𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐇𝐈: 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑-𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄 ♡

【71】 Friendship?

UNKNOWN POV

Mumbai traffic was worse than I remembered.

Horns wailing like banshees, impatient drivers cutting lanes, and the thick scent of monsoon mud clinging to the air.

But from inside the tinted glass of the black Fortuner, the world outside looked oddly quiet, muted, like a film playing without sound.

Too quiet for someone like me.

I tapped my ring against the tinted window, the sharp clicks filling the silence, a rhythmic counterpoint to the city’s cacophony.

Just something to fill the time.

They were holding a press conference today—lots of lights, cameras, and, of course, dozens of questions.

I could already imagine the headlines, in which I wasn’t interested.

Yes, I was watching the live stream on my second phone, footage available to the public via news channels.

However, it all felt like they ruined my proper plan.

Aridhi Agarwal countered all the questions gracefully.

They were meant to target that Ruvit Rathore but she didn’t let it happen.

Tch.

I leaned back in my seat, tossing the phone aside like it suddenly disgusted me. I was disgusted by their silent acts of service.

My palm curled into a fist on instinct, but I quickly flexed it open.

Control. Always maintain control.

“You look tired.” My driver muttered from the front seat, breaking the silence.

I didn’t respond as he turned the music on, some ghazal playing softly. And for a second, the melody took me back.

To her voice.

That voice.

Singing under the open sky with eyes closed, unaware, untouched.

I was sixteen and hiding behind a wall, while my mother swept classrooms inside. She was a worker in that school.

But I? I saw something divine.

She was singing ‘tum prem ho’ like it was some kind of devotion.

I fell for that version of her—Aridhi. Unblemished by wealth, by the world, by people like him.

And now?

The world just handed her to someone else, that bastard Ruvit. Just like that.

I should have been the man she deserves.

I fixed my cuffs. “Drive to the press conference.” The driver looked confused but obeyed.

From the side pocket, I pulled out another phone. And opened a PDF file.

It contained every news clipping, every post, every headline about the crash, the one they were now calling an attempted murder.

Attempted.

I made it look like that, of course.

A notification buzzed on my burner phone. “The sniper is ready.”

I let out a slow breath, my jaw working quietly as my eyes drifted to the sky.

Mumbai’s clouds were darker than usual, heavy with unspoken promises.