They told us not to lift our veils until the vows were done.

Two brides were waiting beneath the same mandap. Two Rathore brothers stood across from us. Everything depended on one short auspicious window.

It was supposed to be simple. My father owns Mehra Boutique in Jaipur — barely. Rathore Textiles offered to save it, with two alliances instead of one. Aditya Singh Rathore, thirty, CEO, calm and quiet — for me, Aaradhya Mehra, twenty-two. And his younger brother Veer Singh Rathore, twenty-six, London-return architect — for my sister Kavya Mehra, twenty.

Two sisters marrying two brothers. On paper, it solved everything—Papa's business, both families' future, and two weddings at once.

The only problem was our wedding outfits.

Papa had designed them himself. For weeks, Mehra Boutique had revolved around those two identical blood-red bridal lehengas. "Sister brides should match," he'd said proudly. Under the heavy bridal veils, even Maa couldn't tell us apart from behind.

The edge of my veil brushed my lips every time I breathed.

"Aditya Singh Rathore, please extend your right hand," the priest called. "Veer Singh Rathore, you too."

My palms were damp despite the cool evening air. I curled my fingers into my lehnga for a second before letting them go.

Two warm hands reached for ours. I slid my shaking hand into the one on my left — steady, smooth, a CEO's hand. At least, that's what I told myself. Through the thick red veil I could only see black formal shoes. Good. Aditya always wore black.

Next to me, Kavya giggled under her veil, nervous. "Didi, my groom's hand is shaking," she whispered.

"Mine isn't," I whispered back. "Lucky you."

The music started. The first circle.

Halfway through the third vow, the old haveli generator coughed. The fairy lights stuttered. Once. Twice.

For one heartbeat, all I could hear was pandit jee chanting, the rustle of silk and my own pulse pounding beneath the veil.

Then the entire courtyard went black.

Women screamed, then laughed. Kids cheered. "The generator! Get the generator!"

"Stop! Everyone stay where you are!" pandit jee shouted. "The vows are not complete!"

In the dark, hands let go, caught again. Someone steadied my elbow. "Careful, step," a young voice said near my ear. Not the deep quiet voice from my engagement. Lighter. Panicked.

"Aditya?" I whispered.

"I — hold on —" he started, then an auntie shoved us forward, "Hurry, the auspicious time is running out!"

pandit jee, stubborn, just kept chanting from memory in the dark. The drums kept going.Someone pushed my hand back into a warm palm. I thought it was the right one. So did everyone around us.

When the lights slammed back on thirty seconds later, no one noticed anything wrong. Two red brides. Two ivory sherwanis. Two sets of hands joined. Who would check?

"The seven vows are complete!" pandit jee beamed. "sindoordaan!"

Two silver boxes came forward. Two grooms reached forward at the same time.

It was quick. Red sindoor powder. Blessings. Petals. Cheers. My mother crying with joy.

I was married. Mrs. Aaradhya Aditya Singh Rathore. Officially.

It wasn't until the homecoming, at the Rathore haveli gates, that Dadi Sa lifted our veils together for the welcome prayer.

"Welcome home, daughters," she said, smiling.... then froze.

Because the girl standing next to Aditya, in my sister's slightly shorter lehenga, with my sister's nervous smile, wasn't Kavya.

It was me.

And the boy holding my elbow, looking like he'd seen a ghost, wasn't Aditya with his calm black shoes and quiet eyes.

It was Veer. Brown scuffed shoes. Warm brown eyes, wide with horror. My sister's groom.

Kavya — in MY lehenga, with MY Sindoor in her hair — was staring at Aditya like the world had ended.

The laughter, the blessings, the music.... Everything seemed to stop at once.

Veer dropped my hand like it burned. "No," he breathed. "No no no —"

The color drained from Aditya's face. A heartbeat later, his expression turned cold. "What is this?"

Dadi Sa looked from my face, to Kavya's face, to the two grooms, and understood everything in one heartbeat. Identical outfits. Heavy veils. A blackout during the vows. The brides had been shuffled.

"Kavya?" I whispered.

Kavya's lip trembled. "Didi… that's not… that's not my husband."

