The shower did not cleanse me. The water was hot, but I felt a permanent chill in my bones. I scrubbed my skin until it was pink and raw, but I could still feel the ghost of his hands, the imprint of his lips. I dressed mechanically in the first saree I found in my suitcase—a simple peach cotton—ignoring the five options undoubtedly waiting for me downstairs. I couldn’t face Mrs. Raichand’s exuberance yet.

My reflection in the mirror was a stranger’s. The face was pale, the eyes hollowed out and shadowed with a guilt so profound it felt like a physical weight. I applied makeup with a trembling hand, layering concealer under my eyes, adding a swipe of blush to my wan cheeks. I was painting a mask over a corpse.

A soft knock on the door made me jump, my heart launching into my throat.

“Ananya, beta? Are you awake?” It was Mrs. Raichand’s voice, bright and cheerful.

“Yes, Aunty! Just getting ready!” I called back, my voice strangled.

“Wonderful! Come down for breakfast when you’re ready. The pundit will be here in an hour!”

I heard her footsteps retreat down the hall. I leaned against the vanity, taking deep, shuddering breaths. An hour. In one hour, I would sit before a holy man and participate in a ceremony to sanctify my union with Rohan, all while the memory of his brother’s touch was seared into my soul.

I descended the stairs slowly, each step feeling like a walk to the gallows. The smell of coffee and poha wafted from the dining room. The house was still, the evidence of last night’s party already magically cleared away by an army of staff.

They were all there at the breakfast table. Mr. Raichand reading the newspaper. Mrs. Raichand sipping tea. Rohan, looking fresh and handsome in a crisp white kurta, scrolling through his phone.

And Vivaan.

He was sitting slouched in his chair, wearing a loose t-shirt and track pants, staring blankly at a glass of water in front of him. He looked wrecked. Pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t look up as I entered.

“Ananya! Good morning!” Rohan said, standing up with a warm smile. He came over and kissed my cheek. I forced myself not to flinch. “You look beautiful. Did you sleep well?”

The innocent question was a dagger. My eyes flickered involuntarily to Vivaan. He stiffened, his knuckles whitening around his glass, but he still didn’t look up.

“Yes, thank you,” I lied, my voice thin. “The room is very comfortable.”

“Vivaan, apparently, did not,” Mr. Raichand said from behind his paper, his tone dry. “Looks like he wrestled a bear and lost. I trust you’ve learned your lesson about mixing your drinks, son?”

Vivaan finally moved. He lifted the glass of water and drained it in one long gulp, placing it back on the table with a definitive clink. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice raspy. “Lesson learned.”

His first words of the morning. They were laced with a bitterness that only I understood.

Mrs. Raichand bustled over. “Ananya, peach? For the muhurat? I had laid out that beautiful coral Banarasi for you! It would look so lovely with the gold jewelry we chose!”

“I… I had a headache, Aunty. This felt more comfortable,” I stammered.

“Oh, you poor thing! Of course, beta, of course. Come, sit, eat something.”

I took the seat farthest from Vivaan. Rohan sat beside me, immediately engaging me in conversation about the ceremony, about the auspicious time the pundit had calculated. I nodded and smiled, a perfect, plastic doll. I could feel Vivaan’s silence from across the table like a physical pressure. He didn’t eat. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, a monument to our shared, terrible secret.

The pundit arrived. The living room was set up with a small altar. We all took our seats on the floor on plush cushions—the Raichands on one side, me on the other with Rohan by my side. Vivaan sat slightly apart, on the periphery, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, staring out the window.

The Sanskrit chants began, filling the room with a sacred, rhythmic sound that should have felt peaceful. To me, it felt like an accusation. Each verse was a highlight of my betrayal. The pundit spoke of purity, of commitment, of the sacred bond of marriage. I kept my eyes downcast, my hands folded tightly in my lap, hoping no one could see the sin radiating from me.

Rohan participated earnestly, responding to the chants at the appropriate times. He occasionally leaned over and whispered an explanation of a ritual to me, his breath warm against my ear. Each time he touched my hand or my shoulder to guide me in an offering, a jolt of revulsion—for myself, not him—shot through me.

I dared a glance at Vivaan. He was still looking out the window, but his jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle ticking. He looked like he was in physical pain. The pundit asked Rohan and me to exchange flower garlands, a symbol of acceptance.

