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The World Test Championship Final was over. The golden Mace belonged to India. For twenty-four hours, the Indian team had celebrated exactly as World Champions should. The dressing room at The Oval had been drenched in champagne, the team hotel in London had hosted a sprawling, boisterous private party, and Virat Kohli and Rohit Sharma had led the boys in a night of unapologetic revelry.
But as the sun set on the second day of celebrations, the adrenaline finally began to ebb, replaced by the deep, satisfying ache of a job well done.
For the Indian team, the cricket calendar had offered a rare, beautiful anomaly: a completely blank schedule for the next month. No bilateral series, no camps. A full, uninterrupted 30-day holiday before the any match in the future.
While most of the squad began packing their bags to fly back to India to their families, the Vice-Captain had a different destination in mind. His family, or rather his future, was already here.
Aarav stood in the grand foyer of the Pathak family's Regent's Park mansion. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Shradha:Address attached. 7:30 PM sharp. Wear something nice but casual. My city, my rules tonight, Captain. I'm taking you out.
Aarav smiled, reading the text twice. It was a refreshing change of pace. Usually, his life was dictated by team managers, security protocols, and tightly guarded VIP reservations. Tonight, he was just a guy going on a date with his girl.
He had swapped his simple clothes with a plush, dark charcoal cashmere turtleneck, tailored black trousers, and a sleek trench coat.
"The car is ready, Mr. Pathak," a polite, distinctly British voice echoed in the hallway.
Aarav turned to see Thomas, the family's trusted London estate manager, holding a set of sleek leather-bound keys.
"Thank you, Thomas," Aarav smiled, taking the keys.
"It's the midnight-blue Bentley Bentayga, Sir. Fully fueled and the heating is pre-set," Thomas bowed slightly. "Will you be requiring any close-protection staff to accompany you?"
"No, Thomas. I'll be driving myself tonight," Aarav replied, feeling a wave of absolute liberation wash over him. "Have a good evening."
Aarav stepped out into the crisp, cool London evening. A light, misty drizzle was falling, making the cobblestone driveway glisten under the porch lights. He slid into the luxurious, cream-leather driver's seat of the Bentley, the powerful engine purring to life with a quiet hum.
No entourage. No security detail. No press. Tonight, he was completely off the clock.
The drive through the wet, glowing streets of Central London was therapeutic. Aarav tapped the steering wheel to a soft jazz playlist, following the GPS instructions towards Marylebone.
The location Shradha had chosen wasn't a pretentious, Michelin-starred establishment in Mayfair where people went to be seen. It was a tiny, unassuming Italian trattoria tucked away on a quiet, fairy-lit cobblestone side street.
Aarav parked the Bentley a block away. He popped open a sleek black umbrella, pulled his trench coat collar up against the evening chill, and walked the rest of the distance.
As he approached the restaurant, its windows fogged up from the warmth inside, glowing with an inviting amber light. And standing under the small awning by the door, trying to avoid the drizzle, was Shradha.
Aarav's breath hitched, just for a second. She looked stunning. She was wearing a deep burgundy wrap dress that fell just below her knees, paired with black tights and ankle boots. A classic beige trench coat was thrown over her shoulders, and her dark hair was left loose, catching the damp evening breeze.
She was looking down at her phone, shivering slightly. Aarav stepped silently under the awning, closing his umbrella, and stepped right into her line of sight.
Shradha looked up. Her face instantly transformed, a brilliant, breathtaking smile wiping away the exhaustion of her hospital shifts.
She didn't wait for him to speak. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in the lapel of his coat. Aarav dropped the umbrella and wrapped both arms tightly around her waist, lifting her just a fraction off the ground, holding her flush against his chest.
"You did it," she whispered fiercely into his coat, her voice thick with pride.
"We did it," Aarav murmured, burying his face in her hair, breathing in the comforting, intoxicating scent of vanilla and rain. He held her there for a long moment, feeling the tension of the World Test Championship finally, truly leave his body.
He set her down gently and framed her face with his hands, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips. "God, I missed you."
"I missed you too, Champion," she smiled, her thumbs gently tracing the faint dark circles under his eyes. "You look exhausted. Come on. I have a table."
The interior of the trattoria was intimate and incredibly cozy. Exposed brick walls, vintage Italian posters, and the rich smell of roasting garlic, tomatoes, and baking bread filled the air. Frank Sinatra was playing softly from a record player in the corner.
