The air in the grand ballroom of the Oberoi Grand was thick with the scent of jasmine and ambition. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto polished marble floors, reflecting the hushed murmurs of Mumbai’s elite. Aadhya Sharma stood by the sprawling buffet, a flute of champagne untouched in her hand, observing the scene with a detached professionalism that belied her twenty-eight years. She was dressed in a bespoke emerald green gown, its clean lines and minimalist design a stark contrast to the opulent surroundings and the flamboyant saris of the women around her. This wasn't a party; it was a strategic maneuver, and Aadhya was its most valuable piece.

“Aadhya, my dear, you look radiant.”

The voice, smooth as aged whiskey, belonged to Devraj Sharma, her father. He was a man who commanded attention without demanding it, his silver hair impeccably styled, his eyes sharp and calculating even as he offered a paternal smile. Devraj was the undisputed titan of Sharma Industries, a conglomerate that spanned from tech to textiles, its roots dug deep into the very fabric of India’s economy. He placed a hand on her shoulder, a gesture that was more possessive than affectionate.

“Thank you, Papa,” Aadhya replied, her voice calm, betraying none of the weariness that gnawed at her. She had spent the last three months immersed in the intricate details of the biggest deal of her career: the merger of Sharma Industries with the Malhotra Group. It was a multi-billion dollar behemoth, promising to create an unparalleled powerhouse, but it came with a personal cost.

“The media is buzzing,” Devraj continued, his gaze sweeping over the room, taking in the flashing cameras and the eager journalists. “This alliance will change the landscape of Indian business. And you, my daughter, are at its very heart.”

Aadhya offered a polite, practiced smile. She knew her role. She was not just the Head of Mergers and Acquisitions; she was the bridge, the living embodiment of the deal. Her marriage to Veer Malhotra, the eldest son of the Malhotra Group, was the final, non-negotiable clause.

She had met Veer only a handful of times. He was handsome, in a rugged, almost intimidating way, with eyes that seemed to hold a perpetual challenge. He was the heir to a sprawling empire that, while publicly diversified into logistics and infrastructure, was whispered to have far darker, more illicit foundations. The Malhotra Group was a name synonymous with power, but also with a certain shadowy reputation that Devraj Sharma, for all his legitimate might, seemed eager to embrace.

“Have you spoken to Veer?” Devraj asked, a subtle probe in his tone.

“Briefly. He’s with his family,” Aadhya said, nodding towards a cordoned-off section where the Malhotra clan held court. Vikram Malhotra, the patriarch, was a formidable presence, his face etched with years of hard-won battles. Beside him stood Shalini, his elegant but seemingly subdued wife, and then Veer, surrounded by a coterie of their associates.

Aadhya felt a familiar tightening in her chest. This wasn’t a love match, nor was it ever intended to be. Her life had been meticulously planned since childhood, every step guided towards securing the Sharma legacy. She had excelled in academics, graduated top of her class from an Ivy League business school, and climbed the corporate ladder with ruthless efficiency. She was a CEO in waiting, a formidable force in her own right. Yet, when it came to her personal life, she was a pawn on her father’s chessboard.

“Good. Go mingle. Show them the future Mrs. Malhotra,” Devraj instructed, giving her shoulder a final squeeze before moving off to greet a rival industrialist.

Aadhya took a deep breath, the jasmine suddenly cloying. She straightened her posture, a subtle shift that announced her readiness to engage. She moved through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries, her mind already cataloging faces, assessing alliances, and mentally preparing for the questions she knew would come.

“Aadhya! There you are!”

A voice, bright and a little too loud, cut through the din. It was Karan, her younger brother, weaving through the crowd with an easy charm that Aadhya often envied. He was twenty-four, still finding his footing, and thankfully, not yet burdened by the crushing weight of their father’s expectations.

“Karan, you’re late,” Aadhya chided softly, a rare, genuine smile touching her lips.

“Traffic was a nightmare. And honestly, I needed a moment to mentally prepare for this circus,” he whispered, leaning closer. “So, the big announcement. How are you feeling, really?”

Aadhya’s smile faltered. “It’s a strategic alliance, Karan. You know how Papa operates.”

