Prologue : 1

The LIE WE LIVE : Ek Hasina Thi Ek Deewana

Prologue :

I pushed the door open, my gaze instantly finding her.

She stood before the mirror, a vision in a green lehenga, its intricate gold embroidery catching the light.

She was ready, not for me, but for my wedding to someone else.

The sight of her, a living, breathing testament to a love that was now a ghost, was a physical blow.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice was steady, a calm surface over an ocean of emotion I couldn't see.

"Go get ready."

Just then, a servant entered with my wedding clothes-a heavy sherwani, a pagdi, and a tray of jewels-and placed them on the table before leaving.

I stood there, the silence stretching between us. She turned from the mirror, her head tilted, a question in her eyes. "What is this?"

"I'm here so you can make me ready. For my wedding," I said, my voice too loud, too raw.

She didn't move. "I can't do it."

She looked away, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "Can't you do it yourself? Ya let me call someone to help you. Wait."

She moved to call out, and I reached for her hand, my grip firm but gentle.

I felt the familiar twist in my gut.

Every word, every action. I walked to the closet, pulled out a silk scarf, and let it unravel in my hands.

The sight of it was a memory itself.

My chest ached. "You can't do this?" I took a step toward her.

" You, who I've watched countless times, transforming into the most beautiful woman on earth with my help? My hands have undone more than just your saree; they've touched every part of you. Don't tell me you can't touch me just to get me ready."

"Can't you just help me one last time?" I said, the words a plea, a raw confession of pain.

It wasn't about the clothes; it was about the ritual, a last, desperate attempt to hold onto what we once had.

My voice was low, laced with a pain that she had to hear, had to feel.

It was my heart laid bare, and I watched, my chest tight, to see if she would finally acknowledge it.

She didn't say anything, but her jaw tightened, the muscles of her face tensing almost imperceptibly.

Her eyes, fixed on the distant wall, held a a a trace of something I couldn't quite name-not sadness, not regret, but something akin to a flicker of a flame in a dark room.

I waited, a thread of hope dangerously thin in my chest. "I want my baby to witness everything, from the beginning."

She pulled her hand free, not with a jerk, but with a slow, deliberate movement, and turned to the waiting clothes.

The mask was back, but I had seen the crack.

Her shoulders stiffened slightly.

She finally turned to face me, her eyes a blank, calm sea.

I searched for a sign of the girl who once laughed as I struggled with her pleats, who melted into my touch as I helped her undo them.

There was nothing. Just cold politeness. With a tense sigh, she came forward and took the scarf from my hands.

Her touch was light and efficient. She didn't look at me, but at my reflection in the mirror, as if I were a stranger.

My heart ached with a pain I had grown used to.

I wanted to scream, to shake her, to ask her why she was doing this to us.

Why she was willing to sacrifice everything, to watch me give away the life we were meant to have.

I wanted her to feel the weight of this day, the weight of the child inside her that would witness it all

As she meticulously folded the scarf and draped it over my shoulder, she spoke.

Her voice was flat, devoid of the warmth that once hummed through every syllable.

"It suits you," she murmured. "You look good."

It was a hollow compliment, and I felt the hollowness echo inside me.

She adjusted my collar, her movements precise.

"Your hair is a little messy on the side. Let me fix it." She reached up and smoothed a stray lock, and for a fleeting moment, her fingers brushed my temple.

She was so close, and yet a universe away.

I watched her in the mirror, her expression vacant, a beautiful, empty vessel of the woman I loved.

I had to believe that behind that unfeeling gaze, there was still a spark of the fire we once had. I had to.

It was the only reason I was doing this.

I was doing this for us, for the baby she carried.

I was doing this to prove that she loved me, even if she refused to admit it.

When she finished, she took a step back. But then, she leaned in, her lips almost touching my ear.

Her voice was barely a breath, a chilling whisper that pierced through the carefully constructed wall around my heart.

"Aaj mere pati ki shaadi hai," she whispered.

[ My husband's wedding is today. ]

My breath hitched. My eyes snapped up to the mirror, meeting my own reflection-the sight of a man on the verge of breaking. I saw my face, my eyes wide with shock and pain.

In the glass, I saw her, a slight smirk on her lips. She was enjoying my pain my love for her, everything.

I turned to face her, but she was already backing away, already turning to leave.

My hand shot out, grasping her wrist.

I pulled her to me, so close that our bodies were almost touching, and her head fell against my chest.

"Samne baithna bilkul," I said, my voice low and thick with emotion.

"Right in front of me. Every second of this wedding, I want my baby to witness it. Everything."

She didn't try to pull away. She didn't look up.

But I felt the tension in her body, the brittle shell of a stranger. She was there, but she wasn't.

I held on to her, a desperate hope clinging to my heart, a sliver of faith that somewhere, under all the cold and the pain, she was still my wife.

She smiled then, a wide, bright smile. "Why not? It's his right to see his father get married. I'll stay."

I unclenched my jaw and walked away. I couldn't look back.

****

The stairs felt like a long, slow descent into a pit of fire. My eyes scanned the crowd, the vibrant colors of the wedding blurring into a single, painful haze.

The mandap was a brilliant spectacle of marigolds and jasmine, but all I could see was the emptiness where my heart used to be.

The priest was chanting, his voice a monotonous drone that faded into the background as I looked for her.

And there she was.

She was standing next to my family, her green lehenga a vibrant splash of life in the sea of red and gold.

She was smiling, her eyes bright and full of a happiness I couldn't comprehend.

I walked to the mandap and took my seat, the hard cushion a cruel reminder of the comfort I was giving up.

I was doing this because she told me to. Because she said our love, our life, our entire journey didn't affect her. Not one bit.

The bride arrived, a vision in red, her face veiled. The pheras began, each circle around the sacred fire a turn of the knife in my gut.

I couldn't look at the bride. I couldn't look at the fire.

My eyes were fixed on her.

My wife.

Did she really feel nothing?

The life we had, the love, the journey-was it all a performance to her? Was I so easily replaced?

The first phera started, but my gaze remained fixed on my wife.

She was there, throwing akshat with a smile that felt like a mockery.

I want to see it.

A single sign. Just one flicker of love in her eyes, one tremble of her lip, and I would have run.

I would have abandoned everything and everyone, all for her. But there was nothing.

Her smile was unwavering, her happiness as solid as stone

But there was nothing.

Her smile was unwavering, her eyes were bright.

She knew this was breaking me.

She knew this was tearing my heart to shreds, and she didn't care.

The priest's chants were a buzzing in my ears.

The sound of her laughter, a ghost of the past, now a mockery of the present.

I wanted to scream, to break down the walls of indifference she had built around herself.

I knew she was doing this to break me.

I knew she was watching me, her heartless gaze a weapon, an admission that our shared history meant nothing.

The thought was a physical pain, a shard of ice in my heart. She wasn't just my wife; she was my life, my love, my everything.

But now, she was nothing more than a ghost, a beautiful, cruel ghost, watching me marry another woman.

I didn't want this. I didn't want any of this.

But she did.

And so I would give her what she wanted, even if it destroyed me.

Then it's come the last phera.

____________

This is just the beginning.

A shadow of the storm to come.

The story you've just read is only the prologue.

The full book is on its way, and it's a journey that will test the limits of your heart.

Read at your own risk.

This story cont

ains powerful emotions, intense conflicts, and heart-wrenching truths.

Prepare to meet characters who will redefine what love and hate mean, and to witness a bond that will challenge a world set on destroying them.