They were led to a small, secluded booth at the very back. It was dimly lit, illuminated only by a thick wax candle melting over a vintage Chianti bottle.
There were no fans asking for selfies. No journalists analyzing his strike rate. It was total anonymity.
"I like this," Aarav said, sliding into the booth and shrugging off his coat. He looked around the warm room. "How did you find this place?"
"One of the senior residents at the hospital recommended it," Shradha beamed, opening the menu. "They have the best handmade ravioli in London. And since I am the local tonight, I am ordering for you. Do you trust me?"
"With my life, Doctor," he smirked, leaning forward and resting his arms on the small wooden table.
When the elderly Italian waiter arrived, Shradha ordered for both of them with effortless confidence, even throwing in a few words of heavily accented Italian that made the waiter chuckle warmly.
Aarav watched her, entirely captivated. He watched the way the candlelight danced in her dark eyes, the way her hands moved animatedly as she spoke. He realized, with a sudden wave of affection, how much she had grown in the last year. She wasn't just the shy girl from Mumbai anymore; she was an independent, confident woman navigating one of the toughest cities in the world entirely on her own.
"What?" Shradha asked, noticing his intense stare after the waiter left. She reached up self-consciously to touch her hair. "Is my mascara smudged?"
"No," Aarav smiled, reaching across the small table to take her hand in his. He traced her knuckles gently with his thumb. "You just look really beautiful. And it just hit me... this is the first time you've actually taken me on a proper date."
Shradha let out a melodic laugh. "Well, someone is always busy hitting centuries or taking five-wicket hauls. It's about time I treated the World Champion. You've cooked for me enough times; tonight, you just sit back and look pretty."
"I can do that," Aarav chuckled.
The wine arrived, a robust red for her, and a sparkling water for him. They clinked their glasses together. "To the Mace," Shradha toasted softly.
"To surviving another month apart," Aarav corrected, keeping his eyes locked on hers.
For the next two hours, they existed in a beautiful, insulated bubble. They didn't talk about cricket. Aarav didn't mention Pat Cummins or the Dukes ball.
Instead, Shradha carried the conversation. She talked about her clinical rotations, mimicking the strict, terrifying British consultant she was assigned to. She complained about the London underground during rush hour, and she shared her excitement about an upcoming pediatric surgery she was allowed to observe.
Aarav listened to every single word, entirely engrossed. He asked questions, laughed at her hospital anecdotes, and simply reveled in the normalcy of it all. In a world that constantly demanded him to be a superhero, sitting across from Shradha allowed him to just be human.
When the bill arrived, Aarav instinctively reached into his coat pocket for his wallet. Shradha slapped his hand away with a menu.
"Ah! What did I say?" she scolded playfully, pulling out her own card. "My city. My rules. I'm paying."
Aarav raised an eyebrow, a slow, incredibly fond smile spreading across his face. "Yes, Ma'am. I wouldn't dare argue."
They walked back to the Bentley hand-in-hand, sharing Aarav's large umbrella against the persistent London drizzle. The wet streets reflected the warm glow of the streetlamps, giving the city a cinematic, romantic filter.
The drive back to Shradha's apartment was quiet and comfortable. The rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers and the soft hum of the heater created a cocoon of warmth in the car. Aarav kept his left hand on the steering wheel, his right hand securely holding hers on the center console.
When they finally stepped into her apartment, Shradha immediately kicked off her boots with a tired, happy sigh. "I am officially exhausted," she declared, dropping her keys on the console table and shrugging off her coat.
"Me too," Aarav admitted, hanging his wet trench coat on the rack.
He walked into the cozy living room, illuminated by the warm glow of a single floor lamp. Medical books were stacked neatly on the desk, a stark reminder of her grueling routine.
Aarav reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The lock screen was still flooded with thousands of unread messages, Twitter notifications, and missed calls from sponsors, politicians, and celebrities congratulating him on the WTC win.
He stared at the glowing rectangle for three seconds. Then, deliberately, he pressed the power button and swiped the screen. Power Off.
He placed the dead, black device face-down on the coffee table.
Shradha watched him, walking over and wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. "Turning off the phone? What if Virat Bhaiya or Dravid Uncle need the Vice-Captain?"
Aarav turned around in her arms, resting his hands on her hips. "The Vice-Captain is on a happy leave," he said firmly.