“It’s your life, Aadhya. Not just a balance sheet entry,” he countered, his brow furrowing. “Veer Malhotra. He’s… intense. And the rumors about his family…”

“Rumors are just that. Our legal team has vetted everything,” Aadhya cut him off, a practiced response. She didn't want to discuss the whispers of illegal arms deals, protection rackets, and political assassinations that clung to the Malhotra name like a persistent shadow. Her father had assured her it was all "old news," "exaggerated tales." She chose to believe him, or rather, she chose to act as if she believed him.

“Still, Aadhya, you deserve more than a business deal in a wedding dress,” Karan insisted, his eyes filled with genuine concern.

“What I deserve is irrelevant,” Aadhya said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “What matters is the future of Sharma Industries. This merger secures it for generations.”

Before Karan could argue further, Devraj reappeared, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Aadhya, Veer is coming over. And the press is ready.”

A flash of cameras erupted as Veer Malhotra approached, his father, Vikram, a silent, imposing figure beside him. Veer was taller than Aadhya remembered, with broad shoulders that strained the fabric of his tailored suit. His dark hair was slicked back, and his eyes, dark and intense, met hers for a fleeting moment before shifting to Devraj. There was a flicker of something in them – impatience? Resignation? Aadhya couldn't tell.

“Devraj ji, congratulations,” Vikram Malhotra’s voice was deep, gravelly, a sound that seemed to rumble from the very earth. “Our families are now one.”

“Indeed, Vikram ji. A new era begins,” Devraj replied, his smile wide and genuine.

Then came the moment. Devraj placed Aadhya’s hand in Veer’s. His touch was firm, almost possessive, and surprisingly warm. A shiver ran down Aadhya’s spine, not of excitement, but of a strange, unsettling premonition.

“Aadhya,” Veer said, his voice a low growl, his gaze finally settling on her. “It’s good to finally meet you properly.”

“You too, Veer,” Aadhya replied, her voice steady, her hand remaining in his for the cameras. She felt the weight of expectations, the flash of the lights, the hushed excitement of the crowd. This was it. Her life, meticulously charted, was now irrevocably bound to a man she barely knew, a family shrouded in mystery, and a deal that promised unprecedented power. She was marrying a name, a legacy, a strategic alliance. She was marrying the Malhotra Group. And in that moment, Aadhya Sharma felt a profound, chilling sense of inevitability.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of wedding preparations. Designers, caterers, event planners, and security personnel swarmed the Sharma mansion. Aadhya, despite her executive role, found herself relegated to the traditional role of the bride, attending fittings, tasting menus, and smiling for endless photo opportunities. Every detail was meticulously orchestrated by her mother, Radhika Sharma, a woman who navigated the social circles with effortless grace, her concern for Aadhya often masked by her devotion to appearances.

“The lehenga is exquisite, darling,” Radhika cooed, adjusting the heavy embroidery on Aadhya’s bridal outfit. “It’s a Sabyasachi original. Veer will be captivated.”

Aadhya looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The deep maroon fabric, encrusted with gold Zari work and intricate beadwork, felt like a cage. It was beautiful, undeniably, but it wasn’t her. She preferred tailored suits and crisp shirts, the uniform of the boardroom, not the elaborate costume of a traditional bride.

“It’s heavy,” Aadhya murmured, flexing her fingers.

“It’s meant to be. It’s a statement,” Radhika replied, her tone firm. “This wedding isn’t just about you and Veer, Aadhya. It’s about two dynasties uniting. Every detail must scream power and prestige.”

Aadhya sighed, a silent concession. She knew. She always knew. Her life had been a series of carefully constructed statements.

Her interactions with Veer remained formal, polite, and brief. They had a few pre-wedding dinners, always chaperoned, always with an agenda. He spoke little, observing more than participating, his dark eyes often fixed on her with an unreadable intensity. He was a man of few words, but his presence was undeniable, a quiet force that seemed to absorb all the light in the room.

One evening, during a particularly stifling pre-wedding ritual, Aadhya found herself alone with Veer for a few minutes. The air was thick with incense and the drone of ancient chants. She felt a strange urge to break the silence, to find some common ground beyond the business deal.

“So,” she began, adjusting the heavy bangles on her wrist. “Are you… excited about the merger?”

