Tagline: A grand celebration brings the family together, while a secret war tears them apart.
The Naval Officers' Mess in Mumbai had been transformed into a fairytale of white lilies and navy-blue drapes. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, heavy silk, and the salt of the Arabian Sea.
It was a day of triumph, but for one person in the room, it felt like a funeral.
Rahul's POV:
Standing at the altar in my Full Dress Whites, I felt like the luckiest man in the Indian Navy.
When Shruti walked down the aisle, her voice—usually so powerful and commanding—was replaced by a shy, radiant smile. In her crimson lehenga, she looked like a dream I never wanted to wake up from.
As we exchanged garlands, I caught my father's eye. Shreejin looked ten years younger, his chest puffed out with a patriarch's pride. But when my gaze shifted to Isha, my smile faltered.
She was draped in a beautiful gold saree, yet her eyes were glued to her phone. Her face wasn't just pale; it was ghostly.
"Eyes on your bride, Commander," my best man whispered.
I forced myself to focus on Shruti's hand in mine, but a cold knot formed in my stomach. Something was wrong with my sister. Amidst the music and the laughter, she looked like she was mourning.
Shruti's POV:
The music was perfect, the food was divine, but as I sat next to Rahul on the stage, I couldn't stop watching Isha.
We had become close during the wedding rehearsals. I had learned to read her "Doctor's Calm," and I knew right now it was nothing but a fragile mask.
During the photography session, I leaned in close. "Isha, your smile hasn't reached your eyes once today. Is it the hospital?"
"Just a difficult case, Shruti Bhabhi," she whispered. Her hand was trembling as she tucked her phone back into her clutch.
I didn't believe her for a second. I'm a singer; my entire life is built on rhythm and tone. I know when someone is out of tune. There was a vibration of raw fear coming off her that had nothing to do with medicine.
Isha's POV:
The celebratory gunfire of the traditional naval wedding sounded like real artillery to me. Every time a cork popped or a drum rolled, I flinched.
Twenty minutes ago, my phone had buzzed with a news alert: "Brief exchange of fire reported in the Himalayan sector; casualties suspected on both sides."
That was Adil's sector.
I looked at my brother, laughing with his fellow officers. I looked at my father, talking loudly about "teaching the enemy a lesson." They were celebrating a union, while the man who saved my life was perhaps lying in the same mud where we once stood together.
I felt like a traitor in my own home. I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask if the "enemy" they hated so much had a sister who was also waiting for a message that might never come.
I clutched the gold embroidery of my saree, feeling the memory of the Blue Poppy Adil had described—crushed, but still holding its color.
Adil's POV:
The wedding lights of Mumbai were a universe away from the freezing darkness of the Line of Control.
The "skirmish" had lasted only ten minutes, but it had felt like an eternity. I was crouched in a trench, the acrid smell of gunpowder stinging my nose. Five feet away, my fellow soldier lay clutching a bloody shoulder wound.
"Khan! Stay low!" my Sergeant yelled over the wind.
I pressed my face into the frozen dirt. I thought of the note I had sent through Bashir yesterday—a simple "Congratulations to your brother."
I prayed to Allah it hadn't been intercepted. If Isha's family knew a Pakistani soldier was thinking of them today, they wouldn't see it as a gift. They would see it as a threat.
I looked up at the stars. Somewhere, Isha was dancing. Somewhere, there was music.
Here, there was only the cold steel of my rifle and the terrifying realization: the man I was supposed to shoot might be her brother's best friend.