He reached into her dress pocket, plucked her phone out, and powered hers down as well, placing it right next to his. "And Dr. Tendulkar is off the clock. The world can wait until tomorrow. Tonight, it's just us."
Shradha's lips curved into a soft, deeply appreciative smile. In an era where athletes and doctors were slaves to their screens and schedules, voluntarily going completely off the grid was the ultimate, rarest luxury.
"I like the sound of that," she whispered, leaning up to kiss his jawline.
Ten minutes later, the fancy dinner clothes were discarded. They had both changed into their most comfortable, worn-out sweatpants and oversized t-shirts.
Shradha dragged the heavy, fluffy white duvet from her bedroom into the living room. They collapsed onto the large, L-shaped sofa, pulling the duvet over both of them, completely tangling their legs together.
Aarav grabbed the TV remote and aimlessly scrolled through VEO, eventually settling on series—a classic, feel-good movie that required absolutely zero brain power to watch.
Shradha curled into his side, resting her head squarely on his chest, her arm wrapped protectively around his torso. Aarav rested his cheek on the top of her head, one arm secured tightly around her waist, his other hand lazily drawing soothing, absentminded patterns on her arm.
The movie played softly in the background, a gentle hum of dialogue and a romantic acoustic score. But the real soundtrack of the night was the steady, rhythmic beating of Aarav's heart beneath Shradha's ear, and the soft, constant patter of the London rain against the bedroom windowpane.
The bone-deep exhaustion of a two-year World Test Championship cycle, the grueling pressure of the finals, and the weight of a billion expectations finally, completely lifted off Aarav's broad shoulders. Here, in the dim light of a small apartment, holding the girl who anchored his soul, he didn't have to be the 'Seth' or the 'Prince'. He was just Aarav, a simple young boy.
Within thirty minutes of the movie starting, Shradha's breathing evened out into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep. Aarav looked down at her peaceful face, illuminated by the flickering light of the television screen. She looked incredibly beautiful, entirely safe in his arms.
He pressed one final, feather-light kiss to her forehead.
"Goodnight, my Love," he whispered into the quiet room.
He closed his eyes, pulling her just a fraction closer, and let the deep, cozy embrace of sleep wash over him. The month-long holiday had officially begun, and as he drifted off to the sound of her breathing, he knew it was already absolutely perfect.
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The heavy London rain that had begun the previous evening had settled into a steady, comforting drizzle by dawn. Inside the small, cozy Marylebone apartment, the world was completely still.
In the bedroom, beneath the thick white duvet, Aarav and Shradha were fast asleep. They were tangled together in a messy, comfortable knot of limbs. Shradha's head was resting securely on Aarav's chest, her breathing perfectly synced with the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. Aarav's arm was wrapped protectively around her waist, holding her close even in his deep slumber.
They were in a perfect, insulated bubble of peace.
But while the King and his Anchor slept, completely oblivious to the outside world, the internet was burning to the ground.
It had started with a single, highly opportunistic click of a camera shutter.
At 11:30 PM the previous night, a freelance paparazzi photographer named Liam had been staking out a posh private member's club in Marylebone, hoping to catch a glimpse of a Premier League footballer. The footballer never showed up.
But as Liam was packing his gear, a massive, midnight-blue Bentley Bentayga caught his eye. It was parked discreetly down a side street. A few minutes later, two figures walked toward it under an umbrella.
Liam lifted his camera, equipped with a heavy 600mm telephoto lens, and peered through the viewfinder through the rain and the fog.
The lighting was terrible, just the ambient amber glow of a distant streetlamp reflecting off the wet cobblestones. But as the man lowered the umbrella to open the car door, he turned his head slightly. The sharp jawline, the athletic build, and the distinct, confident posture were unmistakable to anyone who followed global sports.
It was Aarav Pathak. The Vice-Captain of the Indian Cricket Team. The man who had just lifted the World Test Championship mace 48 hours ago.
But it was the person with him that made Liam's heart race. Aarav wasn't just walking with her. Before opening the car door, Aarav pulled the girl by the waist, lifting her slightly off the ground, and kissed her on her head under the London rain.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
The shutter fired rapidly. Because of the distance, the rain, and the lack of flash, the photos were incredibly grainy. Aarav's side profile was clear enough to identify him definitively. But the girl? She was a complete mystery.
