Na peru Sitara Agnisetti, ee roju naku marriage adhi kuda naku treatment chesthunna India lo ne famous doctor Gowtham Santhan tho.

Doctor ki oka patient tho pella

Antha famous doctor nannu enduku chesukuntunaru ani anukuntanara, ah question ki na daggara kuda answer ledu.

Nakey telidu enduku ee marriage ki oppokunnano.

Basic ga patient ki konchem ayina thanaki em jarigindo avagahana vuntundi kani na vishyam lo ala kadhu.

Na problem ento nakey telidu.

Asalu naku deniki treatment jariguthundo, denikosam roju medicine veysukuntunnano naku telidu.

Enti ra babu asalu ala telikunda evaru veysukuntaru? Asalu teluskokunda ela undagalugathara ani meku sandheham ravachu.

Kani nenu cheppedhi nijam.

Okkasari kuda ontiriga bayataku vellaledu antey nammuthara?

Naku rekkalu unna, egire shakthi unna, sveycha leni oka panjaramlo bandhi ayina chilakanu nenu.

Athi ga premanu chupinche Amma, nanna, annaya unna. Edo teliyani velithi nannu eppudu ventaduthune vundhi.

Na samsya ento telidhu.

Asalu nenu ento nake telidu.

Naa jeevitham, telusukovalani athrutha, telusukunte em avuthundo ani bayam Madhya ugisaladuthundi.

Na life lo em jaraguthundo telusukovalantey ee katha chadaveysandi. Na katha rasina ma writer ni aadharinchadam marchipokandey. 

                                                                                                                              Itlu,

                                                                                                          Mee priyamaina Sitara.

My name is Sitara Agnisetti. Today is my wedding day, and that too, with India’s most famous doctor, Gowtham Santhan, the very man treating me.

A doctor marrying his patient?
You might wonder why such a renowned doctor would marry someone like me. Honestly, I don’t have an answer to that question myself.

I don’t even know why I agreed to this marriage.

Usually, a patient has at least some awareness of what’s happening to them. But in my case, it’s different.

I don’t even know what my illness is.
I don’t know what I’m being treated for or why I take medicine every single day.

You might be thinking, “Who would take treatment like this without even knowing? How can someone live without asking?”

But what I’m telling you is the truth.

Not once have I been allowed to step outside alone—would you believe that?

I am a parrot with wings, with the strength to fly, yet trapped in a cage without freedom.

I have parents and a brother who shower me with boundless love, but there’s also this unknown force that never leaves my side, chasing me everywhere.

I don’t know what my problem is.
In fact, I don’t even know who I truly am.

My life hangs between two extremes: the desperate urge to know the truth and the terrifying fear of what will happen once I do.

If you want to know what happens in my life, then read this story. And don’t forget to support the writer who brought my story to life.

Your's Lovingly,

Sitara
“Sitara”

She turned at the sound of Sarla’s voice, her soon-to-be mother-in-law. The woman’s smile was warm, lines crinkling around her eyes, glowing with pride as she looked at the bride-to-be.

“Ee saree ma vaadu nekosam pratyekam ga bangaram tho tayāruchesādu. Nuvvu ante vadiki antha istam,” Sarla said, her gaze flicking between Gowtham and Sitara with quiet affection.

This saree was specially woven with gold threads by my son just for you. That’s how much he loves you.

Sitara’s eyes shifted to Gowtham. His own sparkled, not just with joy but with a tenderness that made her heart stumble.

“Moohartham ki iravai nimishālu matrame vundi! Ammayini tvaraga ready chesi teesukuraandi,” the priest’s urgent voice rang out, slicing through the air and pulling her back to the moment.

Only twenty minutes left for the muhurtham! Quickly get the bride ready and bring her.

Sarla handed her the saree, her smile unwavering. Sitara bent to touch her feet.

“God will give you good health,” Sarla said softly. The blessing landed heavy in Sitara’s chest, far weightier than she expected.

She forced a faint smile and rose.