Veer took a full step back from me, hands up. "I swear, I didn't — Priest, we took the vows in the dark, someone must have — I thought she was —"

"I know," Aditya cut in, voice like ice. "We all know. It was a mistake."

A mistake. My seven vows, my sindoor, my entire marriage — a seating error.

Dadi Sa slammed her prayer tray down. "Enough! No more drama! Inside. Now. All four of you."

In the big living room, with the doors closed, chaos broke.

"Annulment," Veer said immediately, pacing. "Right now. Tonight. This is insane. Aaradhya, I'm so sorry, I had no idea, I thought —"

"I know," I said, numb. The vermilion felt like fire in my hair. "I thought you were —"

Aditya hadn't said a word. He was staring at Kavya, who was quietly crying into her scarf, sindoor bright in HER hair too — HIS sindoor, meant for me.

"Kavya," Aditya said, gently, finally. So gently it broke my heart. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head, unable to speak.

Dadi Sa looked at the four of us — two wrong couples, two real marriages on paper, two devastated sisters — and made a decision.

"The vows happened before the sacred fire. The vermilion is done. The press has the photos. Rathore Textiles and Mehra Boutique both collapse tomorrow if this leaks tonight," she said flatly. "You will all go to your rooms. With the husbands you married. You will think. In the morning, we call the lawyers."

"My room?" Kavya squeaked, terrified, looking at Aditya.

Aditya closed his eyes for one second. When he opened them, he was calm again. "Kavya will take the guest suite. Alone. I'll sleep in my study."

Veer looked at me, miserable. "Aaradhya —"

"Don't," I said.

He nodded, jaw tight. "Couch. I mean — first time. For me. You take the bed. Door stays unlocked. I won't — I would never —"

"I know," I said, exhausted. "You thought I was my sister."

He flinched. "Yeah. And you thought I was my brother. Great start to a marriage, huh, Mrs. Rathore?"

"Don't call me that."

"Sorry. Force of habit. I've been calling my sister-in-law 'Mrs. Rathore' in my head for months."

We stared at each other — wrong husband, wrong wife, right sindoor, wrong everything.

Upstairs, in a sandalwood-smelling room that was supposed to be Kavya's, Veer grabbed a pillow off the massive bed without being asked.

"Couch," he said. "Promise."

Outside, I could hear Aditya's quiet voice leading a shaking Kavya to the guest room, respectful, three feet of distance between them at all times.

My accidental husband looked at me from the couch, twenty-six and completely out of his depth.

"So," he whispered, "…now what?"

I woke up to bangles clinking that weren't mine.

For one stupid half-second, I thought I was home in Jaipur, and Kavya was getting ready next to me. Then I saw the sandalwood ceiling, the heavy brocade curtains I didn't recognize, and the red sindoor smudged on the pillowcase next to me.

Right. Married. Wrong husband.

I looked at the sindoor. Was everything really going to be alright?

"Brilliant," I muttered, shaking my head at myself.

A soft snore came from the couch.

Veer Singh Rathore was asleep sitting up, one arm thrown over his eyes to block the morning light, his wedding kurta wrinkled. The pillow he'd claimed last night was on the floor. He'd kept his word. He hadn't come near the bed.

I must have made a sound, because he jolted awake instantly.

He stood and headed for the bathroom. The moment he looked at me, he froze.

"Hey — sorry — you okay?" he said, voice rough with sleep. Then he remembered where we were. "Right. Stupid question."

Before I could answer, a soft knock hit the door. Three quick taps. Hesitant.

Veer and I looked at each other.

"Aaradhya Didi?" a small voice whispered. "Are you awake?"

Kavya.

I was off the bed before I thought about it, yanking the door open. My sister stood in the hallway in yesterday's bridal lehenga, hair a mess, eyes red. Sindoor in her parting stopped my breath — not mine. His.

Hers was Aditya's.

"Kavya —"

She crashed into me and started crying, quiet and hard, the way she'd cried since we were kids. "Didi, I want to go home. Please tell me this is a nightmare."

Behind her, down the hall, a door opened. Aditya Singh Rathore stepped out of his study in a perfectly pressed navy kurta, as if he'd been awake for hours.

He looked at Kavya clinging to me. At the sindoor in her hair — his sindoor. His jaw tightened once, barely.

