✧･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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As planned, I arrived at the executive terminal dressed in a tailored black polo shirt and crisp white trousers. My sunglasses, dark as a storm cloud, shielded my exhausted eyes, but not the simmering fury beneath. The jet lag from the unplanned Delhi trip was already a ghost of a problem; the reality of Ada's voluntary absence was the true weight on my shoulders.
I stopped dead as soon as my eyes landed on the man who was mirroring my exact look—Advait Agnihotri. Black polo, white pants, and the same rigid, tense posture that screamed my wife has run away with yours.
"Stop copying me, dude!" I said, removing my glasses and tucking them into my shirt collar. The attempt at casual banter was weak, but necessary. This mission required tactical teamwork, not tribal warfare.
"That's what I should be telling you, Agarwal," he retorted, his jaw muscles working like pistons, gritting his teeth hard enough to crack granite. I wanted to tell him that this guy needed to chill. I knew he missed his wife, Diya, and was no doubt infuriated by her impulsiveness, but that didn't mean he had to constantly grit his teeth while talking to me. What if I break his jaw? How will he eat further?
I scoffed internally, checking myself immediately. He was Ada's brother-in-law, and she would kill me if I broke his teeth, especially over a pointless fashion clash. The thought of Ada's disapproval—the quiet disappointment that always felt worse than any shouting match—was enough to make me stand down.
Aarav Agnihotri, the youngest of the brothers, emerged from behind Advait, wearing an identical expression of lethal concern, though his focus, I knew, was entirely on Samaira. The three of us, three men accustomed to controlling empires and outcomes, were rendered pathetic and powerless by three runaway women.
We settled into the flight we had booked—a spacious Bombardier that felt claustrophobic under the collective weight of our silent anxiety. The flight to the Maldives was tense, punctuated only by Advait's curt instructions to his assistant, Grace, and Aarav's obsessive checking of the tracking data he had somehow, miraculously, obtained.