Veer turned his head slowly, his gaze piercing. “Excited isn’t the word I’d use. Necessary, perhaps. Profitable, certainly.”

Aadhya felt a flicker of annoyance. “And the marriage?”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Another necessary component. Are you?”

“I understand its importance,” Aadhya replied, her voice cool. “For both our families.”

“Indeed,” he said, then looked away, his gaze drifting towards the ornate ceiling. “My father has high expectations.”

“So does mine,” Aadhya countered, a hint of steel in her voice. “I assure you, I am fully prepared to meet them.”

Veer’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “I don’t doubt it, Aadhya Sharma. You strike me as a woman who is always prepared.”

The conversation ended there, interrupted by the re-entry of their families. Aadhya was left with a strange mix of relief and frustration. He was exactly as she expected – cold, pragmatic, and entirely focused on the transaction. There was no pretense of romance, no attempt at connection. It was a business deal, through and through. And Aadhya, the consummate professional, was ready to close it.

Meanwhile, in a stark contrast to the opulent preparations, Rohan Malhotra lived a life far removed from the gilded cage of his family’s empire. He was in a quiet coastal town, working as a freelance photographer, his days filled with the rhythmic crash of waves and the pursuit of light and shadow. He had left the Malhotra mansion five years ago, severing ties with his father, Vikram, and the dark underbelly of their business. He wanted no part of the violence, the manipulation, the constant threat that came with the Malhotra name.

His small apartment was minimalist, filled with camera equipment, books, and the smell of the sea. He found solace in anonymity, in the simple act of capturing beauty through his lens. He rarely spoke to his family, only exchanging terse calls with his mother, Shalini, who always sounded strained and anxious.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, Rohan’s phone rang. It was an unknown number. He hesitated, then answered.

“Rohan?”

The voice was his mother’s, but it was laced with an urgency he hadn’t heard in years.

“Ma? What’s wrong?” Rohan asked, a knot forming in his stomach. He knew this tone. It meant trouble. Malhotra trouble.

“It’s your father. He… he needs you. It’s about Veer.”

Rohan’s jaw tightened. Veer. His older brother. The golden child, the designated heir, the one who embraced their father’s world with a terrifying zeal.

“What about Veer?” Rohan asked, his voice flat. He had always had a strained relationship with his brother, a silent rivalry that simmered beneath the surface.

“He’s gone, Rohan. He’s disappeared. On the eve of his wedding,” Shalini’s voice broke, a sob escaping her lips. “Your father is furious. The Sharma deal… it’s collapsing. He needs you to come back. Immediately.”

Rohan closed his eyes, the vibrant sunset outside his window suddenly mocking his calm. “Ma, you know I left that life behind. I’m not going back.”

“You don’t understand, beta,” Shalini pleaded, her voice rising in desperation. “This isn’t just about the deal. Your father… he’s made threats. Against you. Against me. He said if you don’t come back, if you don’t fix this, there will be consequences. Terrible ones.”

Rohan’s hand clenched around his phone. He knew his father’s threats weren’t idle. Vikram Malhotra was a man who kept his promises, especially the dark ones. He had seen firsthand the ruthlessness, the cold calculation that defined his father’s reign. He had chosen exile over complicity. But now, his mother was in danger.

“What does he want me to do?” Rohan asked, his voice barely a whisper, the fight draining out of him. He already knew the answer. He could feel the cold tendrils of his past reaching out, pulling him back into the darkness he had desperately tried to escape.

“He wants you to… to take Veer’s place. Just for the wedding. Just until they find Veer,” Shalini explained, her voice trembling. “It’s the only way to save the deal. To save us.”

Rohan’s breath hitched. Marry Aadhya Sharma? The woman whose face he had only seen in newspapers, a symbol of the legitimate world he craved, now to be his unwitting bride in a charade orchestrated by his father? It was unthinkable. It was a nightmare.

“No,” Rohan said, the word a raw protest. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“Rohan, please! He’s sending his men for you. They’re already on their way. You have no choice!” Shalini cried, her voice cracking with fear.

A sudden knock on his door. Hard, insistent. Rohan’s blood ran cold. They were already here.

