Had the sick bastard really won? Shoban was sure women experienced all sorts of emotions when they sat on their marital bed. She had never imagined abject hatred being one of them. Hot-burning hatred for Bram, for her father, for all the men in the world who believed deep in their souls that what they wanted took precedence over everything.

The feelings inside her made an ugly contrast with the curtain of marigolds hanging from the canopy over the bed. Rose petals covered the sheets beneath.

The maniacal laughter trapped inside her churned with the bile that pooled in her belly. Laughter was the only way she could let air in and out. If she held it in, it started to singe her lungs.

Someone had threaded together the endless flower garlands. Hours and hours spent decorating the bed on which they wanted her to die, quietly, leaving behind someone they could claim and control.

Mrs. Brahmanand Raje . . .

She ran to the bathroom and threw up.

I will not cry.

She had not cried, not since Bram decided he would have her whether or not she wanted him.

She had not cried, not since Aijaz Uncle had broken down in sobs and begged her not to ruin their lives. His, Mahira’s, Omar’s. Another man who cared nothing for her.

Shoban had fought her terror and called Omar, but she hadn’t been able to reach him. So she’d called his father. A little too late, because her father had gotten to Aijaz before her, with a warrant for Omar’s arrest. Omar had helped his father with managing their estates and Shoban’s father had been able to frame a case for embezzlement of millions. With her father’s political connections, Omar had no chance.

If Shoban breathed a word to Bram’s family, her father had threatened to have Omar thrown in jail. Shoban didn’t know how to call his bluff.

“I will have no choice but to kill myself if you shame our families this way.” Aijaz Uncle was not a man given to drama, so his words had been a nail in her coffin.

Shobi had imagined it with relish. All these fathers hanging by nooses. Dead. She could build a life on that. She wasn’t so sure about Omar.

Oh, Omar. She missed him so much she could barely breathe around it. Her absolute belief that she would see him again had kept her standing through that sham of a wedding ceremony. This wasn’t a marriage. Who cared how many rituals they put her through, how many pieces of paper they made her sign. Once she figured out how to keep Omar safe, she was going to burn those pieces of paper.