The Pratap Singh mansion glittered under the afternoon sun, every inch of it radiating opulence. The grand central hall—three stories high with crystal chandeliers and marble floors—had been transformed into a festival of colors. Golden drapes framed tall windows, strings of marigolds hung from carved balconies, and the air buzzed with music, laughter, and the rhythmic beat of the dhol.
And in the middle of all this chaos stood Arjun Pratap Singh—self-appointed cameraman, unofficial entertainer, and master of comic relief.
"Alright, ladies and gentlemen," Arjun said, phone raised like a seasoned vlogger, his reflection flashing briefly across a mirrored pillar. "Welcome to The Great Pratap Singh Wedding Extravaganza, where tensions are high, henna is darker than my future, and our beloved bride—my dearest sister Vrinda—is about to marry a man who claims to love her cooking. I've tasted her cooking. Send prayers."
He spun in a circle, capturing the sprawling hall: the ornate staircase draped in roses, cousins dancing in designer lehengas, and Vrinda herself in the center, glowing in her yellow outfit, surrounded by giggling friends.
"Arjun!" Vrinda hissed when she caught him filming. "Stop this nonsense!"
"Nonsense?" Arjun gasped theatrically, turning the camera back to her. "My dearest Vrinda, future Mrs. Suffering-In-Silence, I'm merely documenting this historic occasion. Do you know how rare it is to see you smile without threatening someone?"
Laughter broke out from a cluster of cousins nearby. Vrinda hurled a decorative cushion at him, which he caught midair without missing a beat.
"And there you have it, folks," he announced. "Our bride's first violent act as a soon-to-be-married woman. Truly, an inspiration."
"Arjun!" Aarti's voice rang out from near the stage where mehendi artists worked. She looked regal in emerald silk, but the look she gave him could stop a charging elephant. "Stop teasing your sister and help with the gift trays!"
"See this?" Arjun told the phone dramatically. "This is the tragedy of being the youngest—you get all the work and none of the respect. I'm a hidden gem, Ma!"
His camera panned upward to the mezzanine balcony, where Jarnail Singh stood observing everything like a general surveying his troops. Dressed in a perfectly tailored navy bandhgala, medals from his army days gleaming discreetly in a display case behind him, he was the picture of stoic authority.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Arjun whispered to the camera, "behold—The General. Speaks only in commands, fueled entirely by discipline, and in twenty years, I've never caught him smiling. Today might be the day."
Jarnail's sharp gaze shifted to meet Arjun's lens. For a heartbeat, Arjun thought he saw the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
"Arjun," Jarnail's deep voice carried effortlessly through the hall, "put that phone down and do something useful."
"And that, dear viewers," Arjun said, turning the camera back to himself with a wink, "is my cue to vanish before I'm court-martialed."
He slipped into the crowd, still grinning, blissfully
Meanwhile, in the Pratap Singh Mansion…
Behind the grandeur of the main hall, in a side chamber filled with trays of sweets, boxes of gifts, and stacks of silk cushions, Aarti oversaw the last-minute preparations. Her green silk saree shimmered as she moved gracefully from one corner to another, adjusting flowers, checking lists, giving quiet instructions to the staff.
"Careful with that tray," she told a servant, voice calm but firm. "These are for the groom's family. Everything must be perfect."
"You've certainly thrown yourself into this," came a low voice from the doorway.
Aarti's hands stilled. She turned slightly, finding Jarnail Singh leaning against the carved wooden frame, arms folded across his chest. His navy bandhgala was immaculate, his expression cool, guarded.
"I have," Aarti replied, her tone measured, before turning back to arrange the marigolds.
Jarnail's voice carried an undercurrent of challenge. "Tell me, Aarti… are you truly happy doing all this for Vrinda? Or is this just for the guests—to make it look like you care?"
Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "What are you implying?"
Jarnail stepped into the room, each word deliberate. "When we married, you already had Arjun. He has always been… your world. I've often wondered if you had room in your heart for anyone else. For my children."
Aarti straightened, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I have loved Veer and Vrinda as my own since I stepped into this house. I have never treated them differently, and you know that."
His jaw tightened. "Do I? Or is this just another performance to keep everyone convinced?"
The accusation cut deep, but Aarti's voice didn't waver. "You can doubt me if you wish, Jarnail. But Vrinda knows I am her mother. Veer knows it too. That's all that matters to me."
For a moment, silence hung between them—heavy, unyielding. Jarnail's eyes searched hers as though trying to find a crack in her words. Finding none, he simply exhaled through his nose and turned away.
Before he reached the door, laughter echoed from the main hall—Arjun's playful voice rising above the music.
Jarnail glanced back briefly, eyes hard again. "He's always been at the center of everything for you," he said quietly. "I'll never forget that."
And with that, he walked out, leaving Aarti alone with the weight of his mistrust. She turned back to the marigolds, but her hands trembled slightly as she worked.
Meanwhile… Upstairs in Arjun's Room
The mahogany double doors of Arjun's room were shut tight, muting the noise of preparations echoing through the mansion. Inside, steam rose lazily from a massive marble bathtub, filled with foamy white bubbles that almost spilled over the rim.
Arjun lounged in it like royalty, head tilted back, long curls damp and sticking to his forehead, a grin tugging at his lips. He lazily splashed the water with one hand, humming to himself.
"Ahhh, Arjun Pratap Singh," he said aloud, addressing his own reflection in the gold-framed mirror across the bathroom. "The star of this wedding. The life of this party. The most handsome man alive… and, let's be honest, the only reason half these people showed up today."
He scooped a handful of foam and placed it on his chin like a beard. "Look at you, yaar. Strong jawline, perfect hair, killer smile—Vrinda should be paying you dowry for showing up as her brother."
Laughing at his own joke, he dunked under the water, then resurfaced with a dramatic gasp. "And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is how you emerge from the depths like a Bollywood hero."
Minutes later, wrapped in a plush white towel, Arjun stood before his mirror, slathering moisturizer on his arms and face with exaggerated care.
"Moisturize, Arjun, moisturize," he muttered, pointing at his reflection. "A king never attends a mehendi with dry skin. Not when every eligible girl will be secretly comparing her fiancé to you."
He winked at himself, struck a ridiculous pose, and blew a kiss to his reflection.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Veer:
Veer: Stop taking a princess bath and come down. Vrinda's gonna kill you.
Arjun grinned, tossed his towel aside, and slipped into his perfectly tailored outfit—a deep teal sherwani jacket over an open white shirt, the top buttons undone just enough to show a hint of mischief.
"Showtime," he whispered to himself, finger-gunning his reflection before heading out.
What he didn't notice was the faint flicker of gold light outside his window, quickly vanishing as a serpent slithered away from the sill.