She was seated beside him in the front row, her heart pounding against her ribcage. The grandeur of the function hall was overwhelming, its opulence radiating from every corner. The red carpeted floor stretched beneath their feet like a royal invitation, and the dim, golden lighting bathed the room in a soft, warm glow. The space was alive with a subtle hum of whispered conversations, laughter, and clinking glasses. Everyone in attendance seemed to glimmer with a richness that extended beyond their attire, leaving her feeling like an outsider despite her carefully chosen ensemble.

She had dressed to match the elegance of the event, but even in her perfectly draped saree, she felt small. The air of effortless sophistication exuded by the crowd made her question the authenticity of their joy. Their hollow laughter and picture-perfect smiles felt more like a façade than genuine emotion.

The event progressed seamlessly, with guests congratulating each other and exchanging pleasantries. Then, his name echoed through the speakers, and the spotlight moved to him. Her breath hitched as he stood, his polished charm drawing every eye in the room. As he turned to glance at her, his smile softened. Flustered, she quickly looked away, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her saree.

He rose gracefully, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the hall. The applause was thunderous as he strode confidently to the stage. He received the award with an easy smile, his aura radiating pride and composure.

The female anchor, a vision of elegance herself, handed him the microphone. “Please share a few words with us,” she said, her voice melodic.

He took the microphone, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before settling on her. For a moment, it seemed as though he spoke directly to her. "Well," he began, his voice steady but warm, "thank you for this honor. I wish everyone the best for next time. This award is not just mine—it belongs to my employees who work tirelessly to make everything possible."

The audience clapped politely, but the anchor wasn’t done. “Any special thanks for someone close to your heart?” she asked, her smile mischievous as the crowd murmured with curiosity.

He hesitated, his jaw tightening briefly as if weighing his next words. The pause was palpable, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried an unfamiliar softness. “Thanks to that person for simply existing in my life.” His eyes flicked to hers again, and this time, he didn’t look away. “I first saw her a few days ago, at a temple. She was wearing a yellow saree, dancing like a peacock under the evening sun. Then, I saw her at a wedding, adorned in white and red, a picture of elegance. Later, I saw her in a white saree, simplicity and grace personified. And today… today, she’s here with me, in a red saree that makes her look radiant beyond words.”

The room seemed to fall silent, every ear attuned to his confession. She froze in her seat, her hands gripping the fabric of her saree tightly. His words felt like an arrow piercing through her carefully constructed walls. Her throat was dry, and her pulse quickened as her mind raced.

He was talking about her.

She wanted to look away, to melt into the shadows, but her eyes stayed locked on him. His gaze, unwavering and intense, left no room for doubt. It was her. It had always been her.

She swallowed hard, hoping his words wouldn’t go further, praying this would end here. But deep down, she knew the truth. For days, she had noticed the way his eyes lingered on her, the subtle shifts in his demeanor when she was near. She had tried to ignore it, dismissing it as her imagination. But now, as he stood under the spotlight, laying his heart bare before a room full of people, there was no denying it.

Her world tilted, a mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something she wasn’t ready to name—coiling tightly in her chest.

He paused dramatically, the microphone in his hand trembling slightly as if it carried the weight of what he was about to say. “She never directly contributed to my work,” he began, his tone steady yet intimate, as if he was speaking to her alone. “But her special tea, made just the way I like it, has always helped me in more ways than she knows. She’s usually quiet, but if anyone dares to critique her authentic local cuisine, she becomes a fierce defender. I’d like to thank her for simply being herself. That’s it.”

A polite round of applause followed, and he stepped back, ready to hand the microphone to the anchor. But just as he was about to let go, something seemed to strike him. His hand froze, and then, with a decisive movement, he pulled the mic back to his lips.

The crowd leaned in, sensing that he wasn’t done. His hesitation was palpable, his jaw tightening as if he were battling with himself. Finally, he exhaled and spoke again, his voice softer now, yet brimming with emotion.

