My name is Priya, from a poor village in Uttar Pradesh, where my parents are farmers. Arriving in Mumbai with just 4,000 rupees in my pocket, I worked as a waitress in a roadside eatery, a livestream salesperson, then a low-paid administrative assistant.

I understood one thing clearly: “Beautiful women have the right to choose. But beautiful and smart women — they get the chance to live a luxurious life.”

So I set my sights on a specific target: The director of a construction company – Mr. Sharma, 55 years old, whose wife had passed away 5 years prior, with two grown children, now looking for someone to care for him in his old age. I applied for a receptionist position.

2. After 3 months, I went from receptionist to… the mistress of the conglomerate I knew Mr. Sharma liked women who were gentle, polite, and knew how to cook. I didn’t flaunt my body; I pretended to be naive and compliant.

In just 3 months, he dismissed all his young secretaries, trusting only me. Then one day he called me into his office and said:

“I know you’re not like those other girls who only want money. If you agree to be my wife, I will give you everything you’ve never dared to dream of.” I nodded. The wedding was held two weeks later. I wore a 40 lakh rupee wedding saree, rode in a Mercedes wedding car, officially “changing my life.”

I put on a designer nightgown, my face meticulously made up, and slowly approached the light switch. Mr. Sharma – my husband – had already entered the room, having just taken his blood pressure medication, his eyes dull but trying to force a smile. I turned my back, my hand on the switch. “Time for bed, darling. Shall I turn off the lights?” – I said, trying to sound gentle. Click. The room plunged into darkness, with only a faint light seeping from the hallway through the crack under the door.

I had just reached the edge of the bed when “BANG!” – the room door was suddenly kicked open! I flinched. A tall man, about 30 years old, wearing a white shirt, stepped in, his voice icy: “Trash like you dares to step into this room?” I was stunned. The hallway light shone diagonally across his face. It was Rahul – Mr. Sharma’s son from his previous marriage.

I trembled, pulling the blanket to cover myself: “What are you doing? This is… my wedding night…!” He let out a harsh laugh, throwing a stack of bright red papers onto the bed: “You read this. This house, that company, the car you rode in this morning – all are registered in my and my mother’s names.” Mr. Sharma was fast asleep, even snoring softly, completely unaware. And I, in the darkness, in my thin silk nightgown, hands trembling as I held the papers… It felt as if I had just turned off the lights on my own life, not just the room. I whispered: “It can’t be…” He moved closer, leaning in close to my ear: “Believe me… You’ll wish tonight was simply a power outage.”

1 month after the wedding, I discovered: The house I lived in was registered in his ex-wife’s name, and had already been transferred to their two children. The conglomerate was also not owned by Mr. Sharma, but belonged to a public limited company where his son held the voting rights. The wedding car gifted to me was just a short-term rental according to the contract. I signed a prenuptial agreement without reading it carefully — meaning that if I divorced, I would get nothing.

5. Finally, I was thrown out of the house… right in the middle of a fabricated baby shower for a child I didn’t have I tried to fake a pregnancy to cling to some benefits. But before I could act out the second month, a family doctor checked me and the truth was exposed. That very day, amidst the “congratulations on the daughter-in-law’s pregnancy” party, Rahul publicly played a camera clip from the clinic. Mr. Sharma was utterly disillusioned, declaring: “I was wrong to think you truly loved me. But now, just leave, don’t make me involve my lawyers.” I was dragged out of the house under the pitying gazes of everyone. My cousin standing outside the door whispered: “Did you think playing this chess game would be so easy, sister? You were holding fake pieces…”

6. Regret was too late — I lost my youth and my reputation forever Two years passed, I returned to my village and lived quietly. The villagers knew the story; no one dared to marry their sons to me. Friends would mock: “Beautiful, yes, but not smart enough…” And I, every time I passed a jewelry store, seeing girls taking selfies with engagement rings, I would just give a bitter smile: “Getting married to a rich man doesn’t always mean a better life. Sometimes, they just need an actress to fool the world.”