The next morning arrived faster than Aanya's nerves were ready for.
Her alarm went off twice, her pillows somehow multiplied on the floor, and her dreams—what little she remembered—were a strange blur of camera flashes and a CEO with an unreadable expression.
It was barely past eight when she stood in front of her mirror, staring at herself like she was examining a stranger.
Formal events weren't new to her. She'd attended plenty as part of the design team—brand launches, product reveals, investor mixers. But those came with the comforting anonymity of being staff. Helpers. Background people.
Today, she wasn't background.
The thought made her take a step back.
Her reflection stared back: neat hair, pressed shirt, simple pastel trousers. She still looked like herself… but she also looked like someone preparing for a day she hadn't signed up for.
She took a breath.
Just one event. Just a few hours. Just—
A groan left her before she could finish that lie.
She tied her hair again, more tightly this time. Her mind drifted back, uninvited, to her childhood.
Her mother used to spend long evenings ensuring their bags were always half-packed. Not because they traveled. But because they moved often. Too often.
Aanya had lost count of how many houses she'd lived in before she turned thirteen. Each time she asked why, her mother gave soft, vague answers.
"Just safer here."
"Better neighborhood."
"New opportunity."
Nothing ever felt like the truth.
Aanya had grown used to adjusting. To blending in. To staying unremarkable, unnoticed.
Today made all of that impossible.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from PR:
Car arrives in 20 minutes. Charity event briefing attached.
She clicked the file open.
Formal event.
Press present.
Short on-stage acknowledgment.
She nearly choked on her own breath.
On-stage?
Before she could panic further, her phone rang again.
Riyan.
She froze.
Let it ring four times.
Then picked up.
"Ms. Kalantri," his voice came through, steady as always.
"Yes?"
"The car will bring you to the office first. We'll go together after the briefing."
"Right." She cleared her throat. "Okay."
A pause.
"Are you prepared?" he asked.
Prepared?
She had applied eyeliner three times because her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
"I… think so," she said.
"You'll be fine," he replied. No warmth in tone, but a strange solidity that felt steadier than comfort.
"Okay," she whispered.
He hung up without goodbye, yet somehow the silence afterward felt less heavy.
_________________________________________
Riyan
Across the city, Riyan buttoned his shirt with precise, practiced movements.
He wasn't fond of charity events. Not because he disliked philanthropy—his company donated significantly every year—but because such events came with too many eyes.
Eyes that searched.
Calculated.
Compared.
Judged.
He didn't like being studied.
And today he would have one more reason to be watched: Aanya.
Devin entered his office holding two tablets. "Sir, updated reports."
Riyan took one. Stock charts. Media sentiment. Analyst projections.
He scanned the numbers quickly.
"The dip stabilized overnight," Devin said. "Climbing again. Neutral sentiment overall. Some… speculation forums are active."
"Speculation about what?" Riyan asked.
Devin hesitated. "About you and Ms. Kalantri."
He didn't react outwardly.
Internally, a thread pulled.
"Let them speculate," he said neutrally.
"It helps the brand," Devin added lightly.
Riyan shot him a look. "This isn't a brand strategy. It's a situation we're containing."
"Of course." Devin nodded, but his eyes glinted.
Riyan set the tablet down. "Any updates on yesterday's email?"
"Still untraceable."
He exhaled slowly.
Some secrets don't stay buried.
Riyan pushed the thought aside and reached for his coat.
He didn't know why the idea of going to this event with Aanya made him feel… aware. But awareness wasn't useful.
Control was.
"Let's go," he said.
_________________________________________
Aanya
By the time the car dropped her at the office, Aanya felt like her pulse had moved into her throat permanently.
Security guided her to the executive lounge where PR was already set up. Laptops, forms, last-minute notes scattered across a long table.
"You made it," the PR Head said briskly.
"Good. We don't have much time."
Aanya nodded. She spotted Riyan entering from the opposite door—dark suit, neat hair, composed expression. He walked like he was made of straight lines and intention.
He gave her one quick look. "Morning."
"Hi," she said, managing a small nod.
"Let's begin," PR said.
The briefing started:
— routes to take
— details about the charity
— how to stand
— what not to say
— who not to look at
— which press outlets were hostile
— which were pushy
— which would twist her words for sport
Aanya felt her stomach drop with every slide.
"And remember," PR said, "you two appear together. Not necessarily close, but comfortable."