“Tvaraga ra, sarena,” her mother, Vasundhra, called out. Her eyes shone with happiness, yet behind the joy lingered something unspoken, something Sitara couldn’t quite name.

Come fast, ok.

Closing the door behind her, the saree pressed to her chest, Sitara felt the air shift. A sudden chill kissed her neck, and then the sharp glint of a blade caught the light. Cold. Merciless. Pressed against her skin.

Her breath hitched. The saree slipped from her trembling hands, pooling onto the floor like fallen sunlight.

Every hair on her body rose in alarm as a shadow loomed behind her, tall, broad, menacing.

“Natho padukuni, vaditho pelli ki ready ayipoyava?”

After sleeping with me, were you ready to marry him?

The voice. Low. Familiar. It was icy enough to freeze the blood in her veins.

His words didn’t just reach her ears. They burrowed inside her, dragging a trail of dread down her spine.

Just one night changed everything between them.

Tears burned at the edges of her eyes. His cruel words tore at her heart, humiliation clawing at the fragile edges of her resolve.

Taking a staggered breath, she whispered, “Rudra… oka balahina kshanam lo kalisam manam. Aa vishyam ni marchipo… ani aa roje cheppanu.” Her voice trembled with restraint, each word a fragile plea woven with memory.

Rudra… we met in a moment of weakness. I told you that day itself to forget about it.

But he didn’t move. Instead, he spun her around with a deliberate, bruising grip.

His face came into focus, chiseled, sharp, hauntingly familiar. His eyes were a storm. Not reckless, but waiting. Calm on the surface, yet thrumming with something dangerous.

A scar cut across his left temple, grazing his eyebrow. Not a flaw but a punctuation, an unspoken history etched into his skin.

Her hand lifted instinctively, yearning to trace it, but his grip stopped her cold.

“Sitara,” he said, his voice rough, slicing through the silence. “Stop the marriage before it’s too late.”

The way he said her name it wasn’t just a word. It was possession. A secret. A memory.

Her mind reeled. Everything about him felt too familiar. How cruel was fate, that the man who had once kidnapped her was also her best friend’s brother?

She should despise him. Expose him. But something in her hesitated. Something in her refused.

“Sitara,” he repeated, softer this time, his voice steeped in a dangerous kind of familiarity.

“Don’t call me like that!” she cried, pressing her palms over her ears.

“No way, I’m stopping it,” she spat through trembling lips, forcing her voice into steel.

“Leave me!” Sitara screamed, struggling as he dragged her toward the door. His grip tightened, unrelenting, as though he already knew she’d run the second he let go.

The next moment stole the air from her lungs.

Her eyes widened in horror as she stumbled into the hall. Her family. Gowtham’s family. Everyone.

Surrounded.

Bodyguards lined the space like vultures, guns raised, trained on the people she loved. One twitch of a finger and blood would spill across the wedding floor.

“Nanna!” she screamed, thrashing in Rudra’s hold. Her father tried to step forward, but the guards shoved him back, restraining his trembling arms.

“Amma… Sitara…” His voice cracked, fragile, and it broke something inside her. Tears blurred her vision.

Then her father’s gaze fell on Rudra. Recognition lit his eyes, followed by shock.

“Nuvvah…?”

You..?

“Avunu, nēnē,” Rudra said, smugness curling at the edge of his lips.

Yes, it’s me.

“You bastard,” Siddharth spat, fury burning through his voice. “How dare you show your fucking face after everything you did to...”

“Siddharth.”

Ragunath Agnisetti’s voice cut through, sharp, commanding. He stretched out his son’s name, raising his hand in warning.

Her father’s commanding nature and her brother’s seething anger collided inside her, twisting into a storm of confusion. A thought crawled into her mind, sharp and relentless.

Did my family know him before?

The unspoken question trembled in the air, heavy with suspicion, before Rudra’s grip wrenched her away.

 Rudra dragged her into the mandapa, where the sacred fire still burned and her family waited helplessly, amidst the shattered remains of joy. This was supposed to be the place where Gowtham and Sitara’s bond would be sealed. Instead, it had become a fear stage.

