Episode 3

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.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***