A Vow Not Chosen: Ch. I.: The Union
Plot: Forced into marriage after a scandal, You are wed to the distant Ram Doobay. Will you find love in a bond neither of you chose?
Pairing: Ram Doobay x y/n
Note: Other characters will be included throughout the chapters. I apologise for this very long chapter.
A/N: I couldn’t wait to post this. Hope you’ll enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
The temple courtyard smelled of rain-soaked earth, though the sky had not opened all day. Ram Doobay knelt before the central shrine, his palms pressed together, his mind steady — or at least, attempting to be.
The soft shuffle of cloth announced another presence behind him.
Ram didn’t turn.
There was only one man who moved with that serene certainty.
“Mr. Vaish,” Ram greeted quietly.
Ratan stepped beside him, folding gracefully to sit at his level. The elder man’s gaze drifted over the flickering oil lamps, seeing more in their flames than simple light.
“You pray louder in silence than most men do with their voices,” Ratan murmured.
Ram’s jaw tightened, though he kept his eyes forward.
“…A restless mind prays loudly, Guruji.”
Ratan hummed. “Restlessness is not always the enemy. Sometimes it is the herald.”
A beat of stillness.
Ram lowered his gaze.
He had not spoken of Deviya.
He had not confessed a single detail.
But Ratan always knew.
“You carry the weight of a name that does not belong to you,” Ratan said, calm as the stone beneath them.
Ram inhaled sharply.
So he did know.
Ratan continued, his voice unreadable. “You should have stepped back when you first felt the pull. Attachment makes fools of even the wisest men.”
Ram’s fingers curled against his knees.
“It was not attachment,” he said quietly.
“It was—”
“A mistake,” Ratan finished gently. “One that will ripple through more than one household.”
Ram finally turned to him.
“Has anyone spoken of it?”
Ratan’s eyes softened, but his tone did not.
“No. There are secrets still protected. But the air has changed around you, Ram.”
He looked toward the temple entrance, as though listening to something Ram could not hear.
“Those in power have begun asking questions—not about Deviya, but about you. Something is moving, unseen.”
Ram frowned. “What do they think I have done?”
“That,” Ratan said, “is the troubling part.”
He turned back to Ram.
“They do not yet know. But they are preparing to assign you a sin that is not yours.”
Ram felt the shift in his chest — a cold, sinking pressure.
“Mr. Vaish..what do you mean?”
Ratan studied him, expression grave.
“A rumor has woken in the city tonight,” he said softly. “Not of Deviya. Not of General De Clare. A different scandal. One unrelated to us.”
Ram blinked.
“Then why am I being pulled into it?”
Ratan’s voice lowered.
“Because the people whisper one thing with absolute certainty— When a storm breaks, they will choose you to calm it.”
Ram stared at him.
The lamps flickered violently as a wind pushed through the courtyard.
Ratan rose first, his robes whispering across the stone.
“Prepare yourself, Ram Doobay,” the guide murmured.
“Something has happened in the Hill’s house tonight. And before dawn…”
He paused at the doorway, eyes shadowed.
“…they will come for you.”
Ram felt the words settle like iron.
Without knowing what the scandal was…
Without knowing who was involved…
His fate was already marching toward him.
The household had never been so quiet.
Not the soft nighttime you quiet loved — the quiet before lamps were lit, before morning prayers.
This quiet felt heavy, suffocating, like a storm pressing against the windows.
You sat on the cushioned bench near the lattice door, knees drawn close, your sister Mira beside you. Three maids knelt just behind you, exchanging anxious glances as muffled voices rose and fell from the inner chamber.
The men of the family were meeting.
Your father.
Your uncle.
Two senior advisors.
And every word they spoke seemed to echo through the carved wood panels.
Mira squeezed your hand.
“I’m sure it isn’t as bad as you think,” she whispered.
You didn’t answer.
The truth sat bitter and metallic in your throat.
You had only wanted one night of freedom. One harmless escape.
But the moment you returned home — the guard’s behavior, the shouting, the servants who had seen — everything had spiraled into a storm of whispers.
“—you understand,” your uncle’s voice barked suddenly from behind the door, “that her reputation is ruined if we do nothing!”
You flinched.
Mira looked away.
A softer voice followed — your father’s.
“I know. God help me, I know.”
A pause.
A long exhale.
The scrape of a chair.
