I y awake long after the lights went out.

  I faced the opposite side of the bed from Aarav, stiff under the covers, absurdly conscious of the satin nightie and the soft swell at my chest rising and falling with every breath. Sleeping en femme beside Aarav felt wrong-not because of Aarav, but because the persona I wore made me feel exposed , fragile and vulnerable even in the darkness.

  I listened to the faint rhythm of Aarav's breathing transform gradually into soft snores. The steady sound filled the room, warm and domestic, until eventually it dulled my thoughts and dragged me into sleep.

  Bright sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains when I woke. The warmth across my face was my first sensation; the empty space beside me was the second.

  Aarav was not there.

  I pushed himself upright slowly. The nightie slid against my skin-light and whispery-and my gaze snagged on the full-length mirror facing the bed.

  My reflection blinked back at me.

  Hair slightly dishevelled and tousled, but still intact-the extensions held firmly. My skin appeared smooth, almost unreal, with no hint of stubble yet. Jyotsna's cream, apparently, was no joke.

  I tore his eyes away and headed into the bathroom.

  The bathroom was spacious -with a deep bathtub resting under a bst of morning light. I avoided the tub and went straight for the shower. Water ran down my shoulders and across the artificial curves attached to my chest. They held fast, almost mocking me.

  Habit made me wrap the towel around my waist.

  Then I froze.

  That left my fake breasts-shamelessly and stupidly visible.

  Cursing under my breath, I adjusted the towel higher, awkwardly covering both chest and hip, like women did, before stepping out.

  Aarav stood just inside the room, scrolling through his phone. His head snapped up.

  He let out a low whistle. "Wow. Hot."

  My face reddened instantly. "Shut up, Aarav."

  I gestured furiously toward the door. "Get out. I have to change."

  Aarav strode closer instead, still smiling. "It's my bedroom."

  I backed up without meaning to. The vulnerability hit again-sudden, sharp, humiliatingly real.

  "Stop it, Aarav", I said in a uncomfortable voice.

  Aarav kept coming closer and my pulse raced.

  "Go away," I said hurriedly, "or I won't come for the unch."

  Aarav ughed and held up his hands. "Alright, alright. Just teasing." He slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  The second he left, my shoulders dropped. My skin had developed goosebumps, K realised. I hated this helplessness that I felt in this guise, in these clothes, in this role. It wasn't physical-it was psychological, and far worse.

  Over breakfast, Aarav resumed the act of a doting husband to my discomfort.

  He sat close-too close-not touching but nearly. The servants moved around us, serving food with practiced familiarity. I reached for a paratha out of habit, then caught Aarav's warning gnce , settling for a bowl of fruit instead.

  Aarav wrapped an affectionate arm around my left shoulder and squeezed gently, his palm pressed in a way that read like intimacy.

  I opened my mouth to protest-then saw the maid gnce our way.

  Aarav's voice lifted, smooth and performative. "Jaan, I have a meeting about our film. I'll be back by three to pick you up. Jyotsna will come to get you ready for the unch event."

  And before I could brace himself, Aarav leaned in and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

  Heat fred under my skin-anger more than embarrassment-but I swallowed it. This was part of the act that Aarav had said we had to put on. Part of the cover.

  Aarav smiled at the staff, grabbed his keys, and left.

  Lunch was simpler-I let himself eat more than Sameera would. No calorie counting, no lettuce torture.

  By mid-afternoon, Jyotsna arrived, toolkit in hand. Aarav appeared moments ter, lounging against the wardrobe as she began working.

  Foundation. Concealer. Contour. Brushes tapping, powders swirling, scents of setting spray hanging in the air. Jyotsna moved with the easy confidence of someone who treated faces as canvases.

  Aarav paced to the wardrobe, rifling through sequins and chiffons and silks, until he pulled out a dress.

  It was a strapless red gown-elegant, expensive, and scandalously revealing. The neckline dipped low, promising more than it covered.

  I stared. "Aarav, you forget the breasts are fake. Someone will find out these aren't real if I stand there half naked."

  Aarav tilted his head. "Maybe... maybe not." Then he called over my shoulder, "Jyotsna, can you make them look really real? VK sir wants Sameera in a hot avatar."

  Jyotsna paused, brush in midair. "I can," she said thoughtfully, "but if anyone gets too close or, God forbid, touches-" She burst out ughing.

  My face ignited.

  Aarav looked between them, grinning. "We won't allow that. Will we?"

  I scowled. I didn't want men staring at my-at these- boobs, didn't want to invite scrutiny, didn't want to risk being exposed. And somewhere in that panic was the deeper discomfort-the visceral horror of being looked at by other men with sexual desirous eyes.

  But Aarav was relentless. "VK gave clear instructions. Gmorous and hot. This is non-negotiable."

  If humiliation came as part of the package, I had little choice.

  While Jyotsna finished the makeup, Aarav insisted she teach me how to touch up on my own.

  "You can't call her every time your eyeliner smudges," Aarav said.

  I, trying to master the alien choreography of brushes and shades and sponges, listened in dazed fascination. I never knew makeup involved so many tiny weapons: bronzer, blush, highlighter, powder, setting spray, lip liner, lipstick, gloss. Women lived whole secret battles inside their handbags.

  Men, by comparison, barely ran a hand through their hair.

  An hour ter, I stepped into the car.

  The gown hugged my torso, exposing my colrbones, shoulders, and the maddening curves Jyotsna had engineered. My hair was pinned and curled in deliberate waves. My lips cquered in red. Eyeliner flicked, cheeks flushed, shes dark and long.

