Ashes Beneath the Crown

The perfume of sandalwood lingered too long in the air.

It was the scent her “mother” liked — not hers.

Saanvika Malhotra stood in the mirror-lined corridor of the Thakur estate, draped in crimson silk, her reflection multiplied like truths she could not tell. Each pane held a different version of her: the obedient daughter, the poised fiancée, the radiant heir. Not one of them was real.

Her real name was Saanvi Elara. But no one called her that. Not anymore.

They called her Saanvika Sharma, or beti, or princess. They called her by the name that was never meant to be hers — the name that belonged to another girl. A girl whose bloodline carried the divine pulse of the Hidden Race. A girl whose fate she now wore like an ill-fitting crown.

“Smile,” someone said behind her.

She did.

She always did.

The Crown Weighs Heavier in Silence

At court banquets, she bowed like she had been taught.

At temple rites, she recited prayers with perfect inflection.

At home, she played the daughter who never raised her voice.

But inside her, something had begun to break.

There were nights when her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, when her body curled around a scream she dared not release. The weight of a spiritual vein she hadn’t earned. The burden of a bloodline not her own. And above all — the guilt.

Because she had begun to remember her.

The girl she had replaced.

She didn’t remember her face — not clearly. But she remembered the sound of her crying. A cry not of weakness, but of protest — sharp, betrayed, fierce. She remembered a cold night where stars had seemed to mourn, and a whisper of a name stolen mid-breath.

Rohini.

Reyan’s Eyes Were Kind. That Was the Problem.

He looked at her like she was sunlight bottled — the girl of promises and stars. He held her hand like it belonged to someone sacred. He whispered things in the dark that made her heart ache.

But none of it was meant for her.

And she knew it.

Reyan Malhotra was in love with her. But his gaze often wandered when she wasn’t looking — toward Rohini, the one he was promised to. The one who walked like her but smiled differently. The one who remembered pain in ways she didn’t.

And in those stolen glances, Saanvika saw the truth she could never say aloud:

He loved the lie but longed for the truth.

The Saintess's Shadow

She could never tell if the Saintess loved her or the memory of the girl she had saved.

The ancient matriarch of the Eternal Race looked at her with eyes full of hope — and something more desperate. It was not the gaze of a grandmother. It was the stare of someone trying to justify a sin she’d wrapped in prophecy.

“You’re doing so well, Saanvika,” the Saintess would say.

“I’m proud of the woman you’re becoming.”

But each word felt like a chain — forged in good intentions, locked by silence.

And still, Saanvika nodded. Still, she obeyed.

Because she had been given a life. And in return, she had buried her own.

A Crack in the Illusion

One evening, while walking through the rose gardens of the palace, Saanvika overheard her brother Ishaan speaking to their mother — Meena Thakur.

"Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we hadn’t agreed?” Ishaan’s voice was hushed.

A pause.

“Sometimes,” Meena replied, “I still see the real girl in my dreams. Her eyes. Her voice. The one we gave away.”

Saanvika froze.

She wasn’t supposed to hear this.