“Her character will be questioned,” your uncle pressed. “Our alliances jeopardized. If this story spreads—”
“It already has,” one advisor cut in, voice low. “By morning the entire cantonment will be humming with it.”
One of the maids quietly buried her face in her hands.
You stared at the wooden door until the patterns in the carving blurred.
You had tried to explain what happened.
That nothing had truly occurred.
That you had not planned anything improper.
But in this world, appearance was as damning as truth.
Your father spoke again, softer than before:
“…What choice do we have?”
His voice cracked, barely audible through the lattice.
“A wedding is the only way to silence this.”
Mira sucked in a breath.
The maids froze.
Your heart dropped into your stomach.
Your uncle didn’t hesitate.
“Yes. The quickest solution. Before the general hears of this. Before certain alliances fall apart.”
There was a rustle of papers, a short exchange you couldn’t make out, and then—
“Ram Doobay,” one advisor said.
Your breath caught.
Your father hesitated. “A Brahmin? This can never happen. The marriage would not be legitimate.”
“He won’t have a choice,” your uncle replied. “Neither does she.”
The words hit you like a blow.
Your fingers went numb.
Mira grabbed your arm.
The advisors continued:
“Ram is respected, high-born. He will steady the story. The locals trust him. If he marries her quickly, the scandal becomes…misunderstanding. Nothing more.”
“And Deviya Sharma’s situation,” another man murmured, “will be conveniently overshadowed.”
“We must establish the terms of this marriage before we present it to the Doobay household. Our daughter may be entering their home, but we cannot send her stripped of protection.”
“Protection?” one advisor countered. “Or leverage?”
Your father raised a hand. “We are not bartering her like grain in the bazaar. She will have dignity.”
But even through the screen, you heard the tremor in his voice.
Your uncle leaned forward. “Dignity, yes. But we must also speak of rights. If she is to marry Ram Doobay, there must be clarity. Their family is rooted in old traditions — some progressive, some restrictive. We need her position secured.”
One advisor cleared his throat. “Firstly, a written agreement: Y/N retains the right to correspondence with her own family.”
“Secondly,” another added, “she is not to be relocated without notice. She stays in the capital unless she chooses otherwise.”
“Thirdly,” your uncle said, voice steel, “her dowry will be symbolic. We will not give them wealth for a marriage we did not seek.”
Mira squeezed your hand.
Your father exhaled. “Symbolic dowry…freedom of correspondence…residence rights.” He rubbed his forehead. “Will Ram accept these?”
Your uncle answered bluntly. “He will. He is in no position to refuse.”
“They will not force him,” your father said sharply.
“No,” the uncle replied, “but honor will. And political pressure. He carries his family’s name like armor. If he rejects our proposal, it will seem as though he rejects responsibility. They will corner him with righteousness.”
A silence fell. You felt your stomach twist.
They were discussing Ram Doobay as though he were a piece in a strategy game.
Maybe he was.
And you were, too.
Your father finally spoke. “Now…the wedding itself.”
The words thickened the air.
“It must happen soon,” one advisor said.
“Before sunrise, rumors will be everywhere.”
“Within two weeks,” your uncle suggested.
“one week,” another cut in.
“No,” your father whispered. “three days.”
Mira gasped quietly.
Three days.
Your father continued, voice cold with resignation. “If the wedding is held then, the talk ceases immediately. There will be no time for stories to grow. No time for the general to involve himself. No time for the Doobay household to reconsider.”
“And no time for her to run,” your uncle added.
Your breath hitched.
Mira reached for your hand, but it was limp, bloodless.
Your father’s voice softened. “Do not speak that way. She would not run.”
But the men all fell silent in a way that meant they weren’t sure.
Your uncle leaned back. “We cannot conduct the wedding here. The cantonment is already humming with rumors. Every servant, every officer will be watching.”
An advisor agreed.
“It must be moved. Far. Away from prying eyes.” Another spoke, voice clipped and anxious. “Calcutta.”
You froze.
Mira’s fingers found your wrist.
Your father looked up sharply. “Calcutta?”
“Yes,” your uncle said, “Distance kills gossip. And in Calcutta, the British officials will ensure the marriage is recorded properly — stamped, witnessed, and unquestionable.”
„And what if he is to refuse these conditions?”
