THE IDENTITY CRISES

The corridor leading to the main hall was decked out in grandeur. Cascading floral arrangements, twinkling fairy lights, and elegant gold drapes made the whole place look like it had been lifted straight out of a royal fairytale. Meera and Arya walked briskly through it, Meera grumbling about the chaos of wedding planning while Arya trailed behind, unbothered.

But then, something caught Meera’s eye—a massive, golden-framed wedding signboard standing proudly amidst the decor. The script was impossibly fancy, practically glowing under the chandelier’s light.

“Welcome to the wedding of Shiv Choudhary & Arya Singhal.”

Meera came to such an abrupt halt that Arya nearly tripped over her. “What in the world?” Meera muttered, narrowing her eyes at the signboard. She pointed dramatically, as if exposing a crime scene. “Arya… WHAT is this?”

Arya barely glanced at the board. “Oh, that’s the signboard for the wedding,” she said, her tone so casual it could’ve put a sloth to shame.

“I know that,” Meera snapped. “But why does it say Arya Singhal? They’ve messed up your surname! It’s Sharma. Sharma, Arya!”

Arya tilted her head, giving Meera an amused look. “Nope. That’s my real surname.”

For a moment, Meera just stared at Arya, waiting for the punchline. When none came, she let out a strained laugh. “Ha, good one! Now fix it before someone thinks you’re… I don’t know… royalty or something.”

Arya crossed her arms, the corner of her mouth twitching with amusement. “But I am royalty. Well, sort of. That’s my actual surname, Meera. I’m Arya Singhal.”

It took Meera a full three seconds to process that bombshell. And then, chaos.

“WHAT?!” she screeched so loudly that the chandelier above seemed to tremble in fear. Heads turned, staff paused mid-task, and a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flinched so hard he nearly spilled everything. “You’re Arya SINGHAL?!”

Arya, now thoroughly enjoying herself, nodded with a serene smile. “That’s me.”

Meera clutched her head as if her brain was physically short-circuiting. “Singhal. As in… the diamond empire Singhal? As in daughter of late Dhananjay Singhal, the diamond king of Asia?!”

Arya nodded again, her expression utterly deadpan. “Yup.”

Meera staggered backward, gripping a nearby pillar for support. “Are you telling me,” she said, her voice trembling, “that my best friend, the girl who once made me return a ₹50 excess cab fare, is an heiress to one of the biggest fortunes in the country?!”

Arya shrugged. “I guess?”

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Meera shrieked, her voice bouncing off the hall’s pristine walls. A group of staff members stopped to stare, but she paid them no mind. “You’re the daughter of a man who was basically a real-life King Midas, and you’ve been pretending to be just like the rest of us mere mortals this whole time?!”

Arya burst out laughing. “It’s not like I was hiding it, Meera. You just never asked.”

“NEVER ASKED?!” Meera’s voice cracked. “Why would I ask if you’re secretly a heiress? Normal people don’t randomly go around suspecting their best friend of being diamond royalty!” She clutched her chest dramatically as if the revelation physically hurt. “And to think all these years, I’ve been living like a peasant while you—YOU—are rolling in diamonds!”

Meera’s voice cracked, echoing down the hall. “Do you have any idea what this means?! All these years, I thought you were broke like the rest of us! Arya, I shared my Maggi with you in college because I thought you couldn’t afford your own!”

“Hey, I like Maggi,” Arya said, stifling a laugh.

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT!” Meera wailed. “You’re richer than half the country, and I’ve been splitting restaurant bills with you! Splitting, Arya! And you—oh my God, you gave me a coupon for my birthday!”

Arya finally cracked a grin. “It was a 20% discount coupon!”

“FOR SOCKS!” Meera shrieked, waving her arms like a madwoman. “You could’ve gifted me a trinket box full of diamonds, but nooo. You, the daughter of a literal diamond mogul, gave me socks!”

Arya couldn’t hold back anymore and burst into laughter, doubling over as tears streamed down her face. “Oh, Meera, stop. You’re killing me.”

“KILLING YOU?!” Meera yelled, pacing back and forth like a lawyer about to deliver a closing argument. “Arya, I’ve been robbed! All these years, I could’ve been living the life of a spoiled, pampered best friend, and instead, you had me splitting bills and accepting discount coupons!”

The absurdity of it all hit Meera like a truck. She stumbled backward dramatically, clutching her heart. A concerned staff member rushed to her side, catching her just before she could topple over.

“I’m fine,” Meera muttered, waving the staff member off. She turned back to Arya, pointing a trembling finger. “I just need a moment to process that I’ve been best friends with a billionaire stingy enough to argue over five rupees with a rickshaw wala.”

Arya was laughing so hard now that she had to lean against the wall for support. “Meera, you’re being so dramatic!”

“Dramatic?!” Meera gasped, clutching the air as if oxygen itself was slipping away. “Arya, this isn’t dramatic—it’s a crime! All those fights we had about your stinginess suddenly make sense now. Remember when I asked you to sponsor my dream handbag, and you told me to ‘wait for the sale’?”

