✧･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 first rays of dawn, still shy and hesitant, dared to peek through the heavy velvet curtains, but they were quickly overwhelmed. The room was not painted in the gentle, ethereal glow of a typical morning; it was already saturated with the sharp, crackling energy of a man in motion. Vidyut Agarwal, the architect of precision, had been awake for hours, a singular, quiet whirlwind in the pre-dawn stillness. For him, the day did not begin at sunrise; it began when the purpose demanded it. And the purpose today was Ada, his future, and the unwavering conviction that everything—absolutely everything—had to be perfect.
He moved not merely with efficiency, but with a calculated, almost aggressive grace. He was a conductor orchestrating a symphony of preparations, only his instruments were rolls of silk, spools of fairy lights, and a small, highly trained team of REVA workers. The air hummed with a barely suppressed excitement that radiated off him like static electricity. This was not merely an engagement party; it was a testament to the love that had blindsided him, a love that now painted his world in the vibrant, uncompromising hues of anticipation. He was a man possessed, driven by the desire to build not just a company or a skyscraper, but a memory worthy of Ada.
The Sharma family's living room, usually a sanctuary of comfortable, slightly formal elegance, had been utterly transformed into a frenetic, makeshift event site. The house, still draped in the deep indigo hues of pre-dawn, was stirring—not with the gentle stretches and soft murmurs of waking family, but with the distinct sounds of ambitious construction. A rhythmic, muffled hammering echoed from below, the sharp rustle of protective tarpaulin being unfurled, and the low murmur of unfamiliar voices drifted through the quiet corridors. It was a rogue symphony, crashing aggressively into the peaceful dreams of the sleeping occupants.
Vidyut, dressed in dark trousers and a simple t-shirt—already dusted with the fine white powder of plaster and sawdust—stood in the centre of the organized chaos. He was issuing instructions in a low, sharp voice that cut through the noise, his hands moving with the authority of a master sculptor. After all, the next day marked his formal engagement to Dishant Sharma's second daughter, Ada. Every detail, from the structural integrity of the temporary stage to the precise shade of the floral drapes, needed to meet the impossible standard set by Vidyut Agarwal's own designs.
