By the time Darian arrived at my flat, the internet had already decided I was both a hero and a villain.Which honestly, I consider character development. 😌
Half of India was defending me in the comments, saying things like,
"She's brave!""Expose the liars!""We stan a queen 👑."
The other half?
"Gold digger.""Drama queen.""PR stunt gone wrong."
So basically… Tuesday.
The knock on my door was loud enough to wake the dead and my sense of survival. I opened it and found him — Darian Malhotra, The Furious Edition.
He looked like he'd just stepped out of a boardroom and into a battlefield. His jaw was sharp enough to slice through Wi-Fi signals, and his eyes — those stormy, calm-before-the-lawsuit eyes — locked on me.
"Why?" he said. No greeting, no pleasantries, just one syllable with enough corporate authority to make HR cry.
"Because someone sent me a picture," I replied, keeping my voice steady, "and I was tired of pretending not to see."
He took one step inside like he owned the oxygen."You posted it without context, Lyra. That's slander."
I crossed my arms. "You mean truth with lighting problems?"
His nostrils flared. "You don't even know what that photo means."
I tilted my head. "Do you?"
That hit him like a surprise audit. He went silent — and in that silence, I realized he wasn't as angry as he looked. He was calculating. Planning. The man didn't even blink without a quarterly strategy.
Finally, he sighed — that long, weary sound billionaires make when reality refuses to take their call."Fine," he said. "You wanted honesty? Here's my version. That photo isn't what it looks like. And since you've chosen the path of chaos, you'll also choose the consequence."
"Consequence?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Is that a new corporate buzzword for blackmail?"
"No," he said smoothly. "It's an invitation."
I blinked. "An invitation to… what? Jail?"
He actually smiled then — faintly, darkly. "Marriage."
I laughed. Out loud. Probably too loud."You're joking."
"Do I look like I joke?" he said, stepping closer. His tone was so calm it was terrifying.
"Constantly," I muttered, "just not on purpose."
He ignored that. "A private ceremony. Tomorrow. You'll sign a contract. Three months. We act married in public, silent in private. Then we walk away clean."
I gawked at him. "You want to marry me for damage control?"
He didn't flinch. "People love a redemption arc. This will bury the scandal and save both our reputations."
I blinked twice. "You're seriously turning this into a brand deal?"
He leaned in, and for a brief, dizzying second, I caught the scent of cedarwood and arrogance. "You wanted truth, Lyra. Here it is — I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for survival."
I stared at him, trying not to laugh. "You sound like a man pitching marriage as a tax write-off."
His lips twitched. "Do you agree or not?"
I should've said no. I really, really should've said no.But instead, my mouth went rogue. "Fine. But when this explodes — and it will — I get to say 'I told you so.'"
His smirk was faint, dangerous. "Deal."
He turned to leave, pausing at the door. "Wear something white. It photographs well."
"Bring a sense of humor," I shot back. "You'll need it."
He left, and the second the door clicked, my phone buzzed again.Unknown number.
Good. Step one complete.
I stared at the screen.Step one?
"Great," I muttered to myself. "I'm either in a rom-com or a crime thriller."
Knowing my luck? Probably both.