Stolen Bride

YAMINI RAO

I shouldn’t be here.

I shouldn’t be sneaking into this place—no, no, not just a place. A mansion. A glittering palace of wealth and arrogance, so big it could swallow my entire neighborhood and still have space for a tennis court.

I shouldn’t be creeping into a party I wasn’t invited to—one where the people inside would throw me out if they knew why I was here.

I should be in bed like the good girl I pretend to be.

But I can’t.

I had to do this.

If I want to survive—literally survive—then I have no choice.

Because the alternative? I don’t even want to picture it. My whole body shivers just imagining the outcome.

I slip in through the balcony, moving slowly, careful not to draw any attention. My heels make no sound on the marble floor. I am lucky—no one stops me, no security guard questions my presence. That’s one of the perks of being the daughter of a well-known millionaire and philanthropist. People just assume you belong everywhere. Unlimited access, as they say.

So then, why am I sneaking in at all? Why not walk through the front doors like everyone else, smile for the cameras, and take my seat as an honored guest?

Because I am not here to drink champagne and dance under the chandeliers. I am here for something far more dangerous. I have to be careful, not to leak the plan. I am here to meet my fiancé... and make him fall in love with me.

Why?

Because if he doesn’t, I might be dead.

Okay, let me start from the beginning—before I explain the nightmare I have stumbled into.

I am Yamini Rao, daughter of Mr. Yugendar Rao, a business tycoon whose name opens doors. My mother, Sushmita Rao, died when I was only five. Dad remarried my stepmother, Sunita Rao, not long after. You would expect me to say my life turned into one of those tragic Cinderella tales—ignored by my father, mistreated by my stepmother, punished at every turn.

No. Not at all.

My life was happy. I was the apple of my father’s eye. He adored me, spoiled me, and loved to remind me that I was living proof of the love between him and my mother. He pampered me endlessly. Yes, I was reckless and spoiled, but I was also cherished. The only downside was that Dad often had to travel for business, leaving me with my stepmother and my younger stepsister, Keerthi.

Keerthi was two years younger than me, and no, not my father’s child. Sunita had her before marrying Dad—no marriage, just a boyfriend who cheated and left her pregnant. Despite that, Keerthi and I were close. People even thought we were real sisters. My father never treated her differently. We weren’t the scheming, jealous kind of stepsisters you hear about in movies. Or at least... that’s what I thought.

Until last week.

I was supposed to go to a party with my boyfriend, Kaushik, but I came back home because of a sudden headache. Around 10 p.m., I returned quietly, not wanting to wake anyone. That’s when I heard voices.

“Is everything going according to plan, Keerthi?” Sunita’s voice.

“Yes, Mom. Everything is perfect.” Keerthi.

I thought they were just talking about some casual event—until the next sentence froze me in place.

“Is Kaushik ready with the room and all?” Sunita asked.

Kaushik. My boyfriend. My heart skipped. Were they throwing me a surprise? A party? A gift? My birthday was still months away, so why...?

“Yes, Mom. I made sure he booked one of the best rooms.”

“What about the cameras? I want everything to be perfectly clear.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I talked with Kaushik. I even gave him the drug. He positioned the cameras so they will always focus on her face.”

Cameras? Drug? My chest tightened.

“Good. Once we release her sex tape to the media, let’s see how she marries Veer Raj. There’s no way the Rathores will let such a whore into their family,” Sunita said, laughing.

“Yes, Mom. Then I can marry Veer and become the wife of the Finance Minister—and future Chief Minister.”

They laughed. Evil, satisfied laughter.

“How dare Yugendar think my daughter is worth less than his? He got her a political match and for you, only a business match. It’s his fault.”

“Yes, Mom. They were so naive. I just told her a few lies about the match, and she ran into Kaushik’s arms. That playboy we got for her was good .”

“After you get the video, make sure it’s everywhere, make sure you pay them to write more rumors of her being a slut. Her own father should disown her.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I even gave the drugs so she will enjoy it.”

I stayed frozen, every muscle locked, listening to them walk away.