He looked around his small apartment, the sanctuary he had built for himself, and knew it was no longer safe. The past had caught up. The Malhotra name, the legacy he had tried to outrun, was dragging him back into its suffocating embrace.

“I’m coming, Ma,” Rohan said, his voice devoid of emotion. He hung up, the phone feeling heavy in his hand. The knocking intensified, followed by the sound of heavy boots on the stairs. He took one last look at his camera, then walked to the door, opening it to face the grim-faced men who would drag him back into the life he had sworn to abandon. The deal was far from over. It was just beginning.

The grand marble staircase of the Malhotra mansion, usually a symbol of opulent power, felt like a precipice to Veer. He gripped the polished banister, his knuckles white, his heart hammering against his ribs. Below, the sprawling hall was a hive of frantic activity. Wedding planners, florists, and security personnel bustled about, oblivious to the storm brewing within the family. It was the eve of his wedding, and Veer Malhotra, the designated heir to a criminal empire, was about to make the biggest gamble of his life.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't marry Aadhya Sharma. Not because she was unattractive – she was strikingly beautiful, intelligent, and poised – but because she represented everything he despised: the legitimate world, the suffocating expectations, the life his father had meticulously planned for him. Veer craved freedom, a different kind of power, one that wasn’t bound by his father’s iron fist or the endless cycle of deals and threats. He had a secret life, a hidden love, a world he had built away from the Malhotra name, and he wasn't about to sacrifice it for a political marriage.

He had tried to reason with his father, Vikram. Pleaded, argued, even threatened. But Vikram Malhotra was unyielding. The merger with Sharma Industries was paramount. It would legitimize their operations, expand their reach, and secure their future. And Veer, as the eldest son, was the chosen instrument.

“Veer! There you are! We need to finalize the seating chart for the groom’s side,” Shalini Malhotra, his mother, called out, her voice strained. She looked tired, her eyes shadowed with worry. She knew of his reluctance, had even tried to intercede on his behalf, but to no avail.

Veer offered a tight smile, a mask he had perfected over years of living under his father’s thumb. “Coming, Ma.”

He descended the stairs slowly, his mind racing. His plan was simple, audacious, and fraught with peril. He had arranged for a private jet to be ready at a secluded airstrip. His passport, a bag of essentials, and a substantial sum of cash were already stashed away. His love, a woman named Zara, was waiting for him. They would disappear, start anew, far from the clutches of the Malhotra empire.

As he reached the bottom, his father’s imposing figure emerged from the study, a phone pressed to his ear, his face a thundercloud. Vikram Malhotra was a man who rarely showed emotion, but the tension radiating from him was palpable.

“No! I don’t care what it takes, find him! He needs to be here by morning!” Vikram roared into the phone, his voice echoing through the grand hall.

Veer froze, a cold dread washing over him. Had his father discovered his plan? No, that was impossible. He had been meticulous.

Vikram ended the call, his eyes scanning the room, finally landing on Veer. “Everything is in order for tomorrow?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm, but his eyes burned with an intensity that made Veer’s stomach churn.

“Yes, Papa. All arrangements are confirmed,” Veer replied, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.

“Good. Don’t disappoint me, beta. This marriage… it is everything.” Vikram’s gaze held a silent threat, a reminder of the consequences of failure.

Veer nodded, his throat tight. He knew what "everything" meant to his father: power, control, dominance. It meant sacrificing his own life, his own desires. But he wouldn’t. Not this time.

Later that night, as the mansion finally quieted, a tense silence settling over the opulence, Veer made his move. He waited until the last security patrol had passed, until the house was cloaked in darkness. He slipped out of his room, moving like a shadow, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He bypassed the main entrance, opting for a lesser-used service exit, a route he had meticulously planned.

He reached his waiting car, a nondescript sedan, and sped away into the night, leaving the glittering lights of the Malhotra mansion behind. He felt a surge of exhilaration, a taste of freedom he hadn't known in years. He was doing it. He was escaping.

The next morning, chaos erupted in the Malhotra mansion. Shalini Malhotra was the first to discover Veer’s absence. His bed was untouched, his room empty, save for a hastily scribbled note on his pillow.

“I’m sorry, Ma. I can’t do this. I need to live my own life. Don’t look for me.”

Shalini’s scream tore through the pre-dawn quiet.

