A U T H O R

Nikshant leaned back in his leather chair, tapping his pen rhythmically against the glass tabletop. His office was immaculate, just like the rest of his life appeared to be—on the surface. But inside? Chaos. A tangled mess of emotions he couldn't begin to unravel.

It had been a month since the honeymoon. A month of pretending everything was fine while his mind raged with suspicion and fury. The photograph haunted him. Aaravi's face in that intimate moment with another man. The betrayal etched into the pixels made his blood boil every time he thought of it. And yet... there was something else.

A knock interrupted his brooding, but before he could respond, Yash and Rishabh, barged in unannounced. They plopped themselves onto the couch in his cabin as if they owned the place.

"Don't you two have jobs?" Nikshant muttered, glaring at them.

"Don't you have a wife?" Yash shot back, smirking. "How's married life treating you?"

Nikshant's grip on his pen tightened. He didn't respond immediately, instead spinning the pen between his fingers as his jaw clenched. Rishabh exchanged a glance with Yash before leaning forward.

"Come on, man. Spill. Is it that bad?"

"I can't say anything until I figure it all out," Nikshant replied curtly. His voice was measured, but the tension in it didn't escape his friends.

Rishabh sighed dramatically. "Nikshant, let it go. You'll only make yourself miserable if you keep clinging to... whatever this is."

"I can't," Nikshant snapped, the pen snapping in his hand. He exhaled sharply and threw the broken pieces into the trash. "You don't understand. There's too much—"

Yash interrupted, his tone softer now. "Nikshant, do you even know how you look at her?"

Nikshant frowned, his head tilting slightly. "What are you talking about?"

"The way you look at Aaravi," Rishabh said, leaning back with a knowing expression. "It's like she's the only star in your sky. Even when you're angry, it's there."

Nikshant's scoff was immediate, but it lacked conviction. "Don't be ridiculous. Aaravi is a mystery. She has a past she refuses to share, and it's eating me alive. She cries when she thinks I'm not listening. I heard her on our honeymoon—outside the washroom. Sobs and broken words I couldn't piece together. Only Karanveer knows what happened, but that friendship is gone. He doesn't trust me enough to tell me."

Rishabh sat up straighter. "Karanveer? Her brother? What do you think he's hiding?"

"I don't know," Nikshant admitted, his voice thick with frustration. "But her past... I think it's connected to Vikram Sachdeva. There's something there. Something dark." He paused, running a hand down his face. "And then there's the picture. Ravi is investigating whether it's real or fake, but until then, every time I see her, I see that photo. And it fuels this anger I can't control."

Yash's voice was calm but firm. "You don't hate her, Nikshant. Maybe you love her."

The words were like a slap, and Nikshant shot up from his chair. "I just hate her!" he bellowed, his fists slamming onto the desk. "Only hate. Nothing else!"

His friends exchanged a look, one that spoke volumes. Rishabh stood, crossing his arms. "You can keep lying to yourself, but one day, you'll realize the truth. I just hope it's not too late when you do."

"I don't love her," Nikshant said through gritted teeth, his eyes blazing with defiance. "That's final."

Yash approached him, his expression serious. "Do what you want, Nikshant. But mark my words—if you hurt her, you'll regret it. I warned you before the wedding, and I'm warning you again."

The tension in the room was suffocating. Nikshant turned away, walking to the window and staring out at the bustling city below. His mind raced. Yash and Rishabh eventually left, but their words lingered, echoing in his thoughts.

N I K S H A N T

Sitting alone in the silence of my office, I replayed their words. "You don't hate her. Maybe you love her." What nonsense. Love was not what I felt for Aaravi. It couldn't be.

The photograph. Her tears. Her silences. All of it added up to one thing—betrayal. And yet... why did it hurt so much? Why did I feel a strange pull every time I saw her smile? Why did my chest tighten when I saw her cry? Why did I hate myself for ignoring her, for behaving like a bastard?

I couldn't let these thoughts distract me. I needed clarity. Answers. That photograph would decide everything. Ravi was investigating, and until he came back with results, I had to keep my distance. Any moment of weakness could unravel me, and I couldn't afford that.

But then there were the memories. Her laughter on our honeymoon. The way her eyes lit up when she saw the little villa I rented in Greece, fulfilling her dream of staying in a house instead of a hotel. She didn't know I planned all of that for her. She thought it was a coincidence. And I let her believe it.

Why did I do that? Why did I care about her wishes, about her happiness, when I supposedly hated her?

I slammed my hand against the window frame, the pain grounding me. No. I didn't care. I couldn't.

But then why couldn't I ignore the ache in my chest when I remembered her cries? Why couldn't I forget the way her voice trembled when she said my name, the rare moments she looked at me with something other than fear or confusion?

I hate her. I have to hate her.