Arya wiped a tear from her eye, still grinning. “I was just being practical!”

“PRACTICAL?!” Meera’s voice hit new heights. “Arya, you could’ve BOUGHT me a handbag store and still had enough money to own half of Delhi! Practical, my foot!”

Arya straightened up, still chuckling. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’ve been a little stingy. And why are you so mad’’

Just then, Meera stumbled backward dramatically, clutching the wall for support. A concerned staff member rushed forward, holding her steady before she could topple over entirely.

“I’m fine,” Meera muttered, waving the staff member off. She turned back to Arya, glaring with exaggerated betrayal. “ A LITTLE!! I’m not even mad that you’re rich. I’m mad that you’re THIS rich and still stingy! Who even DOES that?’’

. “I want reparations, Arya. Diamonds. Handbags. A yacht. And a tiara for my next birthday!”

Arya laughed again, throwing an arm around Meera’s shoulder as she led her toward the hall. “Fine, fine. A tiara it is. But only if you stop being so dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Meera muttered, though a sly smile crept onto her face. “I’m not being dramatic—I’m just making up for all the years you cheated me out of a luxury best-friend experience.”

The two walked into the grand hall, Arya still laughing and Meera muttering under her breath about overdue diamond reparations.

Inside the luxurious bridal suite, Arya sat serenely in front of a massive vanity mirror, doing some last-minute touch-ups. The room itself was the epitome of extravagance—walls draped in soft champagne-colored silk, a crystal chandelier casting a warm glow, and flowers so perfectly arranged they looked fake. Arya, however, seemed completely unfazed by her surroundings, humming a soft tune as she carefully applied her lipstick.

Behind her, sitting on a plush chair, was Meera. Her face was swollen with pure, unadulterated anger, her arms crossed so tightly that it looked like she was trying to keep herself from launching at Arya. The death stare she was giving Arya could’ve set fire to the silk walls.

The vibe in the room was… tense.

A staff member timidly entered, holding a tray of refreshments. The moment they stepped in, they froze. The air was so icy it could have turned the champagne into a slushie. Meera’s glare darted toward them for a split second, and they bolted out of the room without so much as setting down the tray.

Even the photographer, who had been adjusting his camera settings, was visibly sweating. He stood awkwardly in the corner, pretending to be fascinated by the light bouncing off the chandelier, too scared to make a single click.

“Meera, you’re staring,” Arya said finally, her tone nonchalant as she blended her foundation with the precision of a professional makeup artist.

“I’m not staring,” Meera snapped, her voice like ice. “I’m glaring. There’s a difference.”

Arya chuckled, dabbing a bit of blush on her cheeks. “Oh, come on. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Not that big of a—” Meera’s words died in her throat as her hands clenched the armrests of her chair.

Arya, still unbothered, examined her perfectly manicured nails. “I didn’t want my wealth to define me. Is that such a crime?”

“Define you?!” Meera’s hands flew into the air, exasperated. “Arya, I would have let your wealth define me! You could’ve spoiled me rotten—taken me on luxury vacations, bought me designer bags, showered me with actual diamonds, but noooo.”

At that moment, the photographer accidentally clicked his camera, the flash startling everyone. He froze like a deer in headlights as Meera turned her fiery glare on him. “WHAT are you doing?”

“Uh… documenting… the moment?” he stammered, looking like he was about to cry.

Meera sighed dramatically and waved him away. “Get out before you spontaneously combust.” The photographer bolted from the room without looking back.

-Do you have any idea how much I could have been flaunting if I knew this earlier?”

Arya finally turned in her chair, a playful smirk on her face. one perfectly arched brow raised. “What exactly would you have been flaunting? My last name?”

“Yes!” Meera exclaimed, pointing a finger at her. “And also those diamond tiaras you’re probably hiding somewhere! Or, I don’t know, at least a necklace for your best friend! But noooo, you were too busy pretending to be broke. Broke! Like, ‘splitting restaurant bills to the last rupee’ broke!”

The staff in the room exchanged amused but nervous glances, clearly used to Meera’s dramatic outbursts. Even the photographer, who was adjusting his camera, seemed wary of interrupting the brewing storm.

Arya let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I wasn’t pretending to be broke. I was living.”

Meera scoffed. “Living simply? Arya, your simply is what the rest of us call a budgeting crisis! Do you know how many times I cried myself to sleep, wishing my rich best friend would spoil me with diamonds instead of offering me half of her stale ramen?”

Arya chuckled, but her gaze flickered back to the mirror, her expression tightening ever so slightly. The change was subtle, but Meera noticed.