Within minutes, Vikram Malhotra was in Veer’s room, his face contorted with a terrifying rage. He crumpled the note in his fist, his eyes blazing. “He’s gone,” he snarled, the words dripping with venom. “That fool, he’s ruined everything!”

The wedding was hours away. The Sharma family, along with hundreds of powerful guests, would be arriving soon. The media was camped outside, eager for the first glimpse of the power couple. The merger, years in the making, hung by a thread.

“Find him! Call everyone! Every contact, every resource! I want him found, now!” Vikram roared, his voice shaking the very foundations of the mansion. His men scattered, their faces grim. They knew the consequences of failing Vikram Malhotra.

But as the minutes ticked by, and then an hour, Veer remained elusive. His phone was off, his usual haunts empty. He had vanished without a trace.

Panic began to set in. The Malhotra Group’s reputation, built on an image of unshakeable power and control, was on the verge of public humiliation. A cancelled wedding, especially one of this magnitude, would be a catastrophic blow.

“What do we do, Vikram?” Shalini pleaded, tears streaming down her face. “The Sharmas will be here any minute. We can’t tell them.”

Vikram paced the room like a caged tiger, his mind racing, calculating. He needed a solution. A quick one. An impossible one.

Then, his eyes landed on a framed photograph on Veer’s desk. It was an old picture, taken years ago, of Veer and Rohan, standing side-by-side. They were brothers, similar in height and build, with the same dark hair and intense eyes. Rohan, the younger son, the one who had rejected their world, the one who had dared to walk away.

A chilling idea began to form in Vikram’s mind. A desperate, audacious plan.

“Rohan,” he muttered, the name a curse and a salvation.

“Rohan? But he’s… he’s been gone for years. He won’t agree,” Shalini stammered, horrified by the implication.

“He will,” Vikram said, a grim smile spreading across his lips. “He has no choice.”

He picked up his phone, dialing a number. “Get me Rohan. Now. I don’t care where he is. Bring him here. And tell him… tell him his mother’s safety depends on it.”

Rohan was dragged back to the Malhotra mansion in the dead of night, his hands bound, his face grim. He was thrown into his father’s study, the opulent room feeling like a cage. Vikram Malhotra sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his eyes cold and unforgiving.

“So, you finally decided to grace us with your presence, Rohan,” Vikram said, his voice laced with contempt. “Just in time to clean up your brother’s mess.”

Rohan glared at him. “What do you want, Papa?”

“Veer has disappeared,” Vikram stated, his voice flat. “On the eve of his wedding to Aadhya Sharma. The biggest deal of our lives is about to collapse because of his foolishness.”

Rohan felt a perverse sense of satisfaction. Veer, the dutiful son, finally breaking free. He almost smiled.

“And you expect me to care?” Rohan scoffed. “I left this life, remember? I want no part of your deals, your games.”

Vikram leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “You have no choice. You will take Veer’s place. You will marry Aadhya Sharma.”

Rohan stared at him, disbelief warring with fury. “You’re insane. I’m not Veer. I can’t just… pretend to be him.”

“You will,” Vikram’s voice was a low growl. “You are similar enough in build. With the right styling, the right clothes, in the chaos of a wedding, no one will notice. Not until it’s too late.”

“And Aadhya Sharma? What about her? You expect me to deceive her?” Rohan demanded, his voice rising.

“She is a means to an end,” Vikram dismissed, waving a hand. “A necessary sacrifice for the greater good of the Malhotra empire. And if you refuse, Rohan, if you dare to defy me, your mother will pay the price. And then, I will ensure your little photography career, your quiet life, becomes a very public, very painful nightmare.”

Rohan’s breath caught in his throat. His mother. Shalini. He knew his father was capable of anything. He had seen it. He had lived it. The thought of his gentle mother suffering because of his defiance was unbearable.

He closed his eyes, the weight of his father’s threat crushing him. He had fought so hard to escape, to build a life free from this darkness. But the chains of family, of blood, were proving unbreakable.

“What do I have to do?” Rohan asked, his voice hollow, defeated.

A triumphant gleam entered Vikram’s eyes. “Good. Now, listen carefully. The wedding is in a few hours. We don’t have much time.”