"Kavya ji," he said gently. "Good morning."

She flinched and buried her face deeper in my shoulder.

My hand moved through her hair on instinct. I had always known how to comfort Kavya. I just didn't know how to fix this.

Veer appeared in my doorway, keeping a careful three feet of distance. "Bhai. We need to talk. Now. Lawyers, annulment, press —"

"Downstairs," Aditya cut in, "Breakfast. Dadi is waiting. We do this properly, or not at all."

The Rathore dining room looked like a crime scene that someone had tried to cover with marigolds.

Dadi Sa sat at the head of the table like a general, her prayer beads clicking steadily. The family lawyer, Mr. Mehta, was already there with two thick folders, looking like he'd been awake all night.

No one was eating.

"Sit," Dadi Sa ordered.

Kavya sat next to me instantly, grabbing my hand under the table. Veer took the chair on my other side. Aditya sat opposite us, alone.

Mr. Mehta cleared his throat. "Right. Legally — both marriages are valid. Seven vows completed, sindoor applied, registration papers were pre-signed by both grooms yesterday morning to save time at the registrar's office —"

Veer choked on his water. "What?"

"Standard practice for high-profile families," Mehta said dryly. "Which means as of 9 a.m. today, both couples are legally married under the Hindu Marriage Act."

Kavya made a small sound. Aditya reached across the table without thinking, then stopped himself, hand hovering over hers before pulling back.

"Fix it," Veer said, flat. "Both of them. Today."

"It's not that simple," Mehta said. "Miss Kavya Mehra is twenty. With mutual consent, no cohabitation, and her parents' sign-off — her marriage to Mr. Aditya Rathore can be annulled within 48 hours. without much problem.

Kavya exhaled so hard she swayed. I squeezed her hand.

"And mine?" I asked, voice steadier than I felt.

Mehta hesitated. "Yours… is complicated, Mrs. Rathore."

"Don't call me that."

"Rathore Textiles issued a press release last night," Aditya said quietly, sliding his phone across the table. "With photos."

There we were on the business page — me in my red veil, hand in hand with a man in an ivory sherwani. The caption: Rathore Textiles CEO Aditya Singh Rathore weds designer Aaradhya Mehra, sealing the Mehra Boutique merger.

Except the man in the photo wasn't Aditya. You couldn't tell under the low light and the veil, but I could. Those were Veer's scuffed brown shoes. Veer's nervous grip on my fingers.

They'd announced the wrong groom with the right bride.

"If we correct this now," Mehta said, "the stock opens in two hours. Rathore Textiles drops fifteen percent minimum. The Mehra Boutique merger — which is in your name, Miss Aaradhya — collapses. Your father's loans get called in by noon."

Kavya looked up, eyes wide.

"So what are you saying?" Veer snapped. "She's just stuck? Because of a power cut and a bad photo?"

"I'm saying," Dadi Sa cut in, sharp, "that one marriage can be erased quietly. The younger girl, no photos released with her face, no contracts in her name — she goes home. Today."

Kavya's head shot up, hope raw on her face.

"The elder girl," Dadi Sa looked straight at me, "stays. For six months. You live here, as husband and wife in name. After six months, a clean, mutual divorce. No scandal. No one gets ruined."

Six months. Living with a man I was supposed to call brother-in-law.

"No," I said immediately.

"No," Veer said at exactly the same time.

Aditya finally looked up from his coffee. "Aaradhya," he said, using my name for the first time. "Your father's boutique employs forty-three families in Jaipur. My board employs four thousand. Do you want all of them jobless by Monday because we got the wrong hands in the dark?"

I lowered my eyes.

"It's six months," Veer said quietly, to me, not them. "Roommates. That's it. I swear on — on anything you want. I won't touch you. Ever. You want a lock on the bedroom door? I'll install it myself."

I looked at him. He didn't say anything.

Across the table, Kavya was nodding fast, tears drying on her cheeks. "Didi, please. If I can go home — you can do six months, right? Then you're free too. We'll both be free."

Six months. Then it would be over.

Dadi Sa pushed a small velvet box across the table toward me. Inside was a thin gold mangalsutra.

