Episode 4

The Malhotra mansion, usually a fortress of quiet power, was a maelstrom of controlled chaos. Dawn had broken, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, but inside, the urgency was palpable. The wedding was mere hours away, and the groom, Veer Malhotra, was still missing. Vikram Malhotra’s plan, audacious and desperate, was already in motion.

Rohan was ushered into a lavish, private suite, a place he hadn’t set foot in since his childhood. It was Veer’s suite, filled with the scent of expensive cologne and the subtle hum of a life he had rejected. A team of stylists, tailors, and a makeup artist, all hand-picked by Vikram for their discretion and skill, awaited him. They moved with a chilling efficiency, their faces devoid of expression, as if accustomed to such clandestine operations.

“We need to work fast,” one of Vikram’s trusted lieutenants, a stern-faced man named Khanna, stated, his voice low and urgent. “The bride’s procession will arrive in two hours. The groom must be ready.”

Rohan stood silently, allowing them to work. They shaved his neatly trimmed beard, a symbol of his independent life, leaving his jawline stark and unfamiliar. His hair, usually styled in a casual, windswept manner, was meticulously slicked back, mimicking Veer’s signature look. The subtle differences in their facial structures were expertly masked with light makeup, blurring the edges, making them appear more alike than they truly were.

As the transformation progressed, Rohan felt a profound sense of detachment. He watched his reflection in the ornate mirror, a stranger staring back at him. It was Veer’s face, Veer’s hair, Veer’s clothes. His own identity, the one he had so carefully cultivated, was being erased, replaced by a deceptive facade. He felt like an actor preparing for the most important, and most morally compromising, role of his life.

The heavy sherwani, a deep maroon adorned with intricate gold embroidery, was slipped onto him. It was Veer’s wedding attire, tailored to perfection. The weight of the fabric, the suffocating richness of the embroidery, felt like a cage. Then came the layers of jewelry: a heavy pearl necklace, a diamond brooch pinned to his turban, and rings on his fingers. Each piece felt like a link in the chain binding him to this lie.

His mother, Shalini, entered the suite, her eyes red-rimmed but her composure regained. She watched the transformation with a silent agony, her gaze lingering on Rohan’s face, as if searching for a glimpse of her true son beneath the disguise.

“Beta,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, as she approached him. She reached out, her hand trembling, and adjusted the elaborate plume on his turban. “You look… just like him.”

Rohan met her gaze in the mirror. He saw the sorrow in her eyes, the silent apology. He offered a faint, reassuring smile, a gesture meant to ease her pain, even as his own heart felt like a stone. “It’s okay, Ma,” he murmured, the lie already forming on his lips.

Khanna cleared his throat. “The bride’s family has just entered the premises. We need to move.”

The plan was meticulously detailed, exploiting the inherent chaos and grand scale of an Indian wedding. The groom’s procession, the baraat, would be a spectacle of music, dance, and celebration. In the midst of the swirling crowds, the loud music, and the constant flash of cameras, the switch would be almost imperceptible.

Veer’s usual security detail, loyal only to Vikram, had been briefed. They would ensure Rohan was surrounded, shielded from any close scrutiny. The horse, traditionally ridden by the groom, would be heavily adorned, its movements designed to distract. The entire procession would be a moving wall of sound and color, a perfect cover for the deception.

Rohan was led out of the suite, down a secluded service staircase, away from the main thoroughfare where guests were beginning to gather. He could hear the distant strains of the wedding band, the joyous shouts, the excited chatter. It was a stark contrast to the grim silence that surrounded him.

He was escorted to a waiting, heavily decorated carriage, a traditional element of the baraat. It was here, in the semi-darkness, that the final details were relayed.

“Once you reach the mandap, you will keep your head bowed, as is customary,” Khanna instructed, his voice low and precise. “Only look up when the priest instructs you to. The veil on the bride will also provide a layer of concealment. The first few rituals are quick, ceremonial. By the time the veil is lifted, the initial chaos will have subsided, and the guests will be focused on the saath pheras.”

Rohan nodded, his mind a jumble of instructions and growing dread. He was about to commit an act of profound deception, one that would irrevocably alter the life of an innocent woman. He thought of Aadhya Sharma, the poised, intelligent woman from the newspaper articles. She was walking into a trap, a gilded cage built by two powerful families.

The carriage began to move, slowly at first, then picking up speed as it joined the main baraat procession. The music swelled, a deafening crescendo of drums and trumpets. Dancers swirled around the carriage, their movements energetic, their faces beaming. Confetti rained down, glittering in the morning sun. It was a picture of pure joy, a stark contrast to the turmoil in Rohan’s heart.

He felt the eyes of the crowd, the flashes of cameras, but he kept his gaze fixed ahead, his expression carefully neutral. He was Veer Malhotra, the groom, the heir. He was a stranger, a lie in human form.

As they approached the elaborately decorated mandap, Rohan saw her. Aadhya Sharma. She stood beside her father, Devraj, a vision in deep maroon and gold. Her head was bowed, her face partially obscured by a delicate veil, but even from a distance, her elegance was undeniable. He could sense her quiet strength, her composure, even in this moment of immense personal significance.

He was helped down from the carriage, the crowd cheering, the music reaching a fever pitch. He walked towards the mandap, towards Aadhya, each step feeling heavy, laden with the weight of the deception. He took his place opposite her, the sacred fire burning between them, its flames casting dancing shadows on their faces.

Aadhya lifted her head slightly, her eyes, dark and intelligent, briefly meeting his through the shimmering veil. There was a flicker of something in them – anticipation? Resignation? He couldn’t tell. But in that fleeting moment, as the priest began the ancient chants, Rohan felt a strange, unsettling connection to this stranger, this woman he was about to bind himself to with a lie. The saath pheras were about to begin, and with each circle around the sacred fire, the deception would deepen, intertwining their fates in a way neither of them could foresee.

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