Episode 2

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.

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