Page 86 of Knot Their Arrangement

More blood drips, falling onto the pristine fabric of my saree. I lift both hands to my nose, trying desperately to stem the flow.

"Crying isn't going to get you out of this, Kamari," Maharaja snaps, turning to look at me.

Our eyes meet, and for a fraction of a second, I see something unexpected flicker across his face – concern? Fear? It's gone before I can process it, replaced by something far more immediate.

A loud horn blares through the night.

"*DAAYAN!*" The Hindi word for 'right' tears from my throat as headlights flood the car's interior.

But it's too late.

The impact hits the driver's side with devastating force, and suddenly we're airborne. The car lifts off the ground in a graceful spiral that seems to defy physics, time stretching like warm honey as we rotate through the rain-soaked night.

Everything slows to a crystalline clarity.

Glass shards catch the light as they explode inward, each piece its own constellation suspended in the air around us. The ringing in my ears becomes a single, pure note – like the singing bowls my grandmother used during meditation.

And then the memories begin.

They start with my earliest recollection: cradled in my grandmother's arms, her face beaming with pride as she presents me to the family. But even in this moment of joy, violence lurks at the edges. My mother's sobs echo from another room as my father rages about her failure to produce a son.

The scenes cascade faster now, yet each one burns itself into my consciousness with perfect clarity.

Age three: Hiding under my bed as my father's business associates leer at my mother, making comments about how she's still young enough to try again for a proper heir.

Age five: My first dance recital. The joy of movement freedom shattered by my father's criticism – "She moves too boldly for an Omega. We must break this willfulness early."

Age seven: Watching silently as my cousin is married off at twelve, her eyes dead and empty as she's led away by a man four times her age. The adults call it tradition. I call it the day I learned what my future held.

Age ten: My firstpropersaree, wrapped so tightly I could barely breathe. "Beauty requires sacrifice," my aunts crooned as they pinned and tucked. But their eyes held warnings rather than pride.

Age thirteen: The first time I truly understood what being an Omega meant in our world. Watching through a crack in the door as my father negotiated marriage contracts for me like he was selling prize cattle.

Age fifteen: The night I caught my mother swallowing pills in her bathroom, tears streaming down her face as she prayed for the strength to endure another day. I never told anyone, but I started planning my escape that night.

Age seventeen: Standing before my mirror in another wedding saree, practicing the submissive smile expected of me while my soul screamed for freedom.

The memories blur together – a thousand little deaths of spirit, a million moments where joy was crushed under the weight of expectation. Years of watching the light fade from my own eyes, of seeing my reflection grow dimmer with each passing season.

Until finally, I see myself as I am now: nineteen, wrapped in a saree stained with blood and rain, spinning through the air in a car with a man who sees me as property to be broken.

But it's not fear I see in this final reflection.

It's regret.

Not regret for running away – never that. But regret for all the years I spent trying to be what they wanted. For every moment I dimmed my own light to make others comfortable. For every time I swallowed my words to keep the peace.

For believing, even for a moment, that I deserved any of it.

The realization hits harder than the car that struck us. All these years, I've been running from them, but in many ways, I've also been running from myself. From the truth that my worth isn't determined by their measurements, that my value doesn't decrease because they fail to see it.

Glass continues to spiral around us like diamonds catching starlight. The car's rotation seems endless, each fraction of a second stretching into infinity. In this suspended moment between impact and consequence, I see my life with perfect clarity.

Every choice that led me here.

Every moment of submission and rebellion.

Every spark of joy they tried to extinguish, every dream they attempted to smother.

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