Bound in Gold

Bound in Gold
Siara's Pov

Pain pulsed through my arm, blood still seeping through my wound, but before I could steady myself—

Ekansh moved.

And then—

I was in his arms.

Effortless.

Like I weighed nothing.

A sharp breath escaped me as my body stiffened. He carried me like I was something precious, unbreakable, his. His arms caged me in a warmth that infuriated me.

I should have fought him off. Should have clawed my way out of his hold, but—

It was futile.

Not because Ekansh always won.

But because my body wasn’t capable of fighting back right now.

And that? That was the most infuriating part.

His grip on me didn’t waver as he moved, his body steady, strong. He wasn’t even bothered by my weight, his arms holding me as if carrying me was the most natural thing in the world.

I hated it.

I hated him.

Ekansh carried me through the villa, and for the first time, I got a proper look at it.

Everything screamed power. The marble floors gleamed under the golden chandeliers, intricate carvings detailed the high ceilings, and the massive windows overlooked an endless view of the ocean.

It was suffocating.

A golden cage.

And Ekansh was the king of this gilded prison.

"Call the doctor," he ordered one of his guards, his voice sharp, commanding.

The man nodded and stepped away immediately.

I stayed silent, my gaze flickering around. And then—

I noticed it.

The decorations.

My breath caught.

The entire living area was adorned with red and gold embellishments. White jasmine flowers lined the walls, their sickly-sweet fragrance lingering in the air. The furniture had been rearranged, making space for something far more horrifying.

A mandap.

Almost-completed.

A shiver ran down my spine.

This wasn’t—

No.

No. No.

Before I could process it, two servants approached, bowing their heads.

"Sir, apologies for the disturbance," one of them said. "But could you please take a look at the jewellery and lehengas?"

My body froze.

Behind them, more servants approached, holding up several extravagant lehengas—each one a masterpiece of embroidery, silk, and goldwork.

Beside them, another tray gleamed with exquisite jewellery sets.

Kundan. Polki. Diamonds.

Fit for a bride.

I felt like I was being drowned in a nightmare.

Ekansh nodded. "Bring them forward."

No.

No, no, no.

I turned to him, my voice laced with forced sarcasm. "Oh my God. Please don’t tell me you're going through an identity crisis and planning to dress up as a bride yourself?"

Ekansh didn’t even blink.

He simply studied the lehengas.

I stared at him, my chest tightening.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," I said, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Who’s getting married?"

Ekansh didn’t answer.

But he didn’t need to.

The realization slammed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs.

No.

No, no, no.

I was trapped in a goddamn movie.

A terrible, twisted, insane movie where the villain married his hostage.

I scoffed. "Let me guess. You’ve been binge-watching dramatic soap operas and thought, Oh, let me give my own spin to it! Seriously, Ekansh? Do you also have a scriptwriter hiding somewhere?"

Ekansh didn’t even look at me.

Instead, he pointed at a deep crimson lehenga with intricate gold embroidery.

"This one," he said simply.

I clenched my jaw. "Ekansh. What the hell is this?"

He turned to me, his expression unreadable.

"You can’t do this," I snapped. "This is insane."

He didn’t respond. Instead, he carried me up the grand staircase, his grip still unwavering.

My blood burned.

"Put me down!" I struggled, but my body was weak.

Ekansh walked into a new room. Not the previous one, of course—not after I’d shattered the balcony doors and ruined his closet.

This room was different.

Warmer. More intimate.

And then—he set me down.

Gently.

Like I was something fragile.

And that? That pissed me off even more.

"Ekansh," I gritted out, shoving his hands away as he reached for my injured arm. "Have you completely lost your damn mind?"

His eyes held amusement. "Is that even a question anymore?"

"This is insane!" I hissed. "If not for me, at least think about your own family! Ambika Aunty! Kavya! What will they—"

Ekansh cut me off with a single, dark sentence.

"If I cared about their opinions, Siara, you wouldn’t be here in my arms."

I froze.

His voice held no hesitation. No regret.

Only cold certainty.

My heart pounded. "No," I said firmly. "I refuse."

Ekansh sighed, pulling out his phone. "You say that as if you have a choice."

He turned the screen toward me.

I stopped breathing.

Live footage.

My family.

Safe. Unharmed.

But under his mercy.

The message was clear.

I had no choice.

My chest tightened, anger and helplessness twisting together.

Ekansh tilted his head, his voice dangerously soft. "You despise me now," he mused. "I can see it in your eyes."

"Despise would be too mild of a word," I spat, my nails digging into my palms.

He smirked. "Good. Hate burns brighter than indifference, Siara. And I’d rather have your hate than your silence."

My stomach twisted.

This man—

He wasn’t just obsessed.

He was consumed.

Ekansh leaned in, his voice a dark whisper against my ear. "You can fight me, Siara. You can curse me. You can hate me with every inch of your soul. But you will walk down that aisle, wearing the lehenga I chose, adorned in the jewels I own."

His fingers brushed against my jaw, tilting my face up. "And when they ask who you belong to, you will say my name."

My breath caught.

My vision blurred with rage.

He was suffocating.

Overpowering.

And yet—

His touch burned.

A cruel, twisted, intoxicating burn.

My heart pounded against my ribs as I glared at him, my voice steady but shaking with venom. "You might force me into a wedding, Ekansh. But you
will never have me."

Ekansh's lips curled, his dark eyes gleaming with something undecipherable.

He traced a single finger down my cheek, his touch featherlight yet possessive.

"We’ll see about that," he murmured.