The orchestra of violins shifted into a softer crescendo, cueing the shift in mood. A hush rippled through the golden-lit ballroom. Phones were raised. Cameras focused. People stood.
It was time.
First came Kiaan, flanked by his younger cousins and a few close family friends his "baraatis" for the day.
He walked with the kind of calm that only made people look twice. His sherwani shimmered under the chandelier lights midnight blue silk with antique gold threadwork, his turban structured and princely, fastened with a pearl-embedded sarpech.
The crowd murmured, "He looks like royalty," and they weren't wrong.
Behind him, his mother Nalini wiped the corner of her eye discreetly, while his father l stood with his arms folded, nodding with restrained pride.
As Kiaan approached the main mandap where the ring ceremony would take place, he greeted the elders, bowed his head respectfully, and took his place, every step choreographed in dignity.
His gaze shifted slightly to Kavi, he stood off to the side, somewhere between the friends and the shadows. For one brief second, their gazes met nothing loud, no stolen gestures just a quiet recognition.
Then the music changed into a slow, ambient flute faded into a melodic rendition of "Din Shagna Da", and the double doors at the far end of the hall opened in perfect sync with the beat.
There she was.
Riya Oberoi.
Framed by marigolds and jasmine garlands, Riya stepped in flanked by her two closest bridesmaids, her lehenga catching the light like fire meeting water.
It was champagne gold, embroidered with crystal beads and hints of scarlet. Her dupatta was sheer, flowing behind her like a veil of stardust. Her jewelry heavy but regal spoke of heritage and pride, but it was her smile that turned the room breathless.
People clapped softly. Some audibly gasped.
Her father, Suresh, muttered to Rukmini, "That's not just our daughter. That's history walking in."
Riya's gaze swept the room until it landed on Kiaan. She grinned with excitement.
She walked the flower-lined path, anklets jingling, until she reached the mandap. Kiaan extended his hand. She took it.
The ceremony began, guests leaned in from their seats, phones poised, breath held.
Every camera in the room turned toward the center stage where Riya and Kiaan stood hand in hand, the bride and groom of the hour perfectly matched in splendor and smile.
The priest spoke first in Sanskrit, then translated loosely in Hindi so the crowd could follow.
"Today, under divine witness, two souls agree to bind their destinies. With blessings from the heavens and the ancestors, they now exchange tokens of their vow."
The rings was presented on a velvet cushion by Kiara, who giggled as she nearly tripped on her lehenga. Everyone laughed. The moment was light, grand, unforgettable.
Kiaan reached out first, his fingers brushing against the diamond band encrusted in tradition and future promises. He turned to Riya, his fiancée and bride-to-be, he gently slipped the ring onto her finger.
The hall erupted into applause.
Flashbulbs. Cheers. Clapping. Music swelling.
And then it was Riya's turn.
She beamed, her eyes glossy. Her hands trembled slightly not from fear, but from happiness.
She took his hand, kissed the tip of his knuckle briefly, and slid the ring on.
More applause. More photos. Someone shouted, "Kiss, kiss!" and the crowd broke into laughter.
Kiaan leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her forehead tender, respectful, appropriate. The photographers got their perfect shot.
In the corner of the mandap, Kavi stood frozen, the claps sounding like thunder against his eardrums.
He should smile. He did.
His lips curled up just enough. Just enough to be mistaken for pride. But the truth lay in his eyes glasslike, distant, blinking rapidly like someone forcing themselves not to cry in public.
But he failed.
The first tear escaped slowly, cutting down the contour of his cheek. He didn't bother to wipe it. It wasn't the kind of crying that you fight. It was the kind that just… leaks. Quietly. Almost respectfully. The kind people assume means you're touched by love.
Riya and Kiaan now stood up, hands linked, stepping forward to greet the family. Everyone rose to shower petals on them.Kavi joined too, as he was meant to.
He reached into the brass bowl, scooped up marigolds, and tossed them toward the couple, petals sticking to Kiaan's hair like a curse he couldn't wash off.
Kiaan glanced at him, barely. Kavi gave nothing back. Not a smile. Not a frown.
Just a face wiped clean.
Because this was what it was.
A beautiful day.
A gorgeous engagement.
The ring exchange had ended. The priest's blessings concluded. The couple was officially engaged.
But no Indian engagement especially one of this scale was complete without the ritual that rivaled the ceremony itself: the photo session.
Riya and Kiaan stood in the middle of the mandap, framed like royalty. From one side stepped Rukmini and Suresh Oberoi, elegance and warmth personified. Rukmini's saree gleamed under the lights, Suresh wrapped his arm proudly around Riya's shoulder, laughing softly.
From the other end, Nalini and Veer Chandra joined, composed and dignified. Nalini nodded in approval as she stood beside Kiaan, and Veer positioned himself at the edge stoic, protective, straight-backed.
Click click.
A perfect portrait of legacy.Two empires, one union.
Then came the Oberoi-Chandra extended families.
Uncles and aunties in bejeweled pastels, Cousins elbowing each other for front row spots. Kiara twirled in front like a peacock, her Instagram already flooded with behind-the-scenes selfies.
Photographers clicked. Assistants yelled names. Children ran into frames and were dragged out.
Next were friends, From Riya's side came her bridesmaids Bollywood starlets, socialites, influencers. They squealed, posed, puckered their lips.
From Kiaan's side, his business associates and schoolmates, clean-cut and coordinated.
Then Kavi's friends were called in.
And finally… the last photo.
"Kavi beta, one picture with just you, Kiaan, and Riya," a photographer called out.
His body went cold.