The next few hours were a blur of frantic activity. Rohan was rushed to a private suite, where a team of stylists and tailors awaited him. They shaved his beard, styled his hair to match Veer’s, and dressed him in the elaborate groom’s attire. The heavy sherwani, the ornate turban, the layers of jewelry – it all felt like a costume, a disguise he was forced to wear.

His mother, Shalini, watched from a corner, her face pale, her eyes filled with a mixture of relief and sorrow. She approached him, her hand trembling as she adjusted his turban.

“I’m so sorry, beta,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “I tried to stop him.”

Rohan looked at her, his heart aching. “It’s okay, Ma. I understand.”

He didn’t understand. Not really. But he had to protect her. That was his only motivation now.

As the final touches were made, Rohan caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He barely recognized the man staring back. He saw Veer’s reflection, a stranger’s face looking back at him, yet it was his own eyes, filled with a deep-seated resentment and a terrifying sense of resignation.

“The bride’s family has arrived,” one of Vikram’s men announced, his voice urgent. “They’re waiting.”

Rohan felt a surge of nausea. Aadhya Sharma. The woman he was about to deceive. He had seen her pictures, read about her in the business papers. She was sharp, formidable, a woman who commanded respect. How would she react when she discovered the truth?

He was led out of the suite, down the grand staircase, towards the elaborately decorated mandap where the wedding ceremony would take place. The air was filled with the sounds of traditional music, the scent of flowers, and the excited chatter of guests. It was a grand spectacle, a celebration of union, built on a foundation of lies.

As he reached the mandap, he saw her. Aadhya Sharma. She stood by her father, Devraj, breathtaking in her deep maroon bridal lehenga, her head bowed slightly, her face partially obscured by the veil. Even from a distance, he could sense her composure, her quiet strength. She was everything he wasn’t – legitimate, principled, and unknowingly, about to be entangled in a web of deceit far darker than she could ever imagine.

He took his place, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He was Rohan Malhotra, the estranged son, forced to play the role of his brother. He was the stranger, about to perform the sacred saath pheras with a woman who believed him to be someone else entirely. The deal was done. The escape had failed. And the charade was about to begin.

The salty tang of the sea air was Rohan’s daily benediction. It cleansed him, reminded him of the vastness beyond the concrete jungles and the suffocating grip of his family’s legacy. His small, sun-drenched apartment, nestled in a quiet lane overlooking the Arabian Sea, was his sanctuary. Here, amidst the gentle hum of his camera’s lens and the rustle of turning pages, he was just Rohan, the photographer. Not Rohan Malhotra, the second son of a mafia don.

His days unfolded with a serene rhythm. Mornings were spent chasing the perfect light on fishing boats, the weathered faces of the fishermen telling stories in their lines. Afternoons were for developing prints in his makeshift darkroom, the faint scent of chemicals a comforting presence. Evenings were for quiet contemplation, reading, or sketching, far from the cacophony of power struggles and illicit dealings. He had built this life brick by painstaking brick, severing ties, enduring his father's silent fury, all for the peace he now savored.

The call from his mother had been a jarring intrusion, a discordant note in his carefully composed symphony. He had known, with a chilling certainty, that it was only a matter of time before the past clawed its way back. His father, Vikram Malhotra, was not a man who easily forgot or forgave defiance.

The insistent knocking on his door had confirmed his darkest fears. Three burly men, their faces impassive, stood on his threshold. They wore the Malhotra uniform: sharp suits, cold eyes, and an aura of quiet menace. They didn't need to speak; their presence was enough. Rohan knew he was a prisoner, his brief taste of freedom abruptly snatched away.

“Rohan Malhotra?” one of them grunted, his voice flat.

Rohan simply nodded, his gaze sweeping over his apartment one last time. His camera, resting on the tripod, seemed to mock him with its silent promise of beauty. He felt a profound sense of loss, a future he had painstakingly crafted dissolving before his eyes.

They didn’t bother with pleasantries. His hands were bound, not tightly, but firmly enough to convey the message. He was escorted out, past curious neighbors who quickly averted their eyes, into a waiting black SUV. The journey back to Mumbai was a descent into the inferno he had escaped.

