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⚠️ Content Warning:
This story contains adult themes, including sexual situations, power dynamics, and sensual content.
Reader discretion is strongly advised. Recommended for audiences 18+ only.
All characters are fictional.

Author Note – Welcome, Brave Reader

Welcome, dear reader…

You’ve just opened the doors to The Sinful Bride, a world of whispers behind closed doors, forbidden desire, and hearts that refuse to stay pure.

This is 1950s India, where tradition binds, yet passion finds a way to slip through cracks of silk and sandalwood. You are about to meet Vikram Singh, the storm beneath calm, and Naina Sharma, the girl who doesn’t know yet how dangerously she can tempt a man like him.

Prepare yourself. By the time you close this chapter, your heart may race, your skin may tingle, and your thoughts… well, they’ll be a little corrupt.

Are you ready?

Because the Sinful Bride begins… 🔥💋

Chapter 1 The Vanishing Bride

The air was thick with marigold, sweat, and the faint sweetness of sandalwood, and somewhere, fear pulsed like a hidden drum.

The drums of celebration echoed through the dusty village path as Vikram Singh’s baraat approached—horses stomping, torches burning, and the villagers’ eyes fixed with awe and fear.

Baarat was nothing less than a king's procession, and Vikram Singh's was the grandest of them all.

Dressed in a cream sherwani with a crimson turban, Vikram sat atop a tall white horse like a king ready to claim his queen, though she might not wish to be claimed.

But behind the walls of the bride's house, silence had fallen like death, yet something pulsed in the room.

“She’s gone,” the mother whispered, trembling.

“Gone?” the father croaked.

“Radha ran away… before dawn. She left a letter… she said she can’t marry Thakur Shahab.”

The bride’s elder sister, Radha, the beautiful, educated one.

The woman whom every man in around eleven villages wants to marry had vanished without a trace.

The parents paled as the sounds of the approaching procession grew louder.

Vikram was not a man you humiliated.

At thirty-five, he was the zamindar, the landowner, the ruler of this village in all but name.

Men bowed before him, and women lowered their gazes. It was said even the ministers dared not speak above him. And now, at the height of his wedding, he had been insulted.

“How can we tell him?” the mother cried. “He will burn us alive.”

“He’ll ruin our lives, throw us from our land, and turn the villagers against us—he can.”

And in the corner, wrapped in a simple green saree, Naina stood frozen. And yet even from the corner, Naina felt a shiver at the shadow of him.

She was nineteen. Quiet. Barely educated. Radha’s shadow. She knew how to cook, clean, and obey.

That was all.

She was not beauty incarnate like Radha, nor was she as clever as her sister. Unlike Radha, whose skin was milk-white and hair shone like spun gold, Naina was plain and unremarkable with dusky skin and dark hair.

She was often overlooked, blending into the background as if she were invisible. Yet a small spark of something forbidden flickered in her chest.

Her mother’s eyes turned to her.

“No…”

“Yes,” her father said. “She is our only choice.”

“No, I’m not Radha,” Naina whispered. Her knees trembled beneath the saree, betraying her fear and anticipation.

“You will be,” her mother said, grabbing her face. “You will be the bride. Or we will all be destroyed.”

But no one wants me. Naina thought.

When Vikram entered the house, he was like a storm cloaked in silence.

Her pulse quickened at the distant sound of his jhutis on the floor.

The scent of sandalwood wafted through the air, mingling with the tension that hung heavy in the room.

No shouting.

No drama.

Just icy fury behind deep-set eyes.

“Where is the bride?”

The father stammered, sweat dripping from his brow. “She… she… left.”

Vikram didn’t blink. “I see.”

He turned to leave. As his men approached, pulling out their weapons, the father fell to his knees, begging for mercy.

“No, wait—wait,” the mother begged. “Her younger sister—Naina—is here. She’s of age. She will marry you.”

His gaze turned to the girl in the corner.

She looked up—doe-eyed, frightened, trembling.

“I don’t marry children,” he said flatly. "And your one daughter ran away from me. I have no use for another."

“She is 19,” the father said. “She’s quiet. She’s obedient. She will be a good wife.” The mother said that even she is not Vikram's choice, as she is not a beautiful one nor the kind of woman a Thakurain is.

Vikram walked closer, stopping inches before Niana; his scent of sandalwood and iron filled the room, making her stomach twist.

His shadow fell over her like a storm. Each step was deliberate and measured—commanding even the air to hold its breath.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

He studied her—her trembling hands, the rise and fall of her chest, and the tear that refused to fall.

