The Replaced Groom (Dynasty of Desire #3)

The Age of Almost

SITARA

Twenty-five is a strange age. You’ve lived your whole life surrounded by family, pretending to know who you are, convincing yourself you’re happy—until one day, every relative you’ve ever met suddenly remembers your existence.

Overnight, they decide you’re not just their niece or cousin anymore.

You’re now a ticking clock. A biological time bomb.

And every conversation starts with “So, when are you getting married, beta?”

And before you even realize it, you’re dressed in red silk, staring at your reflection, wondering how exactly you ended up here.

I sigh. Loudly. It echoes through the dressing room, bouncing off the mirror like it’s mocking me. I’m getting married today. And God help me, this lehenga is tighter than it was yesterday. Or maybe my body just gave up pretending to cooperate.

I press a hand against my stomach and mutter, “Thank you, PCOD. You’ve officially ruined another milestone in my life.”

My reflection stares back, unimpressed.

I’ve been starving for a week. Or maybe a month. I’ve tried detox teas, salads that taste like regret, and workouts that made me want to sue whoever invented squats. But no matter what, the scale refuses to move, and the mirror refuses to flatter.

It’s almost poetic — being starved, dressed, and decorated like someone else’s dream.

“Stop glaring at yourself, you look beautiful.” I turn around to see Meher bhabhi-sa standing at the doorway, her smile soft but knowing.

There’s a kind of calm that follows her everywhere she goes.

Maybe it’s because she’s seen enough storms to recognize peace when it finally arrives.

Her dupatta is pinned perfectly, her eyes warm, her tone gentle.

Behind her, Poorvi walks in, phone in hand, scrolling through something and shaking her head. “You know, if you keep sighing like that, Sitara, people will think you’re getting sentenced to life imprisonment, not marriage.”

“Feels like the same thing,” I mutter.

Bhabhi-sa chuckles under her breath, coming closer to fix a stray strand of my hair that’s escaped my bun. “You’re nervous,” she says.

I laugh—the kind that sounds more like a breath than amusement. “Nervous? I’m terrified. My hands are shaking, and I’ve convinced myself I might faint right before taking pheras. That’ll be a great family story, won’t it?”

Poorvi looks up from her phone finally. “You? Faint? Please. You’re the calmest yet dramatic person I know.” She smiles and I roll my eyes, pouting at her for the effects.

“That’s because I’m good at pretending,” I reply, staring back at the mirror. “It’s my favorite hobby—right after overthinking.”

Bhabhi-sa’s reflection meets mine. “Pretending isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes it’s how we survive.”

I smile faintly. “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”

“I am,” she says quietly. “But you’ll be fine. You always are.”

I wish I believed her.

I sit down carefully, making sure the heavy lehenga doesn’t wrinkle too much.

Every inch of this outfit screams royalty—intricate embroidery, subtle shimmer, layers of fabric that weigh more than my self-esteem.

My jewelry glints under the lights—family heirlooms, chosen by Maa-sa herself, who’s been.

.. trying lately. Redeeming, they call it.

The word feels too grand for what redemption really is—small, hesitant steps towards forgiveness that sometimes hurt more than the mistake itself.

Bhabhi-sa crouches next to me, straightening the border of my dupatta. “You look like a bride straight out of a fairytale.”

“Except this one didn’t choose her prince.” I murmur.

She chuckles. “Fairytales never mention the pressure before the happy ending.”

Poorvi sits on the couch, adjusting her earrings. “Okay, but let’s be real. You’ve had, what, twelve blind dates in the last four months? At least you picked someone halfway decent. That’s a win.”

I roll my eyes. “Twelve disasters, you mean. One of them talked only about his car collection. Another one asked me how soon I could quit my ‘art hobby’ after marriage because, apparently, his mother doesn’t believe women should work. The one before that told me I was ‘pretty for my size.’”

Poorvi groans. “Men are such a disappointment.”

“Tell me about it,” I sigh. “So when Ayush showed up—polite, educated, relatively normal—I figured, why not? He’s the least worst option.”

Bhabhi-sa gives me that patient smile again, the one that hides understanding. “That’s not exactly a glowing start to a marriage, Sitara.”