As the city lights began to prickle the horizon, Rohan felt the familiar knot of dread tighten in his stomach. The coastal breeze was replaced by the stale, polluted air of the metropolis. The quiet hum of the waves gave way to the incessant blare of horns and the distant siren calls. Every mile closer to the Malhotra mansion felt like a step deeper into a grave.

He was brought directly to his father’s study, the very room where he had last stood five years ago, declaring his independence. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive cigars and unspoken threats. Vikram Malhotra sat behind his vast, ornate desk, a king on his throne, his gaze colder and more piercing than Rohan remembered. His silver hair seemed to gleam under the soft light of the chandelier, a stark contrast to the darkness in his eyes.

“So, the prodigal son returns,” Vikram’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble. He didn’t rise, didn’t offer a greeting, just stared at Rohan with an intensity that could strip a man bare. “Took you long enough.”

Rohan’s hands were untied, but he felt no less bound. He stood before his father, his posture defiant, though his heart hammered against his ribs. “What do you want, Papa? Why am I here?”

Vikram leaned back, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. “Your brother, Veer, has proven himself… unreliable. He has vanished. On the eve of his wedding. A wedding that is crucial to the future of this family, to the merger with Sharma Industries.”

Rohan felt a flicker of grim satisfaction. Veer, the golden boy, had finally rebelled. “And you expect me to care? I left all this behind. Your deals, your empire, your… methods. They mean nothing to me.”

Vikram’s smile vanished, replaced by a chillingly calm expression. “Oh, but they do, Rohan. They mean everything. Because your mother, Shalini, is still very much a part of this family. And her safety, her very well-being, depends on your cooperation.”

Rohan’s jaw clenched. The threat was clear, unmistakable. His father was a master of psychological warfare. He knew Rohan’s weakness, his one remaining tether to this world.

“You wouldn’t,” Rohan whispered, though he knew, with terrifying certainty, that Vikram would. He had seen his father destroy lives, break spirits, all for the sake of power.

“Wouldn’t I?” Vikram’s voice was soft, almost conversational, making it all the more menacing. “You think your little photography hobby, your quiet life, is a shield? It’s a weakness, Rohan. A vulnerability I can exploit. A single phone call, a few well-placed rumors, and your reputation, your livelihood, your peace… all gone. And your mother, well, she’s a fragile woman. The stress of a son’s defiance, a family’s ruin… it could be very detrimental to her health.”

Rohan closed his eyes, a wave of nausea washing over him. He saw his mother’s face, pale and anxious, heard her trembling voice on the phone. He had to protect her. He had no choice. The life he had built, the identity he had forged, felt like a fragile sandcastle against the relentless tide of his father’s will.

“What do you want me to do?” Rohan asked, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Vikram’s eyes gleamed with triumph. “You will take Veer’s place. You will marry Aadhya Sharma. Just for the wedding. Just until we find Veer. The guests are arriving. The media is waiting. There is no time for explanations, no time for failure. You are similar enough in build. With the right styling, the right clothes, in the chaos of a grand Indian wedding, no one will notice. Not until it’s too late.”

“And Aadhya Sharma?” Rohan’s voice was raw. “You expect me to deceive her? To tie her life to this… this lie?”

“She is a means to an end,” Vikram dismissed, a dismissive wave of his hand. “A necessary sacrifice for the greater good of the Malhotra empire. She is a businesswoman, she will understand the pragmatism of the situation once the dust settles. For now, she is the bride, and you are the groom. That is all that matters.”

Rohan felt a cold fury simmer beneath his forced calm. He hated this. He hated his father, hated the world he was being dragged back into, and most of all, he hated the helplessness that gnawed at him. He was being forced to betray an innocent woman, to become a part of the very deception he abhorred.

“I’ll do it,” Rohan said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “But if anything happens to Ma, if you so much as touch a hair on her head, I swear, I will burn this empire to the ground.”

Vikram’s lips curved into a chilling smile. “A good son. Welcome home, Rohan.”

The words felt like a brand. Rohan was back, but not by choice. He was a pawn, a reluctant soldier in his father’s relentless war for power. The wedding was hours away, and he was about to step into a charade that would entangle his life with a stranger, a woman who had no idea of the dark truth behind the saath pheras she was about to perform.