Chapter 1: The Wrong Bride

I never imagined my life would change in the middle of someone else's mehendi ceremony.

The air was thick with the scent of marigolds and rosewater. The Sharma family mansion sparkled under strings of fairy lights, and the courtyard echoed with the beat of dholaks and laughter. Cousins danced with abandon, relatives gossiped between bites of laddoos, and everyone was busy celebrating her—Meera, my cousin. The golden girl of the family. The perfect one.

I watched it all from the edge of the scene, seated quietly as the mehendi artist traced vines and lotuses onto my palms. It was supposed to be her design, her name hidden in the patterns.

But Meera was gone.

It had all happened so fast. One moment, she was getting ready for the haldi. The next, her room was empty—no trace of her except a note scrawled in trembling handwriting:

> "I’m sorry. I can’t do this. Don’t look for me."

The house descended into chaos. Her mother collapsed, wailing in disbelief. Her father exploded in anger, shouting at the staff, the guests, even the walls. And in the corner, unnoticed and small, I stood watching.

Then, their eyes turned to me.

I wasn’t the first choice.

I wasn’t even a second thought.

But in that moment of panic, I was convenient.

“You’re close in size.”

“You’ll fit in her lehenga.”

“The groom’s side doesn’t know her well. We can manage this.”

“It’s just for appearances.”

“Do it for the family.”

And just like that, my silence became their solution.

No one asked how I felt. No one wondered what this meant for me. All they saw was a stand-in, a placeholder to protect the family's reputation. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them I wasn’t Meera. That I couldn’t live a lie on someone else’s behalf. But my voice refused to leave my throat.

Instead, I nodded. Quiet. Obedient. Invisible.

Now, sitting with drying mehendi on my hands and the weight of someone else’s fate on my shoulders, I felt numb.

“Sita,” my aunt snapped, breaking my trance. She’d started calling me by Meera’s pet name. “Fix your dupatta. The photographers are coming.”

I obeyed.

Not because I wanted to. But because resistance here was pointless.

In the mirror, I saw a stranger. A girl dressed in someone else’s yellow haldi kurta, her eyes hollow, her lips trembling. I was no longer Sunaina—the quiet cousin who stayed out of trouble, the girl who liked reading more than dancing, who was always polite, always helpful. Now I was a ghost in Meera’s skin.

No one knew I hadn’t even spoken to the groom more than twice in my life. I remembered his name—Vivaan Singh Rathore—a quiet man with sharp eyes and a reputation for being cold. He was the son of a rich business family from Delhi, and their union was a carefully arranged match. He’d barely smiled during the engagement ceremony. Now, I would be marrying him in her place. And he had no idea.

What would he do when he saw me instead of her?

Would he walk away?

Would he laugh?

Would he reject me in front of everyone?

Or worse—would he accept it, not because he wanted to, but to avoid disgrace?

I shivered at the thought.

Later that evening, I sat alone in Meera’s decorated room. Her wedding lehenga hung on the wardrobe, untouched. I ran my fingers across the delicate embroidery. Every thread screamed that it wasn’t mine.

A soft knock startled me. It was my younger brother, Aman.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

I nodded. Lying was easier now.

He stared at me for a moment, his eyes sad, then whispered, “You don’t have to do this, Didi.”

I looked away.

Because the truth was—I already had.

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