“Rudra, I’m begging you,” she cried, thrashing in his iron grip, her voice cracking under desperation. “Leave them. Leave everyone! I’ll do whatever you say… please.”

Her pleas fell into the air like broken glass, sharp and desperate, but Rudra remained unmoved. His grip tightened every time she tried to flee, while her family could only watch, their faces streaked with tears, their bodies restrained by armed men.

He dragged her before the priest, unyielding, his presence consuming the mandapa like a storm no one could stop. With a chilling calmness, he seized the flower garland meant for Gowtham.

Without hesitation, he settled himself in Gowtham’s place and tugged Sitara beside him. The crowd was frozen between disbelief and terror.

His dark eyes locked on her as he lifted another garland and, in one swift motion, lowered it around Sitara’s trembling neck.

Her cries tore through the air, ragged and desperate, until they forced a low groan from Rudra, a sound of irritation, not mercy. For a fleeting second, his grip loosened. But then, in a chilling flash, he drew out his gun.

Two deafening shots cracked through the mandapa.

Two men collapsed lifelessly to the ground. Gasps and screams erupted, but the bodyguards’ raised rifles silenced any thought of rebellion.

Sitara froze, her voice strangled in her throat, her tears halted midstream.

Rudra's dark gaze bore into her as he tilted the gun casually in his hand, like it weighed nothing. “This is our marriage day,” he said, his voice cold, steady, final. “And the more tears you shed, the more people will die.”

His warning wasn’t just words. It was a noose tightening around her heart, leaving her trapped between obedience and bloodshed.

“Are you still going to resist this marriage?” His voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and merciless.

Sitara’s entire body trembled as her wide eyes lingered on the lifeless bodies sprawled before her. Her throat tightened, words breaking out in fragments between sobs.

“I-I… I’ll m-marry y-you,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “J-Just… don’t hurt them. Don’t hurt innocents.”

His lips curved into a cruel smirk, satisfaction glinting in his dark eyes as her surrender reached his ears. The power of her broken plea settled over him like victory, feeding the storm he carried within.

Rudra's cold stare snapped to the priest. No words were needed; just that piercing glare was enough to strip the old man of breath. Trembling, the priest lowered his eyes and began the wedding chants, his voice quivering as if each syllable carried the weight of sin.

Sitara sat stiffly, her hands trembling as she performed the pooja, her movements mechanical, empty. When she dared to lift her gaze, it collided with Gowtham’s across the mandapa. His eyes, usually so steady, burned with helplessness. A single tear escaped, tracing a line down his cheek, but he quickly wiped it away, swallowing his pain in silence.

“The groom should apply sindhoor on the bride’s forehead. Please take,” the priest’s voice cracked, ceasing the unspoken exchange of glances.

Her chest tightened as every eye bore down on her. Her family’s faces were carved in anguish, their hands restrained, their voices muted by fear. She wanted to scream, to fight, to run, but her body betrayed her.

Numbly, she lowered her head, her soul shrinking into silence, waiting for him to finish what he had come to claim.

Rudra’s hand hovered over the sindoor. Then, with deliberate defiance, he nudged the small silver box aside. Gasps rippled through the mandapa as every gaze snapped to him in disbelief.

For a fleeting heartbeat, hope flickered in her chest, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t go through with it.

But the fragile spark shattered when he reached for the knife. Without hesitation, Rudra dragged the edge across his palm. Blood welled up instantly, dark and startling against his skin.

The priest stuttered, frozen mid-chant. Families exchanged horrified glances. Sitara's breath caught as her eyes widened, her stomach twisting into knots.

Rudra lifted his bleeding hand with terrifying calm, his gaze locking on hers. There was no remorse, no hesitation, only a ruthless determination that promised he wouldn’t let her slip away.

He lifted his blood-dripping hand, his gaze locked on her trembling face. Without hesitation, he smeared the crimson streak across her forehead, claiming her as his own.

Her breath caught in her throat, her body going rigid as the sticky warmth slid down her skin. A single droplet traced a line down her cheek like a tear carved in blood.

