The Devil Wore My Wedding Ring (Beautiful Sins #1)

Chapter 1

The scent of crushed jasmine and roasted sandalwood usually brought a sense of peace to Poorvanshi. Tonight, however, the thick, sweet fragrance hanging in the air of the bridal suite was starting to make her feel completely suffocated.

She sat completely still in front of the massive gold-framed mirror.

The woman looking back at her felt like a stranger.

She was dressed in a heavy, blood-red velvet lehenga, intricately embroidered with real gold threads that sparkled under the bright chandelier lights.

The dress weighed nearly fifteen kilograms, but the physical weight was nothing compared to the heavy burden pressing down on her chest. Heavy diamond and emerald jewelry, a long-standing tradition in the Rathore family, adorned her neck, ears, and forehead.

Her hands and feet were covered in dark, beautiful mehndi designs, hiding the nervous sweat on her palms.

She was twenty-six years old, an independent, strong-willed architect who loved clean lines, logical structures, and building things from the ground up.

She liked control. She liked knowing exactly what was going to happen next.

Yet, here she was, waiting in a heavily decorated room for a man she barely knew, preparing to tie her life to his simply because it was the right thing to do.

She had never wanted an arranged marriage.

The very idea of it felt outdated to her modern mind.

But when her father, Rajesh Rathore, had suffered a mild heart attack a few months ago, everything changed.

The doctor had told them to keep him happy and stress-free.

So, when Raghav Chaturvedi, one of the most powerful business tycoons in the country, proposed an alliance between his younger son, Aryan, and Poorvanshi, her father had wept with joy.

The Chaturvedis were a massive family empire.

A marriage into their family meant absolute security for the Rathores.

Seeing the pure relief and happiness in her father’s aging eyes, Poorvanshi had swallowed her own dreams and agreed.

Aryan Chaturvedi was charming, spoiled, and completely unserious about life.

He was the golden boy of the Chaturvedi family, always smiling, always smooth-talking, and always running away from actual responsibilities.

Poorvanshi had thought they could make it work.

They could be friendly roommates, partners in a business arrangement called marriage.

But right now, the ornate grandfather clock in the hallway struck one in the morning. The auspicious time for the wedding ceremony, the muhurat, had passed an hour ago.

And the groom was nowhere to be found.

"This is absolutely ridiculous," Ayesha muttered, pacing back and forth across the plush carpet of the room. Ayesha Kapoor was Poorvanshi’s best friend.

Outspoken, fiercely protective, and dressed in a bright blue saree, she looked ready to punch a wall.

"It is one a.m., Poorvi. Where the hell is he?

Does it take this long to fix a turban?"

Poorvanshi did not answer. She kept her eyes fixed on her own reflection. She noticed how pale her face looked beneath the thick layer of bridal makeup. Her heart was beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but on the outside, she remained as still as a statue.

"I am going to go downstairs and check," Ayesha said, grabbing her phone. "This is not funny anymore. The guests have been eating dinner for three hours. The holy fire in the mandap is probably running out of wood. I swear, if that spoiled brat is playing a prank..."

Before Ayesha could reach the door, it burst open.

Meera Rathore, Poorvanshi’s mother, stumbled into the room.

The sight of her made Poorvanshi’s blood run completely cold.

Meera was usually a picture of perfect grace, but right now, her expensive silk saree was wrinkled, her hair was coming undone, and her face was drained of all color.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks, ruining her carefully applied mascara.

"Maa?" Poorvanshi stood up instantly. The heavy lehenga dragged on the floor, but she ignored it, rushing to her mother’s side. "Maa, what happened? Is Papa okay?"

"He is gone," Meera choked out, covering her mouth with her trembling hands. A loud, heart-wrenching sob escaped her throat.

Poorvanshi froze. "Who is gone? Maa, please, breathe. Tell me what happened."

"Aryan," Meera cried, looking up at her daughter with eyes full of absolute agony and humiliation. "Aryan is not in his room. His closet is half empty. His passport is gone. His favorite sports car is missing from the driveway. He... he ran away, Poorvi. He left you."

The words hung in the air like thick, toxic smoke.

For a few seconds, the room was completely silent. Ayesha gasped, covering her mouth in pure shock. Poorvanshi just stood there, letting the words process in her logical, architect's brain.