“His mentor will not allow it,” an advisor replied. “Ratan is a man who values propriety. He will understand that the ceremony must appear…unimpeachable.”
Your uncle leaned back, folding his arms. “And no one questions marriages conducted in Calcutta. Especially those involving influential families.”
The men murmured agreement.
You felt the words hit you like falling stones. Cold tears fall from your eyes.
Calcutta.
Far from home.
Far from everything you knew.
Your father sighed, long and exhausted.
Mira pressed her forehead against your shoulder, trembling.
They all spoke of your future as if you were a list of tasks.
A legal clause.
A political inconvenience.
Your father’s voice, softer than all the rest, whispered the final blow: “We depart before dawn,” your father said. “We travel with minimal escort to avoid attention. She will arrive in Calcutta by evening. The ceremony will take place after nightfall.”
The room fell silent.
The decision was made.
You felt the world closing in around you — the carved walls, the perfumed air, your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.
A marriage.
To a man you barely knew.
To cover a scandal that wasn’t even fully yours.
Your father’s voice broke through the quiet one last time.
“May the great God forgive us.”
You lowered your head into your hands, aware that your life had just been chosen without you.
On the other side of the lattice, a single lamp guttered — its flame shrinking, fighting, then going out. And you knew: that extinguished flame was the last of your choices.
Calcutta, 1872
The monsoon clouds hung low over Calcutta that morning, a heavy grey pressing against the horizon as if the sky itself wished to warn you. You sat before the polished brass mirror in the guest quarters of the Government House, hands clasped tightly in your lap, the knuckles visible. Someone had arranged your hair in a soft chignon, pinned with mother-of-pearl; someone had laid out a dupatta that has been adjusted to be appropriate for an Englishwoman meeting a prospective husband. Someone had done everything for you — except give you back your choice.
Your breath caught as you stood in the red lehenga, the skirt a disciplined flame at your feet, the fitted bodice holding you between English restraint and something wilder stirring beneath the silk.
The color felt daring on your skin—too alive, too intimate— yet it awakened a brightness in you you had never worn before.
A tentative knock sounded.
Your pulse jumped. Only one person knocked like that — firm, but with a ghost of hesitation.
“Come in,” you managed.
Your father entered, and the maids left the room. He still wore his travelling coat despite the humidity, as though he had no time to settle into this country’s softness. His expression was carved in stone. The same expression he had worn when he put you on the ship one week ago. The same expression he had not quite lost since the night everything collapsed.
The last maid to leave closed the door behind her. For a long moment, he simply looked at you.
“You are almost ready,” he said. Not an observation — a requirement.
You swallowed. “As ready as I can be.”
He stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back. “You will meet Ram Doobay within the hour. His family has shown us every courtesy. You will return it by behaving with composure.”
“I will.”
Your voice was steady, but only because you forced it to be.
He studied your posture, your emotionless face, the tremor you could not hide in your fingers. “Do not look so tragic, child. It is a marriage, not an execution.”
“Is it so very different?” you regretted the words immediately.
His jaw tightened. “Do not begin.”
Silence settled like dust.
Your father exhaled, as though wrestling with himself. “Y/N… this is necessary. We are not here by whim. You know that.”
“I know what you told me,” you whispered. Then, more quietly: “And what you refused to believe.”
Something bitter flickered in his eyes. Shame, or anger, or the tiredness of a man who had lived too long by reputation.
“That matter,” he said sharply, “is no longer to be spoken of.”
“But it happened. And it wasn’t—”
He cut you off. “Enough.”
The word landed like a slap.
“You have brought enough shame to our family’s name,” he said, voice low but cutting. “This—” he gestured around you, Bengal, the arranged marriage, the ocean between you and home— “is the way you will repair it.”
Your breath hitched, but you forced your chin up. “I am doing my duty.”
“And you will continue to.” His tone softened a fraction. “This union… it grants us distance from the rumors. A fresh start for you. A new circle who knows nothing of servants… guards… or foolish midnight escapades.”
You flinched. “Father—”
“You will not argue with me on this,” he said. “You were compromised. We both know it.”
Your throat burned. “I told you he—”
“He is dismissed and gone,” he said coldly. “You should be grateful matters did not escalate further.”
“They already escalated,” you whispered. “For me.”
A pause.
He did not apologize. He never did.
But he looked away, which was something.
