✧･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 world had stopped smelling like grief and had started smelling like ozone and adrenaline. Since Advait had taken the V. Sharma wallet—my chaotic Goa laughter printed small and fading inside—seven days of mourning had been replaced by seven days of electrified vigilance. I was no longer a grieving fiancée; I was a detective fueled by absolute, terrifying certainty.
He is alive.
That single truth was a scorching ember in the pit of my stomach, dissolving the numbness that had paralyzed me for the previous week. Every glance of pity, every quiet offering of food, every sympathetic nod from my family—it all became part of the colossal, cruel, and deeply necessary charade. Advait was working his channels, quietly, brilliantly, chasing the trail of the foreign cards and the encrypted digital ghost of Vidyut Agarwal. Diya watched me, thinking the shock was finally fading, mistaking my hyper-awareness for renewed strength.
But I knew the truth was closer. The wallet hadn't been an accident; it was a deliberate breadcrumb, dropped in the one place he knew I would be every day at 6:00 PM—the café where I could still force myself to swallow food. He hadn't just faked his death; he had choreographed his disappearance, and in doing so, he had woven me into the conspiracy.
I was the only one who understood the alias: V. Sharma. He wasn't just Vidyut; he was Vidyut, Ada's. He had used my name, my identity, to communicate his survival. It was a fiercely private, possessive, and, yes, utterly arrogant gesture, and it filled me with a complex mix of blinding love and scalding rage.
The urgency was a physical fever. I couldn't wait for Advait's slow, calculated methods. If Vidyut was alive and hiding, he was doing so because the alternative—the truth—was deadly. And if he was in danger, the instinct that drove me was not logic, but a raw, animal need for proximity.
Where would a man like Vidyut hide? Not in a foreign country; his ego was too rooted in his empire, his presence too necessary. Not in a cheap, anonymous apartment; his habits were too refined, his security needs too high. He would hide in the single most secure, least suspected place, protected by the only person he trusted absolutely, the one person who would break the law without question for him: his mother.