She was wearing a deep burgundy dress and a beige trench coat. Her back was mostly to the camera, and when she turned, her face was buried in Aarav's coat or obscured by her own dark, loose hair blowing in the wind. She was just a beautiful, blurry silhouette.
Liam knew he had struck absolute gold. The 'Prince of India', fiercely private about his personal life, caught red-handed in a cinematic, rainy London romance.
By 2:00 AM, the photos were sold to the highest bidder. By 6:00 AM, the British tabloids had lit the match.
As the UK woke up, the story jumped from the sleazy tabloid websites straight into the mainstream sports and entertainment pages. Aarav's sheer global star power, amplified by VEO's massive broadcasting push in Europe, made it prime front-page material.
The Sun (Digital Front Page):BOWLED OVER! India's Cricket Prince Aarav Pathak Caught in Steamy Midnight Romance in Marylebone! Who is the Mystery Brunette?
The Daily Telegraph (Sports Section Sidebar):Pathak's London Victory Lap: WTC Champion Spotted Celebrating Off the Pitch with Unidentified Partner.
Even the dignified broadcasters couldn't resist a cheeky mention. On the BBC Sports morning segment, the anchor displayed the blurry photo with a wry smile. "It seems the Indian Vice-Captain is enjoying his well-deserved month off. After dismantling the Australian bowling attack at The Oval earlier this week, Aarav Pathak was spotted navigating the tricky conditions of London's dating scene. A textbook cover drive of a romance, one might say."
The British press was amused.
And the Indian cyberspace absolutely exploded.
The photo crossed continents at the speed of light. Instagram meme pages, Bollywood gossip accounts, and hardcore cricket Twitter (X) went into full meltdown mode.
The man who had posted a single, cryptic picture with a white heart emoji just weeks ago was now plastered across every timeline, holding a girl in the rain.
Trending in India:
#AaravPathak
#MysteryGirl
#LondonRomance
#NationalBhabhi
#Heartbreak
The detective work began immediately. Millions of fans analyzed the blurry, pixelated image as if they were forensic experts examining a crime scene.
@CricketCrazy_Rohan:"Bro, look at the height difference! Aarav is 6'2". She comes up to his chin when he isn't lifting her. She's around 5'7" or 5'9". We need a list of all Indian actresses currently vacationing in London! NOW!"
@BollyBlindsAndGossip (Reddit Thread):Title: Aarav Pathak spotted kissing mystery girl in London. Who is she?!
User1: "Is it Sara Ali Khan? She posted a story from Mayfair two days ago!"
User2: "No way, the hair texture is completely different. Sara's hair is shorter. Look at the trench coat. Very old-money vibe. Could it be a British actress?"
User3: "Guys, hear me out. Ananya Panday has been quiet on IG lately..."
User4: "Ananya?! Aarav is a billionaire athlete. He would not date someone who struggles to touch her nose. It's definitely someone outside the industry."
Some fans took a different route.
@WomenInBlueFan:"Wait! Smriti Mandhana and Jemimah Rodrigues are in the UK! Is he dating a fellow cricketer?! Power couple of the century if true!"(This was quickly debunked when Jemimah posted a live video from a completely different city).
Then, amidst the tidal wave of wild guesses and Photoshop enhancements, a few logical voices chimed in.
@MumbaiLocal_99:"Wait a second. Didn't Sachin Sir's youngest daughter, Shradha, move to London for her medical internship? The height matches. The dark hair matches."
For a brief, terrifying moment, the truth hung in the digital air. But the internet hive mind is a fickle beast, and logic rarely survives in the face of sensationalism.
@GossipGirl_Maha:"LMAO Shradha Tendulkar? Are you joking? She is a massive nerd (respectfully). She literally studies 18 hours a day to become a doctor. She doesn't even have a public Instagram account. You think Sachin's quiet, introverted daughter is out at midnight in Marylebone making out with one of the India's biggest star? ZERO chance."
@GT_Vanguard:"Bro, Aarav likes the spotlight. He dates models (allegedly). Shradha is too simple for him. It's definitely a high-profile British model or a Bollywood nepo baby keeping it lowkey for PR."
The 'Shradha Theory' was swiftly buried under an avalanche of likes supporting the 'Secret Bollywood Actress' or 'European Supermodel' theories. Shradha's fiercely guarded privacy and lack of social media presence acted as the perfect camouflage. The internet simply couldn't reconcile the image of a studious, quiet medical student with the cinematic, rainy, midnight romance of the world's most aggressive cricketer.
