closed doors. I was afraid of the way her presence — her very name — would spread through our corridors like wildfire.
Because loving her wasn't the hard part.
Introducing her to them — that was.
Sita glanced at me with those soft eyes that always saw right through me. She didn't say a word, but her hand found mine and squeezed gently. Maybe she could feel the tension in my fingers. Maybe she knew.
I looked up at the grand chandelier above us, then at the doors beyond which her world lived.
A world I was just beginning to step into.
But mine? Mine was a maze. One wrong move… and it would all fall apart.
Mon, I reminded myself, you don't want to be separated from your family.
I couldn't let love become a reason for silence in my home.
I needed to be careful.
I needed to be quiet.
I needed to do this… peacefully.
Because if love was a fire, I had no intention of letting it burn down everything I came from.
Not yet.
Not like this.
So I stood beside her, masking the storm inside me with a calm smile.
This was just the beginning.
And I had to tread this road like walking through glass — slowly, silently… and with my heart in my hands.
I held Sita's hand tightly as we stepped into her palace-like home. Even though I had known she came from a wealthy background, nothing had prepared me for the grand scale of the place — towering white pillars, golden edges on the staircases, glass chandeliers that sparkled like stars, and a silence so heavy it almost echoed.
But I barely had a second to take it all in.
The moment my foot crossed the threshold — the very first step into her house — a sharp, commanding voice rang through the hall:
"Don't move. Stay right where you are."
It wasn't loud in volume, but it carried weight. Authority. Finality.
I froze.
Now, normally, I wasn't someone who got scared easily. I had faced chaos, conflict, even confrontations that had left me bruised and bleeding — but this voice… this voice made something inside me pause.
It wasn't fear. It was respect. Or maybe… the kind of fear that comes with respect.
I didn't move. Not out of hesitation, but out of understanding. Because I knew — this wasn't just anyone speaking.
This was Sita's father.
Slowly, I lifted my eyes and turned toward the source of the voice. And when I saw him, I understood why Sita always spoke of him with both pride and defiance.
He stood tall at the top of the stairs, dressed in a crisp white kurta, hands folded behind his back, a gold watch gleaming on his wrist. His face was sharp — the kind of handsomeness you'd expect from an old film star — but layered over that charm was something far more intimidating.
Power. Authority. Pride.
He looked like he belonged on the silver screen — not as a hero, but as that one dangerous villain who walks in slow motion, never needs to raise his voice, but still sends shivers down your spine.
That was Sita's father.
His piercing eyes scanned me from head to toe — not with disgust, not even with hatred — but with the cold, calculated gaze of someone who was already forming judgments, and didn't care to hide it.
I stood tall. My heart thudded, but I didn't look away.
Beside me, Sita's grip on my hand tightened. I could feel the tension in her body — like she was preparing herself to speak, to defend, to fight if needed.
But I didn't let go.
Because I knew — this was just the beginning.
The beginning of a meeting I had dreaded, a home I had feared, and a confrontation that might change everything.
Yet despite the sharp voice, the judging eyes, and the weight of his presence… I took a deep breath and stood my ground.
For Sita. For us. And for whatever was waiting on the other side of this silence.
Sita took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward — her voice clear, calm, and unwavering.
"I'm here only to collect my things," she said, looking directly at her father. "After that, I'll be going back… to my life partner's home. Because I have no desire to live in hollow palaces anymore."
Her words echoed through the large marble hall like a quiet rebellion. They weren't loud, but they were powerful — each syllable laced with years of buried frustration and quiet pain.
Her father raised an eyebrow, amused. And then, with a smirk full of pride and mockery, he let out a slow, condescending laugh.
"No desire… or perhaps," he said with a sly grin, "the girl you married doesn't have the status to match this palace."
He began walking down the staircase, his eyes still fixed on me like I was some street thief who'd managed to sneak into royalty.
"She's clever, I'll give her that," he continued, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "The moment she must've found out you were my daughter — Sita Sinha, daughter of Dushyant Raj Sinha — one of England's most respected businessmen — I'm sure she saw an opportunity."
I stiffened. But I didn't look away. I let him speak, even though each word landed like a slap.
"She probably started weaving her little love story the moment she realized who you were," he added. "Played the sympathy card, made you feel seen, understood… and when the timing was perfect — married you."
He stopped in front of Sita now, his eyes still full of the same cold smirk.
But before I could say anything — before I could defend myself — Sita stepped in front of me.
Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with righteous fury.
"You don't get to insult my wife like that," she said, loud enough to shake the silence in the room. "I married her by my own choice. Out of love, out of respect — and not once, not even once, did she know who I really was."
"She thought I was just a graphic designer," Sita continued, her chin raised proudly. "Struggling to find work. Living in a rented apartment. She didn't know my last name. She didn't know I came from money. She didn't care."
Dushyant's smirk faded, just slightly.
But Sita wasn't done.
"You always taught me to never trust easily, didn't you?" she said, her voice growing stronger. "But what you never realized is — trust doesn't come from bloodlines, or power, or last names. It comes from how someone treats you when they don't know anything about your background."
She turned and looked at me for a second — just a glance — but it was enough to remind me why I stood beside her in the first place.
Then she faced her father again.
"She didn't use me. She didn't manipulate me. She simply stood by me — through chaos, through fear, through judgment. And for the first time in years… I felt like someone chose me, not my name. Not my wealth."
Her father let out a slow breath, but didn't speak.
He was about to — I could see it in the way his jaw clenched — when a gentle voice cut through the tension.
"Enough."
We all turned.
Sita's mother had arrived.
She stepped into the hall gracefully, draped in an elegant saree, her face calm but lined with quiet sorrow. Years of watching from the sidelines had given her the strength to speak only when it mattered — and now, it mattered more than ever.
She walked straight to her husband, placing a soft hand on his arm.
"Dushyant, please," she said gently. "Sometimes, the richest homes are the ones built with honesty, not marble. And the strongest love… doesn't need our approval to exist."
He looked at her, eyes narrowed, but didn't reply.
Sita's mother then turned to me, and for the first time, our eyes met.
There was no judgment there.
Only kindness. Maybe even a quiet apology that couldn't be spoken aloud.
She gave me a small, warm nod. And in that one gesture, I felt more acceptance than I had from anyone in that house.
Sita exhaled beside me, her hand slipping back into mine.
And in that moment, I realized something.
We hadn't come here to win approval. Or to prove anything.
We had come to walk away with dignity.
Together.
To be continue....