  Aarav took one long appraising look and let out a low whistle.

  "Sam," he said, voice warm with something like awe, "you're a feast for the eyes."

  I didn't reply.

  Even I couldn't tell where Sam ended and Sameera began anymore.

  We drove toward the hotel and the unch event-toward camera fshes, directors, producers, and a world that believed that I was Sameera.

  ------

  The unch venue gleamed with chandeliers and mirrored walls, the sort meant to multiply both light and ego. A small podium stood at the far end, draped in velvet, ready for the announcement of the new film. From the moment they stepped inside, my breath tightened-not from awe, but awareness.

  Every reflection threw me back amyself: bare shoulders, satin red gown dipping low, cleavage sculpted into existence, lips cquered cherry-dark. I looked... alluring, tempting-an enticing beauty. The realization made me cringe.

  Aarav leaned in. "Acting is all about carrying yourself," he murmured. "Don't fuss with what you're wearing. A beggar or a king-same rule. You sell confidence, the audience buys everything else."

  I swallowed. I remembered Sameera gliding through simir crowds, ease and poise like second skin. I mimicked that posture now-shoulders tilting back, chin poised, eyes steady. A borrowed confidence, but still confidence.

  We moved through the crowd together. Fshbulbs cracked like distant fireworks. Voices rose in congratutions-on nding the film, on the pairing with Kabir Khan, on the supposed chemistry the audience would go mad for.

  Kabir materialized near the media wall, drink in hand, smile slow and warm. His gaze slid over me with the zy recognition of someone who believed he had earned familiarity.

  "Sami," he drawled, body angling into my space, "hot as ever. Can't wait for shooting to start. We'll finally get to spend time together again."

  I blinked. "Uh... you mean work together?"

  Kabir's grin turned mischievous. "Yes. Of course. We will enjoy working together."

  I muttered something noncommittal as Kabir's hand hovered near my waist before settling there, fingers brushing the gown's fabric.

  Heat climbed my neck-anger braided with something rawer, my vulnerability making me uncomfortable.

  Aarav slid into pce immediately. "Kabir," he said, pleasant and sharp, "VK sir is calling Sameera."

  Kabir lifted his gss in mock salute. "To working together again," he murmured, before drifting off toward a group of producers.

  As we moved on, the film's director-Kiran Mehta-intercepted us. His gaze lingered on my body for a long time. But I was surprised that it wasn't lust; it was assessment. Clinical. Calcuted.

  "You've lost volume in the rear," he announced loudly, gesturing vaguely at my hips and backside. "Don't diet this much. Our Indian audience likes curves. Meat."

  I stared, mortified and unsure of what expression was appropriate.

  Kiran chuckled. "Stay juicy, Sameera. That's your USP." He gave a friendly pat to my elbow and wandered off.

  I exhaled slowly.

  "This industry notices bodies first, talent second," Aarav murmured. "If you're lucky."

  "And if you're unlucky?"

  "They only notice bodies."

  A fresh wave of ughter rippled nearby as VK Khatri approached-financier, kingmaker, man worth ten careers with a signature. Age had carved deep lines into his face, but his eyes were sharp and forever weighing value.

  "Sameera," he greeted warmly. "Looking very beautiful today, beta." The word nded fatherly-affectionate, approving.

  But then his gaze lingered one beat too long on my exposed shoulders and neckline. Something flickered there-heat, hunger, or maybe it was my imagination-before it vanished behind a benevolent smile.

  "You have a great future, Sameera," VK said, patting my bare shoulder, which made my skin prickle.

  The event unfolded from there-press photos, scripted ughter, questions about distribution and release windows, champagne flutes clinking as egos preened under the lights. Then everyone gathered at the podium-VK, the producer Raunak Sharma, the director Kiran Mehta, Kabir, and me-while cameras devoured angles and silhouettes.

  VK delivered his speech with theatrical bravado. "We are making Bollywood's grandest film-with the hottest stars and the biggest dreams!" he decred. "Shooting starts in two weeks!"

  Appuse thundered. My heart raced.

  Two weeks. Would Sameera be back by then?

  Congratutions poured in. I was conscious that the gazes of most men lingered on the neckline of my gown-the curves and shadows engineered for voyeurism. I felt suddenly hyper-aware of every breath, every shift of fabric.

  Kabir circled back during the post-announcement chaos, sliding in with a hug that went deeper and lingered a moment too long. His mouth brushed my ear as he whispered, "Just can't stop remembering our outdoor shoot st year."

  My stomach dropped. Outdoor shoot. Last year. Implications curled around the words like smoke.

  As Kabir drifted away again, I couldn't help wondering-what exactly had happened between him and Sameera?

  Finally, as the event ended and me and Aarav made their way toward the exit, the photographers called after us. "Couple photo! One good pose!"

  I stiffened, but Aarav took my hand easily, guiding me through the poses. First smiling, then a mock pyful one, then-at the photographers' delighted urging-Aarav slipped an arm around my waist, pulling me close in an affectionate half-embrace.

  Fsh. Fsh. Fsh.

  We walked out together a moment ter, and the hotel doors closed behind us-and I realised what I had signed up for-not just looking like Sameera, but acting her life too. A happy wife. A friendly co-star. And what else?

  I wondered if I had made a big mistake-a mistake from which there seemed to be no going back.

  ----

  That's the end of Chapter 10. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Drop a like if you enjoyed reading it.

  -----------------------------------------

  Copyright Notice & Discimer

  > ? Moon Winters, 2025. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, pces, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resembnce to real people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.