Rudra noticed. Slowly, almost tenderly, he brushed it away with his thumb. “Sorry, love,” he whispered, his voice softer than the chaos around them.

The word love detonated in Siddharth’s chest like fire. His fury broke free, and he lunged forward, every muscle straining to tear Rudra apart.

“Don’t you dare utter that word from your filthy mouth!” Siddharth roared. “You don’t deserve her, least of all her love! She isn’t your—”

The crack of a slap split the air.

“Nanna…” Sitara's voice was no more than a breath. Her eyes widened in disbelief as her father’s hand lowered from striking his son. Gasps rippled through the crowd, the moment freezing in jagged silence.

“Vadu prema kosam matladuthunnadu, Nanna... kani na chelli jeevitham ni okasari …"

He dares to speak of love, Nanna... but my sister's life, even once...

But before Siddharth could complete his words, another slap landed, harsher, final.

Her father’s jaw tightened, his teeth clenched as he hissed, “I’ll kill you if you utter anything ridiculous in front of her. Don’t you know how dangerous it will be if she remembers her past?”

The words sliced the air sharper than any blade.

Siddharth’s rage faltered, his eyes lowering, shame and defiance warring within him. His chest heaved as he whispered, “I’m sorry, Nanna…” His voice cracked, but his glare at Rudra brimmed with disdain, hatred burning like an unspoken promise.

Her mind spun, tangled in questions she couldn’t untangle.

Why had her father struck Siddharth?

Why had her brother spoken with such certainty, as though he knew the darkest parts of Rudra’s soul?

The scene in front of her blurred, too surreal to be part of her reality. Every word and action felt like pieces of a puzzle she was never handed, a truth everyone else understood but her.

Her scattered thoughts shattered the moment Rudra looped the sacred yellow thread around her neck. The knot tightened, final and merciless, sealing her fate, binding her as his wife.

A broken sob escaped Vasundhra’s throat. She clutched her chest, her body trembling as she watched her beloved daughter chained to a bond with the very man who had once ruined her.

“Evandi,” Vasundara pleaded, her voice cracking, raw with desperation. “Edo okati cheyandi… mana kuthurini kapadandi aa rakshasuni nundi!”

Do something … save our daughter from that monster!

Her husband’s jaw clenched, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He looked at her as though the weight of the world was crushing his chest.

“Na pranam pothundi ani bayam tho em cheyatledu ani anukuntunava?” he rasped, his voice hoarse, fraying at the edges. His trembling hands balled into fists. “Manam ippudu edaina chesthe… aa rakshasudu thanaki gatham gurtu cheyadaniki try chesthadu. Adhe jarigithe… thana pranam ki pramādam. Anduke em cheyalani chethakani vadila vunnanu.”

Do you think I stayed silent out of fear for my own life?

If we do anything now… that demon will try to remind her of her past. And if that happens… her life will be in danger. That’s why, helplessly, I chose to stay silent.

His gaze, burning and broken, shifted to Rudra, trying to scorch him with a fury words couldn’t contain.

“Na kuthuri pranam mukhyam,” he whispered fiercely. “Sitara ni vadi nundi ela kaapadukovalo… naku bāga telusu.”

My daughter’s life is important.

I know very well how to protect Sitara from him.

Meanwhile, under the crushing weight of everyone’s gaze, the bride and groom rose to their feet. Step by step, they began circling the sacred fire, the agni crackling as though bearing witness to a sin disguised as ritual.

With each round, Rudra’s voice cut through the silence of his inner storm, steady and deliberate, as he made his vows. Promises that twisted tradition into chains.

I vow to change myself, if you wish it, because you are mine, Sitara, and only yours I’ll ever be.

The words burned into the air, promises painted with obsession rather than devotion.

On the other side, Sitara moved mechanically, her feet dragging forward, her soul retreating backward. She was a puppet forced to play her part. Her mind screamed, but her lips stayed sealed, her body bound by fear.

Until the final round.

Her gaze hardened, her jaw clenched, and in that silent vow spoken only to herself, she swore if fate had bound her to this monster, then she would make Rudraayan Allur's life a living hell.