The mystery remained unsolved. But the hysteria was at its absolute peak.
10:30 AM (London Time)
Back in the apartment, the grey morning light had brightened slightly. Aarav groaned softly, his consciousness slowly swimming up from the depths of a fourteen-hour, jet-lag-curing sleep.
He stretched his long legs, his toes hanging off the edge of Shradha's queen-sized bed. His muscles felt delightfully heavy, completely relaxed.
He felt the shifting weight on his chest. Shradha stirred, letting out a soft, high-pitched yawn that sounded like a sleepy kitten. She rubbed her cheek against his t-shirt, keeping her eyes firmly shut.
"What time is it?" she mumbled, her voice raspy.
Aarav smiled, pressing a kiss into her messy hair. "I have no idea. But the sun is up, which means it's officially our vacation."
"I don't want to get up," she protested, throwing a leg entirely over his hips to pin him down. "If we stay in bed, the hospital can't find me."
"I support this medical strategy," Aarav laughed, his chest vibrating beneath her. "But I should probably turn my phone on. Mom might have called Interpol by now if she hasn't heard from me since I landed."
Shradha sighed dramatically, rolling off him and landing on her back with a soft thud. "Fine. Be a responsible son. But if a cricketer calls to talk about bowling or batting lengths, I am throwing your phone out the window."
"Fair deal," Aarav chuckled, swinging his legs out of bed. He stretched his arms over his head, his spine popping satisfyingly.
He padded barefoot out of the bedroom and into the living room. The apartment was chilly, but the memories of the candlelight dinner from the previous night warmed him instantly.
He walked over to the coffee table and picked up his dead iPhone. He held the power button until the white Apple logo flashed on the screen. He walked into the kitchen, turned on the espresso machine, and waited for his phone to boot up.
The screen illuminated. Aarav glanced at it casually, expecting a few texts from his mom and maybe a meme from Shubman Gill.
Instead, the phone didn't just vibrate. It went into a sustained, violent convulsion.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. The notification sound merged into one continuous, high-pitched scream.
Aarav frowned. He swiped up to unlock his phone. The screen completely froze for three seconds, unable to process the sheer volume of incoming data.
When it finally un-froze, Aarav's eyes widened.
WhatsApp: 412 Unread Messages.
Missed Calls: 28 (Including 4 from Virat Kohli, 6 from his Manager, and 3 from Sachin Tendulkar).
Twitter (X) Notifications: 99+
Instagram Notifications: 99+
"What the..." Aarav muttered, a spike of adrenaline instantly killing his sleepy vibe. He quickly opened his WhatsApp, bypassing the team group chat, and clicked on the message from his PR Manager, Aman Singh.
Aman Singh:Aarav. Wake up. Call me the absolute second you see this. You've been papped. It's front page in the UK and trending #1 in India. The internet is losing its mind trying to figure out who she is.Attached: Link to Daily Telegraph article.
Aarav felt the blood drain from his face. He clicked the link.
The grainy, blurry photo loaded on his screen. The midnight-blue Bentley. The rain. Him holding Shradha against his chest, kissing her.
He stared at the photo. His heart hammered a fast, nervous rhythm. He zoomed in on Shradha's face. It was obscured by the angle and her hair. Unless you knew her intimately, it was impossible to tell it was the youngest daughter of the God of Cricket.
Aarav let out a long, slow breath he didn't realize he had been holding. The secret was safe. For now.
"Aarav?"
Shradha's sleepy voice drifted from the bedroom doorway. She was standing there, rubbing her eyes, looking adorable in his oversized t-shirt.
"Is the coffee ready? Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?" she asked, padding into the kitchen.
Aarav looked at her, then looked back at the phone, where the notifications were still flooding in like a digital tsunami. A slow, helpless smirk began to form on his lips.
"Doctor," Aarav said, turning the phone screen around so she could see the British tabloid headline. "I think our quiet, peaceful three-day weekend just got a little complicated."
Shradha blinked, squinting at the screen without her glasses. She read the headline: BOWLED OVER! India's Cricket Prince Caught in Steamy Midnight Romance!
Her eyes went wide as saucers. All traces of sleep vanished instantly.
"Oh... my... god," she whispered in pure, unadulterated horror.