"If you're staying in this house as my granddaughter-in-law," she said, not unkindly, "you wear this. Properly."

Veer went rigid next to me. "Dadi, don't —"

I picked it up before he could finish. My fingers shook.

"Six months," I said, looking at Veer. "Roommates. No touching. No telling anyone this is fake. And the day it ends, you sign whatever I put in front of you."

"Deal," he said immediately.

"And you," I turned to Aditya, "you get my sister out of this marriage today. Clean paper. No one ever mentions her name in connection to yours again. Promise me."

Aditya met my eyes across the table for a moment.

"I promise," he said.

Kavya burst into tears again, this time with relief. Aditya stood, walked around the table, and offered her his hand.

"Come, Kavya ji," he said softly. "Mr. Mehta has the annulment papers in the study. Twenty minutes and you're free."

She went with him, small and shaking in her crumpled bridal lehenga, leaving a faint trail of sindoor powder on the marble floor behind her.

The front door closed an hour later. Kavya had gone home.

Leaving me alone in Rathore Haveli.

Married to the wrong brother.

Veer exhaled next to me, long and shaky. "So. Roommates?"

"Roommates," I said.

He held out his hand to shake on it. Truce, again.

I looked at that hand.

"One rule," I said, not taking it yet. "You sleep on the couch. Forever."

A startled, helpless laugh burst out of him. "Yes ma'am. Couch, forever. Noted, Mrs. Rathore."

"Don't call me that."

"Sorry. Force of habit. I've been calling my brother's fiancée 'Mrs. Rathore' in my head for months."

The house was quiet. I was still here.

The annulment papers were still warm from the printer.

Kavya signed hers first. Her hand didn't even shake. Twenty years old, twenty-four hours married, and she couldn't get the pen down fast enough.

Aditya Singh Rathore signed next. He didn't look at her while he did it. He didn't look at me either.

"Done," Mr. Mehta said, stamping both copies. "Miss Kavya Mehra is legally unmarried, effective immediately. No public record. The marriage was never consummated, both parties consent, age is clear — clean break."

Kavya exhaled like someone had been sitting on her chest for a full day. "Thank you," she whispered to no one in particular.

Aditya finally looked up. "A car will take you home to Jaipur within the hour, Kavya ji. Your parents have been informed. Discreetly."

She nodded, eyes red. Then she looked at me, guilty. "Didi?"

I forced a smile. "Go. Study. Forget last night ever happened."

She hugged me hard at the front door, her suitcase already in the trunk. The sindoor was scrubbed clean from her hairline, but a faint pink shadow remained, stubborn. "I'm sorry," she whispered into my shoulder. "I'm so sorry I left you here."

"You didn't leave me," I said. "You got out. That's different."

The car pulled away. Kavya was free. I wasn't.

Behind me, the massive doors of Rathore Haveli closed with a soft, final thud.

Dadi Sa was waiting in the living room with a second set of papers. Not annulment papers. Thicker. Uglier.

"Sit," she said to me and Veer.

We sat — on opposite ends of the couch, a careful foot of space between us. Aditya stood by the window, hands in his pockets, looking out at the garden like this had nothing to do with him.

Mr. Mehta cleared his throat. "Mrs. Rathore — Aaradhya ji — your situation is… different."

"How different?" I asked.

He slid a newspaper across the coffee table. Business Standard. Front page, bottom right. A grainy photo of me in my red veil, hand in hand with a man in an ivory sherwani. The headline: RATHORE-TEXTILES-MEHRA BOUTIQUE MERGER SEALED WITH A MARRIAGE — CEO Aditya Singh Rathore weds designer Aaradhya Mehra.

The man in that photo wasn't Aditya. It was Veer. You couldn't tell in the bad light, with the veil, but I could. Those were his shoes. His nervous grip.

"They ran it at 6 a.m.," Aditya said quietly, still facing the window. "Before we could stop it."

"Rathore Textiles stock opens in forty minutes," Mehta said. "If we issue a correction now — 'sorry, wrong brother, wrong bride, it was all a mistake' — we lose eighteen percent by lunch. The Mehra Boutique merger, which is signed in your name specifically, Aaradhya ji, collapses. Your father's outstanding loans — 2.4 crore rupees — get called in immediately."