I sank to the floor, shaking. They had been playing with me all along. The warmth, the sisterhood, the family I thought I had—it was a façade. To them, Dad and I were nothing but stepping stones. Pawns in their game.

I wanted to run to Dad, tell him everything. But... I had no proof. And right now, we were already in a fragile place—fighting over my engagement to Veer. Dad hated Kaushik, warned me about him, but I defended him like an idiot. My stepmother and Keerthi encouraged me, saying Kaushik understood me, unlike the strict and traditional Veer Rathore.

Now I see it. It was their plan all along.

My marriage to Veer was arranged when I was eight. I am twenty-three now. That means they’ve been waiting, plotting, for years.

And that’s why I am here tonight.

The rumors about me cheating on Veer with Kaushik? Spread by my dear sister, of course—through Veer’s own sisters, Navya Rathore. If I can convince Veer that it’s all lies, that I’m ready to marry him, then I can protect myself and destroy their plan.

Because if this alliance fails, it won’t just ruin me—it will destroy my father’s business ties with the Rathores. And considering their power, they wouldn’t hesitate to crush us completely.

So here I am. In this mansion. My heart pounding. My future balanced on a knife’s edge.

Come on, Yamini. Breathe. You have got this.

I walk out onto the patio, my heels clicking softly against the polished stone, the faint scent of perfume and expensive cigars hanging in the warm night air. This is where he is supposed to be.

I had messaged him earlier—told him I would meet him here. How did I even get his number? I stole it from my sister’s phone. Pathetic, I know. You would think, being engaged to someone since childhood, we would know at least something about each other. But we don’t.

Hell, I don’t even know what he looks like. Yeah. Let that sink in.

I really should have gone with my dad to all those family dinners over the years instead of hiding in my room or making up excuses.

From what I have heard, he spent most of his life in London, only returning about five years ago. And now? He is the damn Finance Minister of the state. Been in office for a year.

I know, I know—I could have just Googled him. But apparently, his PR team has scrubbed the internet clean of his photos. Not a single clear picture anywhere. How the hell does someone become a minister with no public image? Honestly, it’s laughable. I guess if you have got enough money to buy astate, you can pull off anything.

But now comes the real problem—how the hell do I even identify him? He is probably waiting for me, and I have zero clue who I am walking up to.

I spot a server carrying a tray of champagne flutes and step into his path. “Hey, hi... umm, is Mr. Rathore on the patio?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says politely. “He is by the pool.”

“Thanks,” I mutter.

This is it, Yamini. You have got this. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I glance down at my dress—deep wine-red satin that hugs me in all the right places—and smooth out a nonexistent wrinkle. I run my fingers quickly through my hair, making sure not a strand is out of place. First impressions matter. They always matter.

I slowly walk into the patio and stop.

There he is.

My feet stop moving for a second, like my brain just short-circuited.

By the pool, sitting with one leg crossed over the other, in a charcoal-grey suit that looks like it was sewn directly onto his body by some Italian tailor who sold his soul. The crisp white shirt underneath is open just enough to make me wonder how warm it is here—or maybe it’s just him radiating heat.

His hair is jet black, perfectly styled yet somehow still looking like he didn’t try at all. Thick, glossy strands that catch the warm glow of the pool lights, making me want to know if it feels as soft as it looks.

And his face... oh god. Strong jawline, sharp cheekbones, and lips that look like they have never had to beg for anything.

But it’s the way he is sitting that really gets me.

Calm. Effortless. Like he’s not waiting for anyone—likeI’mthe one who should be grateful for the privilege of showing up. His eyes are closed, head tilted slightly back, as though the whole world is at his feet and he’s deciding whether or not to let it live another day.

He doesn’t look like a man you can fool. He doesn’t look like a man you can even approach without thinking twice.

And yet... here I am, in heels that suddenly feel way too loud, walking toward the kind of man mothers warn their daughters about.

My future. My fiancé. Veer Raj Rathore.

I take another step, then another, my pulse loud in my ears. The closer I get, the more I realize that nothing about him feels accidental. The way he is positioned—half in the shadows, half bathed in the blue glow of the pool lights—feels like a damn movie scene.