“I know,” I admit. “But honestly, I’m just tired. Everyone around me keeps moving forward, and I feel… stuck. So maybe this is what moving on looks like.”

Poorvi’s eyes soften. “You don’t owe anyone proof that you’re moving on. Marriage isn’t a finish line.”

“Tell that to every auntie who’s been calling me a spinster since I turned twenty-four,” I mumble.

Poorvi snorts. “Next time someone says that, just tell them you’re waiting for your divine calling. Make it sound dramatic.”

I laugh despite myself. “You should be my PR person.”

“My husband is, if that helps” She grins.

The laughter fades after a moment, leaving a quiet stillness that wraps around us. The kind of silence that fills every pre-wedding room—where nerves hum beneath the surface and everyone pretends they aren’t terrified of change.

I glance at Bhabhi-sa and Poorvi, both so put together, both having faced storms of their own. And yet, here they are—smiling, glowing, at peace. Maybe love does that to people. Or maybe they just learned how to breathe through the chaos.

I envy that.

The door creaks open again, and one of the palace attendants peeks in. “Rani-sa, the baraat will arrive in twenty minutes.”

Rani-sa.

The title still feels foreign. Like a costume I haven’t grown into. I nod, and he bows slightly before leaving.

“Breathe,” Bhabhi-sa says quietly. “It’s just a ceremony.”

I inhale deeply, exhale slower. “That’s easy for you to say. You married a king.”

She chuckles softly. “And you’re marrying someone you chose. Besides, he's also going to become one soon, not that it matters.”

“I chose him because he didn’t make me want to run away,” I admit. “That’s a low bar.”

“Sometimes comfort is a good start,” she says, brushing invisible dust off my sleeve.

The mirror catches my eyes again—lined with kajal, lips painted, cheeks glowing, a stranger looking back at me in bridal red.

I don’t look like the girl who spent nights sketching alone, who hid her panic attacks behind sarcasm, who never believed she’d fit into this world of perfect smiles and thinner waists.

I look like someone who belongs. And somehow, that terrifies me even more.

My phone buzzes on the table beside me. It’s a message from my best friend, Tia.

Tia

Still time to run. I’ll meet you at the gate with your sneakers.

I smile. My fingers hover over the keyboard before I type back —

Me

Too late. I’m already in the cage.

A few seconds later, her reply flashes —

Tia

At least it’s a pretty cage. You’ll be okay, Sit.

I stare at the message for a moment too long.

Will I be?

Poorvi suddenly claps her hands. “Okay, enough overthinking. Let’s fix your dupatta one last time and take a few photos before you get smothered by relatives.”

“Great. My favorite part.”

They both laugh, and the room fills with warmth again.

As they help me adjust the veil, I catch my reflection once more. This time, I try to see what they see. Maybe not perfection, but strength. Not confidence, but courage pretending to be confidence.

“Ready?” Bhabhi-sa asks.

I nod, even though my heart’s hammering against my ribs.

As they walk me towards the door, the weight of the lehenga makes every step deliberate. The faint sound of drums from outside reaches me—the baraat must have arrived. My palms are sweating, and my throat feels tight.

What if I’m making a mistake?

What if this is how people settle—not because it’s right, but because they’re too afraid to wait for something better?

The thought lingers, heavy and uninvited, as I walk through the corridor toward the hall. The walls are lined with portraits of ancestors—kings, queens, people who probably made braver choices than I ever have.

And yet, here I am, walking in their footsteps, wrapped in red and uncertainty.

At the doorway, I pause, catching my breath.

Poorvi leans close and whispers, “You’ve got this.”

Bhabhi-sa squeezes my hand. “Trust yourself.”

I look up, at the golden lights, the sea of guests waiting beyond the curtain, and the faint hum of the shehnai.

For a moment, I forget the anxiety, the noise, the expectations.

All I feel is the heartbeat in my chest—fast, uneven, alive.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

Because for all my doubts, one thing remains certain.This may not be the fairytale I dreamed of. But it’s the story I’m already in.

And whatever comes next, I’ll face it—one breath, one step, one imperfect smile at a time.