By 5:30 a.m., the Oberoi estate wasn't just awake—it was fully alive. In the heart of Delhi, the news was already circulating: "The engagement of Riya Oberoi, heiress of the Oberoi-Chandra empire, will be held today in what's being dubbed the event of the season."
Traffic was redirected. Drones hovered. Camera crews set up camp outside the venue. India,quite literally, was getting ready with them.
Inside the villa, the energy was unmatched.
There were makeup artists with ring lights, styling teams wrestling with sherwanis and lehengas, florists dragging in marigolds and white orchids by the truckload. Every corner smelled of sandalwood, jasmine, and expensive hair spray.
The engagement hall, was a massive ballroom in central Delhi, had already been transformed overnight. Chandeliers dripped crystal.
The floor gleamed like glass. A mandap made entirely of white roses and mirror panels stood proudly at the center. Security stood at every entrance in black suits, earpieces in.
Kavi arrived at the venue with his friends, all in ivory-gold coordinated fits, looking like they'd stepped out of a fashion magazine.
"Tell me why I feel like I'm in different world ," Roy whispered dramatically, fixing his brooch.
"Because you are," Alina replied, eyes wide. "This is literally an unmatched level chaos."
Even Pinky, decked in a lime green lehenga with soft curls bouncing on her shoulder, let out a low whistle. "This is not an engagement. This is a freaking movie set."
At the bride's wing, Riya was in full glam, surrounded by stylists, her friends, and two people constantly misting her face to "keep the dew."
"I feel like I'm about to pass out," she giggled, holding Kavi's hand when he came in.
"You better not," Kavi said, adjusting her earrings slightly. "You've got two full-day functions. No dying allowed."
She stuck her tongue out. "You look hot, by the way."
"You look richer than the country's budget," he deadpanned.
At the grand entrance of the ballroom, where a floral arch of jasmine and golden marigolds stood like a portal into royalty, the parents of the bride and groom took their positions not just as hosts, but as living embodiments of grace and legacy.
At the main entrance, Rukmini Oberoi stood with her signature commanding poise, dressed in a luxurious deep maroon kanjeevaram saree, her gold jewelry heavy but tastefully arranged. Her hair was done in a classic bun, decorated with fresh jasmine. She looked like she belonged in a royal portrait.
She folded her hands to each guest as they arrived, her smile professional, warm, but not one bit flustered. "Aap aaye, bohot shukriya," she repeated with grace, her eyes glancing every now and then to the grand staircase timing everything to the second.
Suresh Oberoi, her husband, wore a crisp ivory sherwani with a dull gold stole draped across his shoulder. Unlike his wife's quiet control, he was the warmth of the household hugging old friends, chuckling loudly, posing for pictures. He gripped every hand with affection and pride, especially when anyone brought up Riya.
"Our little girl is finally getting engaged," he said, beaming. "Just yesterday she a baby, now look at her."
Between the two of them, the Oberois held the center like a power couple out of a magazine.
Across the decorated entrance, Nalini Chandra, mother of the groom, wasn't letting herself be outshined.
Dressed in a powder blue saree embedded with silver threadwork, she looked poised and elegant. Her hair was sleek and tied back, and diamonds glittered on her neck and ears. She carried herself like someone used to attention. She wasn't loud, but she knew how to make people look.
By her side stood Veer Chandra, tall and quietly imposing in a sharply cut beige sherwani with deep emerald accents. His mustache was trimmed, shoes polished to perfection, and every now and then he adjusted his watch or cleared his throat, always slightly impatient with the noise and chaos of celebration.
He wasn't the sentimental type but when someone complimented Kiaan, he nodded with quiet pride. "He's always made us proud," he said, straightening his posture a bit more.
Kiara, Kiaan's younger sister, fluttered around like a modern-day princess.
At just Nineteen, she had the looks of a fashion influencer and the energy of a whirlwind. Her lehenga was a pastel mint with heavy mirror work, and her makeup was flawlessly done. She snapped selfies, fixed her bangles, greeted people with cheek kisses, and posted updates on her private Instagram story, all within the same five minutes.
"She's the true star of the show," someone muttered jokingly.
Everywhere, buzzed with excitement Champagne flutes clinked. Classical music mixed with soft Bollywood instrumentals.
And it was only just beginning.