Aanya had no idea what "comfortable" meant when she could barely breathe.
Riyan, meanwhile, absorbed the information with the calm of someone reviewing financial projections rather than preparing for a media circus.
When the PR Head dismissed them for a five-minute pause, Aanya stepped aside to gather herself.
Her phone buzzed again.
Mom:
Don't let anyone ask you about family. Just work. Keep your answers simple.
Aanya frowned.
She typed back:
Maa, why would anyone ask about family?
No reply.
A familiar, uneasy knot tightened in her chest.
She pocketed her phone and inhaled, trying to steady herself.
Then—she felt a presence beside her.
Riyan.
He looked at her directly, his gaze steady. "You're nervous."
"You think?"
"The cameras will be loud," he said simply. "Ignore them. Stand near me. I'll do the talking."
Her heart steadied a fraction. "Okay."
He added, "If at any moment you feel overwhelmed, signal me."
"What signal?"
He looked faintly amused. "Anything that isn't fainting."
Despite everything, she smiled.
And for a moment—just one—she felt she could actually handle this.
_________________________________________
The Event
The charity venue was already buzzing when they arrived—a cultural center decorated with banners, lights, and an elaborate backdrop showcasing the event's purpose.
Photographers lined the entrance.
Reporters waited like hawks.
Aanya stepped out first—because PR insisted an "approachable entrance" would soften the moment—and the clicks started instantly.
Her pulse surged.
Then Riyan stepped out beside her.
The noise doubled.
They walked toward the entrance, not touching, not interacting too obviously—yet something about their pace, their composure, looked unintentionally synchronized.
People noticed.
The cameras noticed.
Inside, an organizer greeted them. "Mr. Vardekar, Ms. Kalantri, thank you for coming."
Aanya almost tripped over her own feet at hearing their names paired together like that.
Riyan nodded politely. Aanya attempted a smile that didn't look like she was mid-heart attack.
They moved to the main hall. The event coordinator leaned in. "Press will request one photo. Just one. Together."
Aanya felt her stomach plummet.
Riyan gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
They stepped onto the small stage area. Lights brightened. Cameras focused.
"Just a smile," the coordinator whispered.
Aanya tried.
At the same moment, Riyan's hand hovered near her back—not touching, just steadying, as if ensuring she didn't step away too quickly.
The cameras clicked wildly.
She felt heat rush to her cheeks.
In one of the flashes, she looked up and found him watching her—not stern, not unreadable, but… observing.
The photographer lowered his camera. "Perfect."
Aanya exhaled.
They stepped off the stage, and PR ushered them to a quieter corner.
"You're doing well," PR whispered to her.
"I'm running on pure terror," Aanya whispered back.
PR nodded approvingly. "Terror reads well on camera. Very authentic."
Aanya blinked. "…Thanks?"
_________________________________________
The Sign
After a short round of interactions, Riyan was pulled aside by an organizer. Aanya stayed near the edge of the hall, sipping water and trying to steady her breathing.
Then she noticed something on the large screen where media outlets had begun displaying real-time social posts about the event.
A clip was playing.
A clip of her and Riyan walking in together.
Only… the clip wasn't the original.
Someone had slowed it down, added a soft pink tint, and overlaid faint background music. The effect looked romantic. Planned. Scripted.
But that wasn't what made her blood run cold.
In the reflection on the polished floor behind her in the clip…
there was a figure.
A tall man standing unnaturally still in the far corner.
Watching only her.
Aanya's breath caught.
She narrowed her eyes at the screen.
The figure disappeared in the next frame.
Cut. Edited out.
Someone had altered the footage deliberately.
She stepped back, heart pounding.
Someone had been watching her.
Someone close enough to be in the event footage.
And someone who didn't want to be seen.
_________________________________________
"Aanya."
She turned sharply.
Riyan stood beside her, noticing her expression.
"What happened?" he asked quietly.
She lifted a hand slightly, pointing to the screen. "That video… it wasn't like that before."
He looked. Saw the pink tint. The added music. The manipulated timing.
His eyes narrowed.
Then he saw something else.
The last fraction of a second before the cut.
The faint shape of a man behind her.
His jaw tightened.
"We're leaving," he said softly.
"What? Why?"
"This isn't just a viral clip anymore."
Aanya felt the cold knot inside her tighten.
"What does that mean?" she whispered.
He looked at her with a seriousness that made her chest tighten.
"It means you're being watched."
End of Chapter Four.