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The smell of freshly brewed espresso filled the small London kitchen, fighting against the underlying tension of the morning. The digital explosion had been raging for hours, but inside the apartment, Aarav and Shradha had managed to find a pocket of calm.
Propped up on the kitchen island was Aarav's iPad, split into a secure, multi-way FaceTime call. On one side of the screen were Rajat and Priya Pathak, sitting in their sprawling Mumbai estate. On the other side were Sachin and Anjali Tendulkar, looking remarkably composed in their Bandra home.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Aarav said, leaning against the counter, a protective arm wrapped securely around Shradha's waist as she held her coffee mug. "I should have been more careful. The paparazzi here usually don't track Indian cricketers this aggressively."
"Relax, Aarav," Sachin's calm, familiar voice emanated from the iPad. The God of Cricket didn't look angry; he looked calm, like he was expecting something like this. "You are the Vice-Captain of India, and you just won the World Test Championship. You are currently the biggest target for sports paparazzi globally. It was bound to happen eventually."
"But the media is going crazy, Dad," Shradha bit her lip, leaning her head against Aarav's shoulder. "They are analyzing my coat. They are trying to find out who am I and all."
"Let them analyze," Rajat Pathak chimed in, waving a dismissive hand. "You both are already tied to each other. Your engagement is solid. And Shradha, your medical studies are going to end soon anyway. The timeline has just been bumped up a fraction. It won't affect much in the long run."
"Your father is right," Anjali smiled warmly at the screen. "We always knew that at some point in the future, you would have to tell them. Now, they just know Aarav's girlfriend lives in London. That narrows it down to about three million women."
"The key right now is absolute silence from our end regarding her identity," Sachin commanded gently, reiterating the mandate he had set a year ago. "If Aarav hits a bad patch of form before the ODI World Cup, the toxic fans will immediately blame Shradha. They will brand her a 'distraction'. She needs to establish herself as Dr. Tendulkar on her own merit. If her face is plastered across global tabloids now, paparazzi will camp outside her hospital, disrupting patient care."
"Not to mention," Priya Pathak added protectively, "this relationship is your only sanctuary right now. The moment you go public with names, every date, every argument, and every vacation becomes public property."
"So what do we do?" Aarav asked, his jaw tight. "If I completely deny it, the internet sleuths will just dig harder. Complete denial makes it look like a scandalous affair rather than a committed relationship. And if I stay silent, the Bollywood rumor mill will start linking me to Janhvi Kapoor and Sara Ali Khan again."
Aarav felt Shradha stiffen slightly against his side at the mention of the actresses. He immediately tightened his grip on her waist, pulling her flush against him.
"You don't deny it," Rajat smiled a sharp, corporate smile. "If the media links you to any actress associated with Pathak Entertainment Studios, I will personally have their PR teams issue denials within the hour to shut down the rumors. We control the narrative."
"Just chill and forget it," Sachin advised smoothly. "It will die down. When you both think it is the best and safest moment, you decide to tell the world together. For now, keep it quiet."
"Understood," Aarav nodded. "I'll handle the digital side today."
The call ended. Aarav placed the iPad face down on the counter. He turned to Shradha, gently taking the coffee mug from her hands and setting it aside. He cupped her face, his thumbs gently sweeping across her cheekbones.
"You okay?" he whispered.
"I'm okay," she nodded, though her eyes looked a bit overwhelmed. "It's just... a lot."
"I know," Aarav murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "But I'm not going to let them touch you. I promise."
Aarav pulled his phone from his pocket. He didn't call his PR manager. He didn't draft a corporate press release. He opened Instagram and Twitter. Shradha watched him as he began to type.
"What are you doing?" she asked, resting her chin on his chest.
"Aggressive protection," Aarav muttered, his eyes dark and focused. "If I hide it, they hunt. If I claim it, I draw the line."
Shradha watched the screen as he typed out a fierce, unapologetic statement. He didn't mince words. He wasn't the polite Vice-Captain right now; he was the territorial 'Seth'.
@AaravPathak:
"Yes, the picture from London is real. Yes, that is my GF, the same one whose photo with a hidden emoji I shared after the 2022 IPL win. As I mentioned months ago, my heart is taken. However, she is a private citizen pursuing a highly demanding career outside of the public eye. I politely request the media to respect our boundaries and stop the invasive paparazzi behavior. Her identity will be revealed when we are ready, not when a tabloid decides to hide in the bushes. Back to cricket."
