The mirror reflected perfection, but Aarav Rathore felt nothing.

Dressed in an ivory sherwani embroidered with delicate gold zari work, he looked every bit the prince brides dreamt of. Yet, as he adjusted his cufflinks with mechanical precision, there was no joy, no anticipation - only stillness, like the calm before a storm.

Outside, the Rathore mansion gleamed in grandeur. Strings of marigolds and fairy lights draped across balconies like rivers of fire and stardust. The smell of rose petals, sandalwood, and rich spices lingered in the air, mingling with the rhythm of dhols and the excited chatter of hundreds of guests.

Inside, Aarav stood alone.

His mother, Meera Rathore, had knocked earlier, asking him to join the celebrations. He had dismissed her politely but firmly. There were no celebrations for him. Not tonight.

He poured himself a glass of water, ignoring the untouched flute of champagne nearby. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, scanned the decorated room - too ornate for his liking. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere.

Tara Malhotra.

The bride. The chosen one. The obedient, graceful daughter of his parents' oldest business allies.

They'd met only twice - brief, formal conversations. She was pleasant, he supposed. Beautiful too. But love? Connection? It was never on the table.

This marriage wasn't about hearts. It was about handshakes and mergers.

He hated it.

But as always, Aarav did what was expected of him. With silence. With control.

His eyes drifted to the edge of his desk - where a single worn-out paperback lay. A small, battered novel with no author's photo and only one word printed in italics on the cover: Paro.

He picked it up, fingers lingering on the pages. He had read it at least five times. The words had stayed with him - raw, lyrical, like someone had carved his own wounds into poetry.

He had searched for Paro's real identity countless times. No interviews, no public appearances, not even a full name. She had remained a mystery in a world obsessed with exposure.

A secret.

A soul that had spoken to him more deeply than anyone ever had.

And today, he was marrying someone whose voice didn't even register.

A knock pulled him back to the present.

"Come in," he said, voice cold but calm.

His younger cousin, Rishi, peeked in. "Bhaiya, baraat is about to leave. Everyone's waiting."

Aarav didn't move. "And the bride?"

Rishi blinked, surprised. "Getting ready, I think. Why?"

Aarav stared at him for a second too long. Then finally nodded.

"I'll be there."

---

The baraat was loud, joyful, and wild. Firecrackers cracked open the night, lighting up Aarav's stoic face as he rode the white horse, posture regal, heart still cold.

Everyone danced - uncles with round stomachs, cousins high on sugar and music, his mother trying to hide tears of joy behind her heavy makeup.

But Aarav?

He watched the horizon.

And in a quiet room across town, Anaya Malhotra stared at her sister's empty lehenga.

Tara was gone.

Disappeared just hours before the wedding. Her phone switched off. No note. No explanation.

Anaya's hands trembled as she reread the last message Tara had sent her earlier that morning.

> "If I don't do this today, I'll never be free. Don't tell anyone. Just trust me."

A knock at her bedroom door jolted her. Her mother entered, eyes red, panic buried under layers of powder and denial.

"She's not picking up. I called everyone. We can't cancel now, Anaya. The Rathores will ruin us. Think of Papa's reputation. What do we do?!"

Anaya swallowed hard, heart pounding in her chest.

"She's coming," she lied, voice cracking. "She... she might be running late."

Her mother didn't reply. She turned to the makeup artist and barked, "Start with Anaya. We'll drape Tara's dupatta on her for now."

Anaya froze.

Wait.

No. This was wrong. This was crazy.

But her mother's eyes were wild with desperation. The family was on the edge of collapse.

And in that moment - fueled by shock, fear, and something she couldn't name - Anaya made the choice that would change everything.

She let them do her makeup.

---

Meanwhile, Aarav reached the venue.

He dismounted the horse and walked toward the mandap with heavy steps. Cameras flashed. Pandit ji chanted. Fire danced in golden lamps.

He sat on the cushion beside an empty seat - the bride's.

Minutes passed. Whispers began.

Then finally, she arrived.

Her face was hidden behind the veil. She walked slowly, hands trembling ever so slightly. Every step toward him felt like a step toward fate.

Aarav glanced sideways.

She was shorter than he remembered. Quieter. Softer.

He noticed the shiver in her hands.

Strange.

But he said nothing.

Because tonight, he wasn't marrying a woman.

He was marrying a duty.

And in silence, the fire between them was lit.

---

To be continued......