His eyes open.

And oh, holy hell.

They are dark. Not just brown, but deep, rich, molten—like they have seen too much and remembered everything. For a second, I swear they pin me to the spot, stripping me bare without touching me.

A tiny smirk tugs at his lips, the kind that says I already know who you are before I even open my mouth.

I manage a smile—hopefully charming, not terrified.

“Mr. Rathore?” My voice comes out softer than I intended.

His eyes open fully, dark and unreadable. They sweep over me slowly, deliberately, before he tilts his head slightly to one side. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. Just... looks.

My feet start moving before I can think better of it, carrying me forward. I lower myself into the chair beside him, trying not to let the silence swallow me whole.

“What are you doing?” he asks finally, his tone not accusing but as flat and factual as reading a weather report.

“I am here to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone.” His voice is calm but edged with finality. Then his eyes narrow. “Leave.”

Oh, great. Perfect. I think the damn rumors got to him before I did. And here I am, sitting across from the one man I have to marry, watching my plan go up in flames.

“Mr. Rathore, I know... I know what you have heard,” I rush out, words tripping over each other. “But it’s not true. Okay—okay, it’s true to some extent. I mean, yes, I did have a boyfriend. But I broke up with him. I don’t love him. I never loved him. I was cheated on by him, actually—”

He just stares. Silent. Steady. That unnerves me more than if he had yelled. So I keep talking. I can’t stop.

“So what I am saying is, I am ready for this marriage. Iwantto marry you. I know, I know—I have been... a little bad before. I ignored you. I ignored your family. But I was focusing on my career. And now that I have graduated, I am ready to give this marriage a real shot.”

God, I hope he buys that. The career thing is a stretch - a open lie. Everyone who knows me knows I barely scraped through my exams. I am a terrible student—it’s not my fault. My focus was never on textbooks. I was born to be a cellist, not a business prodigy. And I am good at it. Award-winning good. I won many awards from college to international levels. But in our circle, music is just a hobby; business is the real game.

Still, I keep my chin up, even as my stomach churns.

He says nothing. Just keeps staring at me like I am a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit anywhere. The silence stretches until I feel it pressing on my skin. Then, finally—

“No. I do not want to marry you.”

The words land like a bucket of ice water, flooding every inch of me. My breath catches. My carefully stacked plan crashes down in shards around my feet.

Shit.

I push myself up and start pacing before I can think better of it. “Why? Do you have someone you love? Or do you just not like marriage?”

Nothing. Not a flicker of emotion.

“You don’t have to like me to marry me,” I blurt. “We can live as separate individuals after the wedding. You can have as many affairs as you want, I won’t interfere. If you find the love of your life, I will divorce you myself. But until then...” I stop, meeting his gaze even though my pulse is hammering. “Can you marry me? Please.”

I don’t know which part of that made me sound more pathetic—the ‘please’ or the part where I basically offered to be his doormat.

But I can’t afford to care. I need this marriage like I need air.

“You are okay with me having a mistress?” he asks, voice flat, but his eyes... they are watching me too closely.

“Yes,” I blurt, nodding way too fast. My neck might actually snap if I keep going.

“Why?” His tone shifts—less curious, more... accusing. “No wife would want that. Why are you so desperate to marry me?”

Crap. Crap. Crap.

My brain scrambles, flipping through excuses like a deck of cards. I need something—anything—that will make him buy this.

“That’s because...” I swallow. “I love you.”

His eyebrow arches. Just one. Like I have told him the sky is green.

“I mean—” The words tumble out faster now. “I have loved you since I was a teenager. I had a crush on you for soooo long, but you never reached out to me. So... as revenge, I got a boyfriend. But it was never serious. He was only there so you would think of me. I wanted to make you jealous. That’s all it was.”

I lean forward slightly, my voice dropping, softer but desperate. “So that’s why I am okay with... anything. As long as I marry you.”

God, I hope my face looks convincing, because inside I am one bad heartbeat away from throwing up all over this perfectly manicured patio.