Maholi shoved the heavy studio door open, the sound echoing like thunder behind her. She stormed past the bodyguards without a glance, Abir's manager's voice trailing after her, frantic and fading.
She didn't care.
This world — of lights, illusions, people with polished lies and contract-bound smiles — it wasn't hers.It had never been hers.
The night air hit her skin like a slap, cold and sharp, but she welcomed it. It was real. Unlike everything she'd just walked away from.Her heart still pounded, not just from rage — but from that raw, humiliating ache of being used.Of being powerless.
She quickened her steps. But before she could disappear into the shadows—
Flash. Flash. Flash.
She froze.
A wall of cameras and microphones surged forward, a street full of press she hadn't seen coming. They descended like vultures, clicking, shouting, lunging.
"Miss Maholi! Are you really Abir's girlfriend?""Was this relationship planned for promotion?""Are you an actress? A plant?""Are you lying to his fans?"
She lifted her hands, shielding her eyes from the bursts of light, her breath catching in her throat.
"No comments," she muttered, forcing her way through.
But the voices followed, sharper now, accusing.
"Is this a PR scam?""Why haven't we seen you before?""Who are you?"
Her legs faltered. She stumbled a step back — drowning in questions she had no answers for.
And then—The noise split.The crowd parted.
Abir.
He walked through them like water cutting through stone — calm, collected, a fortress in motion.Even at night, he wore his dark sunglasses like armor, his expression unreadable.
But his mouth curved. Not the superstar smile the world devoured, but something quieter. Smaller. Real.
He came right to her side.
Ignored the cameras. Ignored the questions.
Then turned to the reporters, his voice smooth as silk laced with iron.
"I already told you," he said. "She doesn't like cameras. She doesn't want this world."
A hush fell.
Flashbulbs still flickered, but the questions stalled.
"So I'm asking you — leave her alone," Abir continued. "You'll have plenty to follow… when we get married."
Gasps. Clicks. Screams.
Before Maholi could blink, his arm slipped around her waist — not roughly, but with quiet authority. Like a shield.He leaned in close, the scent of his cologne brushing her skin.
And whispered, lips almost touching her ear, voice dipped in teasing heat:
"Smile a little, girlfriend. You're trending again."
Maholi's breath hitched.
Was he… joking?Flirting?Protecting her?
She looked up — and for a moment, the cameras disappeared.
His eyes weren't cruel now.Not distant.Not angry.
They held something else — unreadable, but softer. Like even he didn't know what he was doing… just that he neededto do it.
Her shoulders slowly relaxed.She didn't smile.But she didn't step away, either.
That night, she finally got to go home.Escorted. Guarded. Watched.
But the spotlight followed.
Her rickety yellow cab rattled down dim alleys, trailed by headlights.Reporters loitered near the tea stalls across her street.Cameras waited at the broken gate of her old apartment like wolves under her window.
She hadn't wanted the spotlight.But now — it refused to leave her alone.