My heart started pounding. "You can't be serious."

"I am," Mehta said. "I'm very sorry."

Dadi Sa pushed the thick folder toward me. "Six months."

I stared at her. "What?"

"You stay married. Here. In this house. As Veer's wife. In public, you are perfect. In private, I don't care what you do. After six months, a mutual divorce. No press. No scandal. By then the merger is stable, your father's boutique is safe, the stock has settled."

"That's insane," Veer said, standing up so fast he knocked his knee against the table. "Dadi, ask her — ask Aaradhya ji if she wants this. You can't just —"

"I am asking," Dadi Sa snapped. "Aaradhya?"

Everyone knew about my marriage now. I couldn't leave.

I looked at Veer. Really looked at him. Twenty-six, exhausted, hair a mess from running his hands through it all night, guilt written all over his face for something that wasn't his fault.

He caught me looking and immediately took a step back, hands up. "Hey — no pressure. Seriously. Say no and I will walk into that press conference myself and tell them I stole my brother's bride by accident. I'll tank my own name before I trap you."

I looked at him. Then I looked away.

"If I say yes," I said slowly, "what are the rules?"

Veer's eyebrows shot up. "Wait — you're considering —?"

"Rules," I repeated, ignoring him, looking at Dadi Sa.

Dadi Sa's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Smart girl."

"One," I said, turning to Veer. "Separate rooms."

"We only have —" Aditya started.

"Then he sleeps on the couch," I said. "Every night. For six months."

"Done," Veer said instantly. "Couch is my best friend now. We’re emotionally bonded."

"Two," I continued. "In public, we fake it. Just enough that no one asks questions. In private, you don't touch me. Ever. Not unless I ask — which I won't."

Veer swallowed. "Deal. No touching. Ever. Scout's honor. Was never a scout, but still."

"Three," I said, voice dropping. "After six months, you sign whatever my lawyer puts in front of you. No fight. No drama. Clean break. I walk away with my father's boutique intact, and you never see me again."

He didn't answer right away.

"Deal," he said quietly.

I held out my hand. "Contract?"

He looked at my hand for a moment, then shook it.

"Contract," he said. "Six months. Roommates. Fake marriage. Don't fall for me, Mrs. Rathore."

I pulled my hand back fast. "In your dreams, Mr. Rathore."

Aditya finally turned from the window. He looked at our joined hands, then at me.

"Six months," he said. I'll have Legal draw up the post-nuptial agreement today.

Dadi Sa clapped her hands once, sharp. "Bas. Done. Veer, take your wife upstairs. Show her where her clothes will go. The staff is already moving her suitcases."

"Wait — what?" I said. "My suitcases? Where?"

Veer rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh. About that."

He led me upstairs, past three perfectly good guest bedrooms, all the way to the end of the east wing. He stopped in front of a heavy teak door and wouldn't look at me.

"This is — was — my room," he said.

He pushed it open.

My three suitcases were already lined up neatly against the wall. My vanity case was on the dresser. Someone had hung my pink morning saree on the back of the bathroom door.

One bed. One couch — a narrow, very obviously not-made-for-sleeping couch under the window. One wardrobe, half empty, with a neat line drawn down the middle in what looked like masking tape.

"I told them to put you in the guest suite," Veer said quickly, mortified. "Dadi said — and I quote — 'a wife sleeps in her husband's room, even a fake one, what will the staff think?' — I tried, I swear —"

I walked in slowly, taking in the room that smelled like sandalwood and old books and him. Sketches pinned to a corkboard — buildings, bridges, hands. A half-finished cup of cold coffee on the nightstand. A very flat-looking couch pillow.

One room.

Two people.

Six months.

Veer stayed by the doorway. "Left side of the wardrobe is yours. Bathroom is yours first, always. I snore — sorry in advance. Couch is — well, it's a couch. I'll survive."

I dropped my purse on the bed.

"One rule," I said, turning to face him.

He straightened. "Anything."

"You keep sleeping on that couch, husband."

He blinked, then smiled.

"Oh, so now I'm husband?" he said softly. "Took you long enough, wife."

Before I could take it back, the bedroom door clicked shut behind him on its own, sealing us in.