"Umm…” He faltered briefly before continuing, “I… I want to settle down with her. I like her a lot.”

The words reverberated through the room like a shockwave. Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by a thunderous round of applause and an undercurrent of whispered conversations. All eyes turned to her.

She froze. Her breath caught in her throat as though the air had suddenly thickened around her. Her eyes burned, turning misty with unshed tears, but she clenched her jaw, willing herself not to cry. Not here. Not now.

He returned to his seat beside her, the weight of his confession still hanging in the air. She sat motionless, staring straight ahead as though his words had been meant for someone else entirely. Her hands gripped the folds of her saree tightly, her knuckles white with the force.

For a moment, he studied her, his gaze soft yet searching, as though he was trying to read her mind. But when she refused to meet his eyes, he turned forward, respecting her silence.

"I need to go to the washroom," she finally said, her voice steady but barely above a whisper.

He nodded, rising to escort her toward the hallway. He stopped at the entrance, letting her go in alone, and leaned against the wall outside, waiting patiently.

Inside the washroom, the heavy wooden door shut with a dull thud, muffling the noise of the bustling event outside. She turned the lock with trembling fingers, leaning against the door as her chest heaved with uneven breaths. For a moment, she simply stood there, her head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, as if she could will the world to pause for just a few minutes.

Then, the sob she had been suppressing tore free, a sharp, painful sound that echoed in the empty washroom. Her hands flew to her mouth in a desperate attempt to stifle it, but the tears came anyway, hot and relentless. Her body slid down the door until she was crouched on the floor, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though trying to hold herself together.

“This can’t be happening,” she whispered, her voice shaky and hoarse. She rocked slightly, her body a bundle of tension and despair. “No, no, no. This isn’t real. It can’t be real.”

Her mind raced with thoughts that collided and overlapped, a chaotic storm of fear, disbelief, and desperation. The weight of his words—**“I like her a lot”—**was too much to bear. How could he say that? After alk he dud to her how could he say that to her.

She pushed herself up unsteadily and began pacing the length of the washroom, her heels clicking against the tiled floor. Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye, and she froze, staring at the woman before her. Her face was streaked with mascara, her eyes red and puffy, her lips trembling. She barely recognized herself.

“No,” she muttered, shaking her head vehemently. “I can’t let this happen. I can’t stay with him. I can’t give him what he wants. I have to leave. I have to get out of this.”

Her voice grew stronger with each word, as if speaking them aloud was a way to convince herself. But as she stared into the mirror, doubt began to creep in. Could she really escape this? Could she walk away from him, from this life he seemed so determined to share with her?

Her fingers gripped the edge of the sink as she leaned forward, her breathing ragged. “You have to be strong,” she whispered to her reflection, her tone both pleading and commanding. “You can’t let him trap you. You’ve survived worse. You’ll survive this.”

She straightened, swiping at her tears with the back of her hand. Her movements were frantic but purposeful as she grabbed a tissue and began to blot the smudged makeup from her face. Slowly, she reapplied her eyeliner and lipstick, her hands still trembling but steadier now.

“You can’t let him see you like this,” she told herself firmly, her voice barely above a whisper. “He can’t know what you’re feeling. Not now. Not ever.”

Her reflection stared back at her, a fragile yet determined version of herself. She inhaled deeply, holding the breath for a moment before exhaling slowly, as though trying to expel the weight pressing on her chest.

With one final glance in the mirror, she adjusted her saree, smoothing the fabric and ensuring every fold was in place. She clenched her fists briefly, as if drawing strength from within, then turned and walked to the door.

Her hand hesitated on the lock for just a moment before she opened the door and stepped out. The world outside seemed brighter and louder, but she didn’t let it faze her. She met his gaze briefly, noting the relief that softened his features.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice steady now, her mask of composure firmly in place. “Let’s go back.”

And with that, she walked forward, each step a reminder to herself that she still had control—even if it felt like she was losing it.