Aryan ran away.

He took his passport.

He left the wedding.

He abandoned her on their wedding night.

A normal bride might have collapsed. A normal bride might have started screaming, crying, tearing at her hair, or begging for answers.

But Poorvanshi was not a normal bride.

A strange, freezing calm washed over her.

The nervousness that had been eating her alive all evening completely vanished, replaced by a sharp, icy clarity.

She felt the heavy sting of humiliation burning the back of her neck, but she refused to let a single tear fall from her eyes. She would not cry for a coward.

"Are you sure?" Poorvanshi asked, her voice dangerously quiet and steady.

"The whole house knows," Meera sobbed, collapsing onto the edge of the bed.

"The guests are whispering. The media is outside the gates.

Your father... oh God, your poor father is downstairs, folding his hands and apologizing to everyone as if it is our fault!

Our reputation is completely ruined, Poorvi. We are destroyed."

That broke the ice inside Poorvanshi’s chest. A fierce, burning anger flared up in her stomach. Her father, a proud, honest, hard-working man, was apologizing for a rich, spoiled boy's cowardice? No. She would not allow that.

"Poorvi, wait, where are you going?" Ayesha called out in alarm as Poorvanshi suddenly turned around.

Without saying a word, Poorvanshi reached up and unpinned the heavy, sequined red dupatta that covered her head.

The symbol of a shy, hiding bride. She let it drop to the floor.

Then, she reached for the large diamond engagement ring on her left hand.

The ring Aryan had slipped onto her finger three months ago with a charming, empty smile.

She pulled it off violently and gripped it tightly in her fist.

"I am going downstairs," Poorvanshi said, her voice hard. "I am not going to hide in this room like a criminal. I did nothing wrong."

She walked out of the bridal suite, her heavy dress sweeping across the marble floors. Ayesha and her weeping mother followed closely behind.

As Poorvanshi reached the top of the grand sweeping staircase that overlooked the main hall, the full reality of the nightmare hit her.

The grand Chaturvedi mansion was decorated like a royal palace.

Thousands of golden fairy lights hung from the high ceilings.

Mountains of fresh orange marigolds and red roses covered every pillar.

In the center of the massive hall sat the mandap, the sacred space where the wedding rituals were supposed to happen.

The holy fire was burning low, unattended and useless.

The hall was packed with hundreds of the most elite people in the city. Politicians, Bollywood celebrities, business rivals, and wealthy relatives. But there was no music playing. The joyful wedding songs had been abruptly silenced.

Instead, the air was filled with a loud, buzzing noise. The sound of hundreds of people whispering, gossiping, and staring.

Down in the center of the room, absolute chaos was unfolding.

Raghav Chaturvedi, Aryan's powerful father, was red in the face, screaming at his head of security. "How does a man just walk out of a house surrounded by fifty armed guards? Find him! Find him right now before I fire every single one of you!"

Standing next to him was Nandini Chaturvedi, Aryan's mother and Siddhant's stepmother.

She was putting on a dramatic, theatrical performance of grief.

She was holding a silk handkerchief to her eyes, wailing loudly.

"Oh, the shame! The absolute shame! My innocent boy must have been frightened.

What will society say? Our family name is dragged through the mud!

" Despite her loud cries, Poorvanshi could see from the balcony that Nandini’s eyes were dry and calculating.

But the sight that completely broke Poorvanshi’s heart was her father. Rajesh Rathore stood a few feet away, looking ten years older than he had this morning. His shoulders were slumped. He had his hands folded in a gesture of pleading towards Raghav Chaturvedi.

"Raghav ji, please," Rajesh was saying, his voice shaking with humiliation. "Did we do something wrong? Did we offend you in the arrangements? Please, let us fix this. My daughter's life will be ruined. People will say she was cursed. Please, call Aryan back."

"Call him back?" Raghav barked angrily, losing all his polished manners. "His phone is switched off! He took a flight out of the country, Rajesh! He is gone!"

The whispers in the crowd grew louder.

"Abandoned on the wedding night."

"There must be something wrong with the girl."

"The Rathores are finished."

"Such a tragedy. Who will marry her now?"

Every whisper felt like a slap to Poorvanshi's face. Her fingers dug into her palms so hard that her sharp nails nearly drew blood. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin high, and took her first step down the grand staircase.