“Okay, jokes aside,” Meera said, her tone softening as she leaned forward, “why are you living like this, Arya? Seriously. You’re the sole heiress now, right? After your parents… you know…”

Arya’s jaw tensed, but she didn’t respond immediately. Meera, emboldened by the silence, pressed on. “And your brother. You do have a brother, right? I remember hearing about him once. He’s like some mysterious ghost. Never makes public appearances. What’s his deal? And what about that accident six years ago—”

The air in the room shifted. The warm, inviting atmosphere turned cold, almost stifling. Arya turned to Meera, her expression icy, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Meera, stop,” she said, her tone firm but calm. “Some things are better left unsaid. Sparks turn into fires when given too much air.”

Meera froze, the weight of Arya’s words pressing down on her. The once-lively energy in the room seemed to drain, leaving behind an almost eerie silence. The staff exchanged uneasy glances, unsure whether to stay or leave.

Arya turned back to the mirror, picking up her lipstick with the precision of someone who had mastered the art of deflection. She applied the bold red shade with steady hands, her reflection a picture of control.

“Arya…” Meera began hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Drop it, Meera,” Arya said, her words as final as the click of her lipstick cap. “Not every story needs to be told.”

The room remained heavy with unspoken tension as Arya rose gracefully, adjusting the drape of her saree. Her calm demeanor was a sharp contrast to Meera, who still sat frozen on the sofa, a mix of guilt and curiosity flickering across her face.

As Arya walked toward the door, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. “You coming?” she asked, her tone lighter now, as if the conversation moments ago had never happened.

Meera blinked, snapping out of her daze. “Yeah… yeah, I’m coming,” she muttered, scrambling to her feet.

As they left the room, the staff collectively exhaled, relieved to have survived the chilly exchange

SCENE IN SHIV’S ROOM

Shiv stood by the grand floor-to-ceiling window of his suite, framed by thick, opulent drapes of gold and crimson. The city lights outside cast a shimmering glow that reflected faintly on his face. He was dressed immaculately in a deep maroon sherwani, intricately embroidered with fine gold threadwork that seemed to catch and hold the light like a thousand tiny stars. The collar of the sherwani was high, accentuating his sharp jawline, and a delicate chain hung from his pocket, its gold pendant glinting ominously. His turban matched his attire, adorned with a single ruby in the center, glinting like an unblinking eye. The rest of his outfit was just as regal, his polished black mojaris subtly decorated with golden accents.

Shiv’s expression was unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on the world outside, though his mind was far from the bustling streets below. A voice echoed in his thoughts, low and congratulatory, almost mocking: You’re close now, closer than ever before. Your goal is within reach.

A smirk played on his lips, sharp and calculated, but it faded as a sudden knock on the door broke his reverie.

The room seemed to hold its breath. The tension was palpable, the kind that could make even the air feel heavy. Shiv turned his head slowly, his gaze cutting through the dimly lit room like a blade.

“Enter,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an edge that sent a shiver down the spine.

The door creaked open, and Aman, his loyal secretary, stepped in. Aman’s demeanor was formal, though the slight bow of his head betrayed a flicker of unease. He wore a simple black suit, his hands clutching a sleek tablet.

“Sir,” Aman began cautiously, “it’s time for the wedding.”

Shiv turned away from the window and strode toward the mirror on the far wall. His movements were deliberate, almost predatory. The large mirror reflected his commanding figure as he stopped in front of it. He adjusted the cuffs of his sherwani, the faintest of smirks curving his lips as he admired himself.

“How do I look, Aman?” Shiv asked, his tone neutral but laced with a subtle challenge.

Aman straightened his back and nodded respectfully. “Impeccable, sir. As always.”

Shiv’s eyes flickered with faint amusement as he turned his wrist to inspect a gold cufflink. “Good. Today is a significant day, after all. One must look the part.”

Aman nodded again, though his expression hinted at something more. Shiv caught it instantly, his sharp eyes narrowing as he turned to face his secretary.

“You’re holding something back,” Shiv said, his voice calm but probing. “Speak.”

Aman hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Sir, there’s been no progress on the stalker. My team has combed through all possible leads, but we’ve come up with nothing so far.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted. The tension thickened, and Shiv’s expression turned unreadable, his smirk evaporating. He took a slow, deliberate step toward Aman, his presence suddenly heavier, more imposing.

“No progress?” Shiv repeated, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying a weight that made the air feel colder.

Aman swallowed hard, feeling the intensity of Shiv’s gaze. “We’re still investigating, sir. It’s only a matter of time before we—”

“Time is a luxury I don’t have,” Shiv interrupted, his tone icy. He turned back to the mirror, adjusting the angle of his turban as though the matter was trivial. But his next words were anything but.

“Find him,” Shiv said, his voice calm yet laced with a chilling finality. His reflection in the mirror looked almost otherworldly, the sharp lines of his face illuminated by the soft, golden light in the room. “And if you don’t…’’He turned around and took few steps toward Aman, his gaze lockened the unspoken threat clear in his eyes.

Aman stiffened, his fingers tightening around the tablet he held. “Yes, sir. Understood.”

Without another word, Shiv turned toward the door. His footsteps echoed ominously as he left the room, his sherwani trailing behind him like a shadow. The weight of his warning lingered, filling the space he left behind with an unsettling silence.

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