The phone buzzed , snapping me out of the daze I'd fallen into after hours of restless pacing. My heart leapt at the sight of Ravi's name, angered rushed through my veins as I read his message.

Ravi: "Still no definitive answer. I've dug into every corner I could find, but there's no clear indication if the photo is real or fake. Someone did this knowingly, though—it's too clean to be an accident."

I slammed the phone down on the desk, the sound echoing in the silence of my office. My patience was wearing thin. No clear indication? That wasn't what I wanted to hear. I needed the truth—black or white, real or fake. This limbo was killing me.

I snatched my phone back up and typed furiously.

Me: "That's not good enough. I need answers, Ravi. I don't care how long it takes, or what you have to do. Just find out the truth. I need to know if the photo is real or fake. And I need it now."

I sent the message and threw myself into my chair, staring at the ceiling as my mind churned with frustration and doubt.

The knock on the door was soft but firm, pulling me out of my spiral of thoughts.

"Come in," I barked, already knowing who it was.

Yash stepped inside, his usual confident demeanor in place, but there was an edge to his expression. He closed the door behind him and dropped into the chair across from me without waiting for an invitation.

"Still obsessing over the photo?" he asked, his tone casual but probing.

I leaned forward, narrowing my eyes. "What do you want, Yash? If you're here to lecture me again, save it. I've had enough."

Yash sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Nikshant, listen to me. Aaravi is sweet and innocent. I don't think she's in that photo. And I'm telling you—you'll regret it if you keep treating her like a shit."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, but I wasn't about to let him see that. I stood abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal.

"What kind of spell has she cast on you that you're taking her side over mine?" I snapped, spinning to face him. "You don't even know her, Yash. I know what I'm doing."

Yash leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady and unyielding. "I'm taking her side because she's like a sister to me, Nikshant. And what you're doing to her isn't right. You're blinded by your own anger, and it's going to cost you. You'll regret this, mark my words."

"Don't talk about her," I growled, my voice low and dangerous. "She's not as innocent as you think. You don't know her the way I do."

"And neither do you," Yash shot back, standing to meet my gaze. "You're so caught up in this photo, you're forgetting the person she is. Aaravi is kind, loyal, and vulnerable. She doesn't deserve this, Nikshant."

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Yash and I stood face to face, two opposing forces locked in an unspoken battle.

"You're wrong," I said, my voice cold and hard. "You don't see what I see. You don't know the things I've seen. That photograph—whether it's real or fake—it's proof that she's hiding something. And I won't let that go."

Yash shook his head, his disappointment palpable. "You're letting your anger and your ego drive you. Instead of confronting Aaravi with compassion, you're pushing her further away. You're going to lose her, Nikshant. And when you do, you'll only have yourself to blame."

"Enough!" I yelled, slamming my fist on the desk. "I don't need a lecture from you, Yash. Stay out of it. This is my life, my marriage, and my problem. You don't get to tell me what to do."

Yash's expression hardened, but he didn't back down. "Fine. Do whatever you want, Nikshant. But when the dust settles, and you're left standing alone, don't say I didn't warn you."

He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving the door ajar behind him. The sound of his footsteps faded, but his words lingered in the air like a haunting echo.

I slumped back into my chair, exhausted from the confrontation. Yash's words replayed in my mind, each one striking a chord I didn't want to acknowledge.

What if he's right? What if I'm wrong?

I shook my head, refusing to entertain the thought. Aaravi wasn't innocent. She couldn't be. The photograph, her silences, her evasions—they all pointed to something deeper, something she wasn't telling me.

But then there were moments—fleeting, quiet moments—when she looked at me with a softness that seemed genuine. When she spoke to her son in gibberish, her eyes lighting up with a love so pure, it was almost painful to watch.

Could someone capable of such love be guilty of the betrayal I suspected?

I didn't know. And that uncertainty was eating me alive.

🐇

I poured myself a drink and sat by the window, staring out at the city lights. The whiskey burned as it went down, but it did little to numb the storm inside me.

Ravi's words echoed in my mind. No clear indication. Someone did this knowingly.

If someone had fabricated the photograph, then they were playing me like a puppet. But who? And why?

I clenched my jaw, the glass trembling in my hand. I couldn't let this break me. I had to stay strong, stay focused.

I picked up my phone and dialed Ravi's number. He answered after a few rings, his voice cautious.

"Nikshant, I—"

"Listen to me," I interrupted, my tone firm. "I don't care how long it takes, or what it costs. You need to get to the bottom of this. I need to know if that photograph is real or fake. No more excuses. No more delays. Do you understand?"

There was a pause before Ravi responded. "I understand. I'll do whatever it takes."

"Good," I said, ending the call.

As I set the phone down, a strange calm settled over me. For the first time in days, I felt a sense of purpose.

I didn't know where this path would lead me, but one thing was certain: I wouldn't rest until I had the truth.

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