Finally, he said, “Ram Doobay is an honorable man, respected, learned. His guidance is sought by princesses and statesmen alike. If he agrees to take you as his wife, your future is secure.”
“And my past is hidden,” you murmured.
“Yes.”
The word landed with a dull finality.
Your father straightened the cuffs of his coat. “Compose yourself. I will send for you when it is time.”
He turned toward the door.
“Father?” you called softly.
He paused.
“Do you… do you think I will be happy?”
He inhaled, slow and tired.
“Your happiness,” he said without facing you, “is a luxury you can reclaim only after you have redeemed the family’s honor.”
Then he left.
The door clicked shut.
You sat perfectly still for several seconds — then drew in a long breath, lifted your chin, and looked at your own reflection. A stranger stared back. But a determined one.
Whatever awaited you — Ram Doobay, Bengal, the weight of choices not your own — you would face it.
And so you moved— an Englishwoman in a quiet blaze of red,
half empire, half horizon,
carrying in your steps the trembling thrill of feeling suddenly changed.
Because you no longer had any other choice.
Calcutta’s evening lamps burned low, turning the colonial marble hall into a warm, honey–gold glow. Outside, the humid air smelled of jasmine and monsoon-soaked earth. Inside, two worlds had been forced to meet:
The inner chamber smelled of sandalwood and damp silk — a scent you would later come to hate, because it would always remind you of this moment.
A Hindu mandap stood beneath the high English arches — silk draped over carved pillars, marigold strings looping from beam to beam like falling suns. Next to it, in proper British fashion, stood a desk for the signing of marriage documents, flanked by an English magistrate in stiff ceremonial coat.
It looked like a compromise built in a single frantic night.
You were led forward by two attendants. Your palms were cold despite the warmth of the hall. The murmur of men, the rustle of saris, the scent of incense — everything blurred together until you reached the mandap.
And then you saw him.
Ram Doobay.
He stood to the left of the sacred fire, dressed in cream-colored ceremonial attire trimmed with gold thread. The soft fabric wrapped around his frame with elegant precision. A thin embroidered shawl rested over one shoulder, the hue complementing the warm tones of the mandap.
His face…
Striking, pale eyes — sharp, thoughtful, and impossibly steady. His dark hair fell in loose, layered waves brushing his collarbone, the strands catching the lamplight with hints of copper. His features were refined, sculpted, almost too beautiful in their stillness. The gold nose-ring and delicate chain traced softly across his cheek, drawing the eye to the quiet intensity of his gaze.
He looked exactly as Ratan had described him — a man shaped by discipline, restraint, and a sense of duty heavy enough to bend steel.
Ram’s expression remained unreadable at first, but not unkind. A careful calm.
As you stepped closer, your eyes met.
For the first time since this began, you felt something anchor you — not safety, but recognition. As if he understood, even without speaking, that neither of you chose this.
You sat beside him on the low cushioned seat.
He shifted slightly, turning toward you.
A courtesy.
A gesture of respect.
You swallowed, gathering the fragile threads of courage still left inside you.
The priest’s chanting felt distant, the world narrowing to the inch of space between you. You exhaled shakily, your hands clenched tight in your lap.
You had no script for this.
No training.
No guidance.
Only instinct — fragile and desperate — urging you to show respect, even if everything inside you felt shattered.
Your voice barely rose above a whisper.
“…Namaste.”
It escaped you like a confession, like an apology, like a plea to be seen not as a burden, but as a person.
Ram’s lashes lifted a fraction.
Something shifted in his expression — a small, almost imperceptible softening, like your word had reached a quiet place inside him that few ever touched. He turned toward you fully, and for the first time you saw him not as a stranger, but as a man trying to steady himself through this forced union just as you were.
His reply was low, warm, sincere.
“Namaste.”
Just one word.
And yet it anchored you.
The trembling in your hands eased.
The air finally entered your lungs without scraping.
The silence between you felt less like a void and more like a space where something gentle could eventually grow.
The priest wrapped the red thread around both of your wrists, binding them lightly together. Your skin brushed his — warm, steady, grounding. Ram didn’t move away. If anything, he let the slightest, steadying pressure rest beneath the cord, silently offering support without presuming closeness.
As you rose for the first step around the sacred fire, your legs threatened to buckle.
Ram shifted — so subtly only you felt it — moving closer, letting his arm hover just near enough that you could rely on him, but not near enough to overwhelm you.
