Prologue

The hall buzzed with excitement, glittering with chandeliers and adorned in gold and deep maroons. Guests filled the seats, whispering behind their hands, glancing eagerly toward the grand mandap draped in flowers. It was a union that would make history—the marriage of Mahjabeen Khan, the radiant daughter of the Khan empire, to Aayansh Malik, the cold and calculating heir to the most feared mafia family in India.

Samaira Khan stood in a corner, her heart heavy and her fingers nervously twisting the end of her dupatta. Though this was her sister’s wedding, she couldn't shake the knot of anxiety tightening in her chest. Mahjabeen had always been there for her—her protector, her source of warmth in a family that had little room for love. But tonight, something felt off. Mahjabeen had been unusually quiet, her smiles slower, her eyes distant.

Samaira’s gaze traveled to the mandap, where Aayansh stood in a dark sherwani, rigid and unreadable. His face was a mask, betraying neither excitement nor irritation. He looked as though he was merely going through the motions of a transaction, and perhaps, in his eyes, that’s all this was. A marriage for power, not love.

“Samaira!” her father’s sharp voice cut through her thoughts. Mr. Khan’s glare was enough to send a chill down her spine. “Go check on your sister. The nikah will begin soon, and we can’t afford any delays.”

Samaira nodded and hurried down the corridor toward Mahjabeen’s room. The sounds of laughter and distant music followed her, but they felt far away, like echoes of a life she didn’t belong to. She reached the heavy wooden door of her sister’s room and knocked softly.

“Api?” Samaira called, using the affectionate term for elder sister. There was no response.

Her heart hammered. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, only to be greeted by an eerie silence. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated the room, but it was empty. The bridal lehenga, the one Mahjabeen was supposed to wear, lay abandoned on a chair. And on the neatly made bed sat a folded piece of paper with Samaira’s name written in Mahjabeen’s elegant handwriting.

Samaira’s throat went dry as she picked up the letter, her hands trembling. She unfolded it carefully, her heart already knowing what the words would say before her eyes could confirm it.

The letter began,

"Meri pyaari Samaira, I can’t do this. I know Baba will hate me for leaving, but I need to be free. I’ve run away with Zaid—the man I love. I hope one day you’ll understand, and maybe even forgive me. But I know what Baba will do...he’ll make you take my place. I’m so sorry, Samaira. I never wanted this for you, but I had no other way out. Please, meri jaan, be strong. I love you more than anything in this world."

T

he letter slipped from Samaira’s hands, fluttering to the floor. Her knees buckled, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, her mind reeling. Mahjabeen was gone. She had left to marry the man she loved, abandoning the family and the dangerous alliance with Aayansh Malik.

Tears welled in Samaira’s eyes, not just from the betrayal but from the crushing weight of the realization that followed. There was no time to mourn or process what had just happened—her father would demand that she take Mahjabeen’s place. There was no other option.

“Samaira!” Her father’s voice echoed from the corridor, growing louder. Panic surged through her. She quickly wiped her eyes, folding the letter and tucking it into the pocket of her dupatta just as the door swung open.

Mr. Khan stormed inside, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the empty room. “Where is Mahjabeen?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Samaira opened her mouth to respond, but the words refused to come.

“She’s gone, hasn’t she?” His face twisted in fury, and without waiting for confirmation, he barked, “The guests are waiting. You’ll wear the bridal clothes and marry Aayansh. Now.”

Samaira’s heart shattered at his cold command. No pleading, no hesitation—just an order. As if she were nothing more than a pawn to be moved into place.

“But Baba, I…”

“Enough!” His voice was sharp, cutting through her feeble protest. “There’s no time for your tears. You will marry him, or I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.”

Samaira bit her lip, swallowing the lump in her throat. There was no one to save her—not Mahjabeen, not her mother, no one. She was alone, as she had always been.

With trembling hands, she picked up the bridal lehenga from the chair and walked toward the dressing mirror. The weight of the fabric was unbearable, suffocating her with every step. She felt like a prisoner being prepared for execution, dressed in gold and red for a fate she had never asked for.