Chapter 3: The Mehra Siblings’ Secret

The butler worked quickly and soon completed the adoption procedures for me.

When the rich set their mind to something, paperwork and red tape melt away. In no time, I had a new surname and a room bigger than my old school library.

I also learned the identities of the young sir and young miss.

Through whispers in the corridor and the cook’s gossip in the kitchen, I pieced together who my new ‘siblings’ were.

The most prominent family in Mumbai—the Mehra family’s twin brother and sister.

Everyone in the city knew the Mehra twins. Society pages gossiped about their parties and style, but rarely about their smiles.

And now, I had become their little sister, Anya Mehra.

From a dustbin to a designer crib, all in one day. That’s what you call a Bollywood plot twist!

Don’t be envious yet—

Don’t be fooled by the glitz. Every family has its cracks, even the ones with crystal chandeliers.

Because the two of them are the biggest cannon fodder in a childhood-friends-to-lovers counterattack novel.

In the bookish world I’d landed in, Aryan and Meera were just obstacles for the heroes to overcome. Their pain was plot fodder—how unfair.

They have the family background and the looks, but can’t have a complete family.

Their lives were like those old Hindi songs—melody on the surface, loneliness underneath.

After Mr. Mehra and Mrs. Mehra had them, they divorced and quickly reunited with their old flames.

In true filmi style, the parents split, each running off to their own ‘college sweetheart’, leaving the kids behind.

In their eyes, these children were just products of a marriage of convenience.

To their parents, Aryan and Meera were assets, not children. The sort of calculation you hear whispered at kitty parties.

So they didn’t care about them at all for years.

Nannies and butlers became their surrogate parents. Hugs were rare, and bedtime stories even rarer.

Don’t expect children who have never been loved to grow up into truly kind, beautiful people.

It’s a wonder they turned out as soft as they did. Most would’ve become cold as stone.

In short, Aryan and Meera’s personalities are each more eccentric and twisted than the other.

Aryan kept to himself, and Meera tried too hard—like two ends of a frayed string.

Though they’re siblings by blood, they don’t get along.

They fought over everything—TV channels, bathroom timings, even the best seat in the car.

Even worse, they crossed paths with the male and female leads—a pair of childhood friends who crawled out of a den of villains.

The new kids in town were sharp, ambitious, and charming—the kind that survive by outsmarting everyone else.

The leads deliberately created chances to get close to the siblings, and together they drove a wedge between them.

Every conversation, every group project—they twisted things, making Aryan and Meera doubt each other.

The brother is gloomy and indifferent, attracted to the bright and warm-hearted heroine.

Aryan, who never smiled, found himself opening up to the female lead, her laughter brightening up his darkness.

The sister is sensitive and love-starved, willing to give everything for the male lead.

Meera, who only wanted to be loved, clung to the male lead’s every word, believing his empty promises.

Little did they know, salvation was a lie; they were just stepping stones on the leads’ path to success.

It was all a setup—like the plot twists in a saas-bahu serial, where nothing is as it seems.

In the end, after their remaining value was squeezed out, they were cast aside.

Discarded and alone, they became the forgotten faces in someone else’s success story.

With the non-traditionally righteous protagonists and the mix of real feelings and interests, readers called it a masterpiece and cheered with excitement.

People love grey characters these days. But sitting here in this nursery, I can’t help but think—what’s the point, if it leaves such good people broken?

Exciting? I don’t feel excited at all now.

This isn’t drama for me. It’s my life now, and I want something better for all of us.

Even the imported formula milk the nanny carefully prepared tastes bland to me.

Even the fanciest bottle can’t sweeten the ache in my heart.

Babies are like this—if they’re a little unhappy, they can’t help but cry.

If grown-ups can vent, why can’t we babies? The tears just come, no matter how hard I try.

Soon, Aryan and Meera came over.

I heard their footsteps echo on the wooden floor—one heavy, one quick.

The nanny held me, at her wit’s end.

She was used to tantrums, but even she couldn’t handle this storm.

“The little miss doesn’t know what’s wrong. Nothing can comfort her.”

She looked at Aryan and Meera as if hoping they had the magic touch.

But as soon as Aryan took me, I stopped crying instantly.

There’s a special peace in Aryan bhaiya’s arms—a safety I can’t explain. Maybe he needs it as much as I do.

Everyone stared, wide-eyed.

The staff exchanged knowing glances. In this house, love comes in small, rare doses.

The nanny chuckled, “Young sir, little miss really clings to you.”

She covered her mouth in surprise, and the cook, walking by, stifled a laugh, his eyes twinkling.

He smiled for a moment, then forced it down.

Aryan bhaiya tried not to look pleased, but his eyes gave him away.

“So troublesome. If you make trouble again, I’ll send you back to the dustbin.”

The nanny’s eyes widened in shock, while the cook quickly turned away, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Aryan’s words sounded stern, but the teasing was laced with fondness—a very Indian way of showing you care.

Me: “......”

Arrey, what a thing to say! But I wasn’t scared; I knew he was joking.

So mean!

Still, for effect, I pouted, just to see if he’d soften up.

I immediately reached out to Meera for a hug. She was a bit surprised but carefully stretched out her hands.

Meera didi’s hands trembled. You could tell she wasn’t used to being wanted. After Aryan denied her, she turned away, pretending to search for something in her bag, her eyes glinting with a pain she quickly hid.

But Aryan held me tight and walked away.

Possessive, just like big brothers everywhere.

“She’s sleepy. You can hold her next time.”

He said it like a king making a decree, but I could feel his arms relax as I nestled in.

Meera gritted her teeth. “......She clearly wants me to hold her. Give her to me.”

Sibling rivalry—alive and kicking, no matter how rich you are.

“You’re so clumsy. What if you drop her and she gets hurt?”

Trust issues, Indian style. The kind that get you arguing over who made a bigger mess in the kitchen.

“Aryan!”

She almost stamped her foot—classic didi move.

......

Listening to the siblings’ bickering, I gradually closed my eyes in drowsiness, clenching my little fists.

Their voices faded into the background, the nursery filling with warmth. For the first time in ages, I felt truly safe.

My brother and sister are both good and kind children.

They just need a little love, that’s all. If I can give it, I will.

I absolutely won’t let the male and female leads get involved.

Let the story change this time. Let me rewrite our fates.