A silent promise.
If you must walk through this fire, you won’t walk alone.
And for the first time since your world collapsed, you felt something that made your chest ache with surprise.
The priest began the Sanskrit chants.
The sacred fire cracked softly in its copper urn.
The English magistrate waited stiffly to one side, quill ready.
Two cultures, two ceremonies, one night that neither bride nor groom had chosen — yet both now stood bound to.
A promise, spoken without words.
The fire crackled.
The vows were spoken.
And then it was over.
Two signatures.
Two garlands.
Two strangers made husband and wife.
The door shut softly behind the last attendant, and silence settled into the room like fog.
You stood near the window, your garland heavy around your neck. Your heartbeat thudded in your ears. You could feel the tremble in your fingers, but you hid them in the folds of your skirt.
Ram didn’t come closer.
He remained on the opposite side of the room, posture straight, hands clasped behind his back, as though he were standing before a teacher or a deity—never a wife.
He seemed to be choosing silence first, as though words required careful weighing.
His cream-colored attire glowed faintly in the lamplight, sharp against the shadows.
Finally, he spoke in English.
“You are frightened.”
You stiffened—caught, exposed.
Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of your skirt.
“I…”
You swallowed.
“I’m not accustomed to… all of this.”
Ram lifted his gaze, and his pale eyes met yours for a brief, startling second—sharp, perceptive, uncomfortably honest.
“No,” he agreed quietly. “No one could be.”
He stepped forward just enough that you could see him more clearly, though the distance between you remained wide. His presence seemed to fill the room without touching you.
“You are shaking,” he said softly. “Ever since the vows.”
Your breath fluttered.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
The simplicity of his answer surprised you—neither reassurance nor judgment, just truth.
A pause unfurled between you, thin and trembling.
Then Ram drew a slow breath, straightening slightly, as though preparing himself for something unpleasant but necessary.
“Before anything else,” he said quietly, “I will not lie to you.”
Your breath caught.
Ram continued, voice steady, controlled—almost too controlled.
“My heart does not desire this marriage.”
The words hit you like cold water.
You tried not to show it, but the sting bloomed deep in your chest, sharp and humiliating. You lowered your gaze quickly, hoping he didn’t see the flicker of hurt across your face.
Ram went on, not unkindly—but without softening his truth.
“I did not choose you. Just as you did not choose me.”
A pause.
Your throat tightened painfully.
“My heart does not lean toward this marriage. It does not reach for it… or for you.”
Your breath stilled.
The words didn’t strike like a slap; they settled more quietly than that—soft, sinking, devastating. A cold sting spread through you, blooming beneath your ribs.
You lowered your eyes to hide the hurt gathering there.
Ram watched you, but only briefly, as though afraid prolonged focus might make the moment more painful for you both.
“This union was chosen for us,” he said. “By duty. By circumstance. Not by desire.”
The subtle tremor in your chest grew sharper.
“I understand,” you whispered, though the words scraped your throat on the way out.
Ram’s voice dipped, quiet but firm.
“I’m only giving you truth.”
You fingers twisted harder in your skirts.
Truth hurt.
But lies would have been worse.
He continued with the same solemn restraint:
“I will not raise my voice at you. I will not touch you without purpose. I will not ask of you what you cannot give.”
Your throat tightened, too full of unshed emotion.
“You will have dignity in this house,” he added. “Even if affection is beyond me.”
Affection is beyond me.
You felt something inside your wilt, fragile as a pressed flower.
The silence that followed was long enough to bruise.
Finally, Ram took a step back—not closer, never closer.
“There is a temple in this compound,” he said quietly. “I go there after major rites. Tonight will be no different.”
You lifted your gaze, startled by the ache in those words—ritual as refuge.
But the words still settled like stones in your stomach.
He paused at the doorway, hand resting lightly against the carved wood.
“You may rest,” he said without turning.
“No harm will come to you under my roof.”
Then, softer—almost unnoticeably:
“This is the only kindness I can offer.”
And he left.
The door closed with a hush.
You stood alone in the echo of his absence, the garland heavy around your throat, your heart heavier still. You pressed a hand to your stomach, trying to steady the unsteady.
You were married.
Protected.
Safe.
And utterly unwanted.
A/N: WHAT DO WE THINK???
