✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
[ 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 1 ]
Because this is where love fades and hate resides and intensifies, broken hearts produce the most tragic stories.
Their treachery is told through their bleeding hearts: their unrequited love was never reciprocated. The...
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The numbers were astronomical, the critical reception nothing short of a standing ovation. As I stood at the head of the long mahogany table, my designs displayed on the giant screen behind me, I felt the familiar, pleasant hum of absolute control. Everything was exactly as I had planned it. The meeting was with the Forbes board members. I detailed the concept for the upcoming fashion show in New York—a sprawling, immersive experience that would be less about clothes and more about art, a performance piece on the grandest stage.
"And the PR, Vidyut?" one of the board members, a shrewd woman named Priya, asked. "This will be the biggest show of the year. The media will be all over it. We need to make sure the narrative is tight, consistent, and flawless."
I met her gaze, a small, dismissive smile on my face. "It will be. My PR team is the best in the business. There will be no leaks, no distractions, no imperfections. The only story will be the one we write."
The meeting concluded with a round of applause, a rare display of public approval from these people. As I shook their hands, I felt the satisfying weight of their trust. I had won. The deal was as good as done. I was on the cusp of a new beginning, a new level of power and influence. The owners were absent from today's meeting. I walked out of the private office and into the glass-walled corridor that led to my room. My phone, which I had silenced during the meeting, buzzed with a series of notifications. What I saw, instead, was a digital storm. The notifications were not about my collection, but about me. My name, Vidyut Agarwal, was tagged in a dozen different posts, alongside a new one: Ada Sharma.
My heart, which had been a steady, rhythmic drum, skipped a beat. A cold, precise fire, a fire born not of passion but of pure, unadulterated rage, began to burn in my chest. I opened the first post, a gossip blog with a splashy headline: "India's Most Eligible Bachelor Finds His Lady Love? Vidyut Aarav and Neurosurgeon Ada Sharma Are a Thing!"
A photo, a blurry, grainy image of me and Ada leaving the hospital last night, was the centerpiece. I recognized the moment. It was a picture of me, carrying her to my car, a moment of chaos I had meticulously contained. But in this photo, it looked like something else. Something intimate. Something... tender.
