The air in the Delhi haveli hung thick with the cloying sweetness of jasmine garlands and the acrid bite of agarbatti smoke, a sensory assault that did little to mask the undercurrent of dread coiling in Anu's gut. At 22, she was a vision of fragile elegance—5'6" of slender curves wrapped in the weighty crimson lehenga, its heavy brocade embroidered with gold zari threads that dug into her olive skin like the first hints of the chains to come. Her raven hair, piled high in an elaborate updo adorned with fresh mogra blooms, framed a face of delicate features: wide hazel eyes rimmed with kohl that now shimmered with unshed tears, full lips painted sindoor-red, and cheeks flushed not from bridal joy but from the terror of the unknown. This arranged marriage was no union of hearts; it was a cold transaction, her family's spiraling debts bartered away to the Mehra empire in exchange for her hand. Arjun Veer Mehra, the 24-year-old Deputy Commissioner of Police whose name alone silenced Delhi's underbelly, had agreed to the alliance not for love, but for the quiet satisfaction of acquiring something—someone—breakable to bend to his will.