He hit post. Across all his platforms simultaneously.
Shradha read the words. A profound, overwhelming wave of warmth flooded her chest. He hadn't denied her. He hadn't played the typical celebrity game of "we are just good friends." He had claimed her in front of a billion people, effectively telling the world's media to back off.
She looked up at him. The fierce, unyielding look in his eyes made her breath hitch. He wasn't just a cricketer; right now, he looked like a dragon fiercely guarding his most precious treasure.
"You really are my shield, aren't you?" Shradha whispered, her voice thick with emotion. The fear of the morning completely evaporated, replaced by a deep, intoxicating sense of absolute safety. She had never felt more protected, more cherished, or more wildly in love.
"Always," Aarav said softly, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into a deep, passionate kiss, letting the rest of the world burn outside their window.
For the most part, Aarav's statement worked flawlessly. The mainstream media outlets backed off, respecting the firm boundary drawn by the Vice-Captain and due to huge conglomerate behind him. The Bollywood rumors were instantly killed.
But the internet always has bottom-feeders.
At 2:00 PM London time, an infamous Indian tabloid site, GossipLounge.in, refused to stop. Driven by the massive click-revenue, they launched a live blog titled: "HUNTING THE MYSTERY QUEEN." They were posting an article every fifteen minutes, analyzing the London brickwork in the background of the blurry photo, cross-referencing celeb's schedules, and actively encouraging their followers to track down everything and even they were posting unwanted content and spreading rumors.
Aarav was sitting on the sofa, his laptop open, when he saw the live blog update.
His eyes turned to absolute ice. The romantic softness from earlier was gone.
He didn't tweet at them. He didn't send a legal notice. He picked up his phone and dialed a secure line.
"Ajay," Aarav said the moment his VC's COO picked up in Mumbai.
"Boss. I saw the post. Good statement. Do you need us to send cease and desist letters to the tabloids?" Aman Singh asked efficiently.
"No," Aarav said, his voice deadly calm. "There is a digital rag called GossipLounge.in. They are running a live blog trying to dox her location and spread rumors in London."
"I see it," Aman replied, the sound of rapid typing echoing over the line. "They are owned by a tier-3 media conglomerate based in Noida."
"I don't care who owns them," Aarav stated, staring blankly at the wall. "Through the Pathak Venture Capital. Find their parent company's valuation. Double it. Hostile takeover. I want you to acquire the entire company by the end of the day."
Aman didn't even pause. "Understood. And the site?"
"Burn it," Aarav commanded softly. "Remove it from the face of the internet. I don't want a single cached page left."
"Executing now, Aarav."
Two hours later, the Indian internet experienced a glitch in the matrix.
Thousands of internet sleuths who were refreshing GossipLounge.in for updates on Aarav's girlfriend suddenly found their screens going white.
ERROR 404: SITE NOT FOUND.THIS DOMAIN HAS BEEN ACQUIRED AND PERMANENTLY SUSPENDED.
Twitter (X) descended into absolute, unadulterated hysteria.
@CricketCrazy_Rohan:"BRO WTF?! Did GossipLounge just get deleted from the internet?! I was reading their article on Aarav's GF and the site literally vanished mid-sentence!"
@BollyBlinds_Insider:"Wait. GossipLounge's parent company just filed a regulatory update saying they were acquired 20 minutes ago by an unnamed VC firm in Patra. Pathak VC?! AARAV PATHAK JUST BOUGHT A WHOLE MEDIA COMPANY TO DELETE AN ARTICLE?!"
@ThalaForLife_07:"Nah man, the Seth is actually a mafia boss 😭 Bro didn't send a legal notice, he just bought the company and shut it down. That is Bruce Wayne level wealth flex. Do NOT mess with his girl!"
@GT_Vanguard:"He said 'respect our boundaries' and they didn't listen. So he bought their boundary and evicted them. The Aura is terrifying. 🔥🐐"
Back in the London apartment, Shradha walked out of the bedroom, drying her hair with a towel. "Hey," she smiled. "The internet seems to have quieted down a bit. Did your post work?"
Aarav closed his laptop, a calm, satisfied smirk returning to his lips. He looked incredibly innocent. "Yeah, Doc," Aarav smiled, pulling her onto his lap. "I think they finally got the message."
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