As Rohan placed the fragrant string of roses and jasmine around my neck, his smile was full of love and promise. As I reached up to place his garland around his neck, my hands shook so badly I almost dropped it. He chuckled softly, thinking it was nerves, and steadied my hands with his.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Vivaan push off from the wall abruptly. “I need some air,”he muttered, his voice cutting through the chant. He didn’t wait for a response. He just turned and walked out of the room, his exit a silent scream in the holy space.

Mrs. Raichand made a faint, exasperated sound. The pundit paused, slightly offended. Rohan’s smile tightened.

“I’m sorry,” Rohan said to the pundit, his voice tight with embarrassment. “My brother… isn’t feeling well.”

The pundit nodded and continued, but the sanctity of the moment was broken. The ghost in the room had made himself known.

The ceremony concluded with the final blessings. The auspicious date was set. In three months, on the most spiritually favorable day, Ananya Sharma would become Ananya Raichand.

Everyone stood up. Congratulations were exchanged. Mrs. Raichand hugged me tightly. “Welcome to the family, officially, my dear daughter!”

The word daughter made me want to vomit.

I needed to get away. I mumbled an excuse about needing to call my parents and practically fled to the garden outside. I needed space. I needed to breathe air that wasn’t thick with incense and lies.

I found a secluded bench hidden behind a bougainvillea bush, its vibrant pink flowers a stark contrast to my grey inner world. I dropped my head into my hands, the garland around my neck feeling like a noose.

I didn’t hear him approach.

“Does it feel official now?”

I jerked my head up. Vivaan was standing there, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looked even worse up close, his eyes bloodshot, his expression haunted.

“Go away, Vivaan,” I whispered, looking around frantically to ensure we were alone.

“He can’t keep his hands off you, can he?” he said, his voice low and harsh. “The perfect couple. It’s a beautiful picture.”

“Stop it,” I pleaded, tears finally welling in my eyes. “Just stop. It was a mistake. We have to forget it.”

“Forget it?” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “You think I can forget that? You think you can?” He took a step closer, his gaze intense. “I was drunk, Ananya, but I wasn’t unconscious. I remember everything. I remember the way you sighed. I remember the way you held onto me. That wasn’t a mistake. That was the most real thing that has ever happened to me.”

His words were a brutal, beautiful torture. They laid bare the truth I was desperately trying to bury.

“It can’t be real!” I cried, standing up, the tears now streaming down my face. “Don’t you understand? This,” I gestured wildly between us, “is a disaster! It will destroy everyone! Your brother! Our families! Everything!”

“So we just pretend?” he shot back, his own eyes glistening. “We go to your wedding? I stand there as your best man and watch you marry my brother? You live in this house, as my sister? And we just… pretend?”

The image he painted was a fresh hell. I couldn’t speak. I could only sob, my body shaking with the force of it.

He watched me break down, and the anger seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a weary despair. He reached out slowly, as if I were a frightened animal, and wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb. The touch was electric, even now, even through the agony.

“I can’t pretend, Ananya,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I thought I could. I’m a good actor. But I can’t act about this.”

Before I could respond, before I could pull away or lean into his touch, a voice called out from the house.

“Ananya? Vivaan? Where did you two disappear to? The photographer is here for the official engagement pictures!”

It was Rohan.

We sprang apart as if electrocuted. Vivaan turned away, scrubbing a hand over his face, composing his features into a neutral mask. I wiped frantically at my tears, trying to hide the evidence of my breakdown.

Rohan rounded the corner of the bougainvillea bush, his smile faltering as he took in the scene: me, visibly upset, and Vivaan, standing too close, his back tense.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked between us.

“Fine,” Vivaan said, his voice miraculously even. “Just giving my future sister-in-law some tips on how to handle the Raichand family madness. She was getting cold feet.” He forced a laugh that sounded hollow to my ears but seemed to placate Rohan.

Rohan’s expression cleared. He came over and put a reassuring arm around me, pulling me away from Vivaan. “No cold feet allowed,” he said gently. “Come on, the photographer is waiting. We need to document the beginning of our forever.”

He led me away, back towards the house, back towards the lies. I glanced back over my shoulder just once.

Vivaan was still standing by the bench, watching us go. And the look on his face—a look of utter, devastating loss—told me that the ceremony of lies was far from over. It had only just begun.