Her dusky skin shone under the dim light, her eyes avoiding his gaze. "I will not force her," Vikram finally said, his voice softer. Her dark hair cascading down her back in waves, framing her delicate features.

She is not like Radha, but beneath her dusky skin, her dark hair, and her meek demeanor, Vikram saw a strength that intrigued him.

He reached out a hand to gently lift her chin, meeting her eyes for the first time.

Then, to everyone’s shock, he spoke to her alone.

“Do you want to marry me?”

Silence.

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

She couldn’t say yes.

But a strange flutter of intrigue stirred inside her despite herself.

She knew… a no would destroy her family.

This man will destroy everything she held dear if she refuses. Her mother's and father's eyes were fixed on her, warning her that NO was not an option.

The weight of their expectations bore down on her, suffocating her freedom to choose.

"I am not beautiful like Didi," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The man's eyes softened, and he replied gently, "You are beautiful in your own way… and I will ensure the world sees it my way."

His word made her heart skip a beat. "I am not even as educated as her," she continued, her heart pounding in her chest.

Her knees trembled, but it wasn’t just fear—something dangerous and thrilling tugged at her chest.

His next words surprised her: "I don't care; once you marry, you'll be my wife, the thakurain; other than that, nothing else matters," he assured her, taking her hand in his.

His touch was cold against her warm skin, sending a shiver down her spine. She didn't meet his eyes, scared that he would read her doubts and insecurities.

"I will marry you, then," she said, not knowing what the future held, but this person whom everyone called a beast was the first person who ever asked her consent to anything.

Her mother’s voice cut in, firm and unrelenting. “She agrees. She will marry you. She’s just… shy.”

Vikram’s jaw clenched. At Naina's mother's words, he felt a surge of anger.

“Dress her.”

Naina sat like a doll as they wrapped her in the bridal red.

Her hands chilled, eyes vacant, heart pounding.

Each fold of silk pressed against her skin, brushing warmth along her arms and chest. The heavy bangles clinked against each other, echoing the thrum of her racing heartbeat.

When Vikram returned to the mandap, he didn’t smile.

And when he tied the mangalsutra around her neck, he leaned in and whispered low, his voice like fire wrapped in velvet; the silk of the saree pressed against her skin, her hands trembling under the warmth of his glance.

“You were not meant to be mine. But now that you are… I will make sure you never run.” His lips brushed her ear as he whispered, forcing her to clench her fist tightly around her heart, a promise of possession and control.

Her breath hitched, a pulse of heat creeping along her spine.

The village hadn’t seen such a grand wedding in years.

The path from the temple to the haveli was lined with flickering diyas and marigold strings.

The beat of the dhols vibrated in the air. And at the center of it all, seated on a white mare, was Vikram Singh Rathore—35, powerful, and untouchable.

He looked every bit the groom. But no one smiled.

The bride, dressed in red and gold, was in a sedan, her eyes downcast and hands trembling. The weight of the moment hung heavy in the air, as if the entire village held its breath in anticipation of what was to come.

The villagers whispered, but inside the haveli, a different storm was brewing.

Servants came and went, but no one spoke of what happened beyond those four walls.

They said he drank with dacoits, that he slept with a different woman every night, and that he once beat a man for stepping on his land without bowing first.

Some whispered that the screams heard from his villa were not of pleasure—but punishment.

Even Niana had heard the stories too.

The rumors of bloodstained rugs and silk ropes made her pulse race—not just with fear, but with an inexplicable curiosity she dared not name.

His life was shrouded in mystery and darkness, with rumors swirling like a never-ending cyclone. She felt a thrill of fear, a whisper of something more dangerous, and strangely irresistible.

Devil’s Note 😈💋

Oh, look who’s peeking behind the silk and sandalwood…

You’ve just met Vikram Singh—the man whose silence could terrify a room and whose gaze could make hearts melt 🔥. And Naina… sweet, quiet Naina… she doesn’t yet know how dangerously intoxicating life can get when the beast decides she’s his.

But let me ask you…
💭 Did your heart skip a beat when he first looked at her?
💭 Are you Team “Naina will survive the storm” or Team “Vikram is too dangerous to resist”?
💭 Do you think he’s really the beast everyone whispers about… or are the rumors just a tease? 😏
💭 And what about Naina—can she handle the heat, or is she already dancing too close to fire?

Desires are simmering, secrets are whispering, and by the next chapter… well, your thoughts might get a little naughty 💋🔥.

So, brave readers… are you ready to find out what the beast will do next?

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