That intense stare had utterly freaked me out.

I couldn't stand it for another second.

I quickly started walking, pushing my way out of the suffocating crowd, but I could still hear the incessant murmuring of people-like buzzing flies I couldn't swat away.

The moment I came out of the airport and saw that black SUV, I froze solid. He is here. It means... Oh, no.

I spun my head and saw Anupam. If he's here, it means Bhai is also searching for me. The panic was a cold claw in my stomach. I quickly jammed my sunglasses onto my face and tried to make my way out.

But as I thought it would be easy, it wasn't! Of course it wasn't.

Bhai's man stopped me.

Urrgghhh.

I lowered my head, wishing I could disappear.

"Madam, you can't go right now," the man stated flatly. "We have to check someone first."

Excuse me, brother! The person you all are searching for is literally standing right in front of you.

Thinking fast, I changed my voice to a high pitch and leaned into a theatrical, over-the-top Delhi accent. "Bhayaa ji, I'm here for my..."

Wait.

I can't tell this buffalo where I'm going. Dadu always taught me never to tell your plans before they're a success.

I continued, letting the words tangle like a ball of yarn: "I'm here for my Bua Ji's husband's wife's elder son's father's single son's wedding."

Practically, I just said 'Bua ji ke bete ki shadi'

(my aunt's son's wedding)

But in the most convoluted, Jalebi way possible. The man looked utterly confused. Good. He should be.

"You have a big family?" he asked, clearly bewildered.

"Yeah, yeah..." I replied with forced enthusiasm, "A very big family..."

"Enough," he cut me off, his patience clearly gone. "You can't go from here until Rawal finds out the Princess is missing."

Shit!

It means Bhai is seriously angry with me. I felt a hard lump form in my throat and gulped it down.

"Rajeev! Come here!"

The deep, husky voice cut through the noise, and the voice-maker was my Bhai, of course. My grip tightened on my bag strap. I could hear his crisp, purposeful footsteps nearing us.

I gulped again, feeling the beginning of a cold sweat break out on my forehead.

"Who is she?" he demanded.

No, no, no....

The man stammered, "As you asked to not let anyone out, so I just..."

"It doesn't mean you will stop everyone, Stupid! Let the lady go."

Fewwww.

A massive wave of relief washed over me.

"You may leave," Bhai said dismissively.

I nodded quickly without turning even an inch in his direction, then hurried my steps. I took a cab, the tension only easing slightly once the airport was a distant blur, and reached the hotel I'd booked.

I opened the door and practically collapsed onto the bed. I was utterly exhausted.

I pulled off my mask and my sunglasses, finally letting my face breathe.

The first thing I did was switch off my phone. Bhai is here; he would definitely track me down if I kept it on.

I closed my eyes. I am here for my first-ever grand Author program. Yes, I'm a writer. A successful one. No one knows about me. My books sell for millions, millions of people read them, but no one knows my face or my real name.

If Bhai finds out, he will definitely shut me down. He'll yank me back and lock me away from the world I've fought so hard to create.

A single, hot tear spilled from my eye, tracing a path down my temple, and I finally fell into a deep, desperate slumber.

The girl was gone.

One moment she was there, a flicker of panic in her eyes, the next she'd vanished into the rush of the airport crowd. An odd, unsettling feeling settled in my chest, a vague sense of unease I couldn't name.

The surrounding frenzy slowly, gradually, dissipated.

I adjusted my specs, gripped the handle of my trolley bag, and started toward the exit. That's when two stocky men in ill-fitting suits blocked my path.

I stopped, raising an eyebrow.

"Apologies, sir, but you can't leave just yet," one of them stated flatly.

"Excuse me?" I asked, my tone crisp.

The second man leaned closer conspiratorially.

"Rawal-ji is looking for the Princess. Please wait a moment, sir."

Princess? Rawal-ji?

What in the absolute... what in India is going on? Since when do airports get shut down for a private search? Isn't this still a democratic country?

I remained rooted to the spot, watching the commotion. A moment later, a man in a sharp black suit, his face etched with tension, strode in. I instinctively moved toward him, but the guards immediately stiffened, blocking me again.

"You can't just approach Rawal-ji," one warned.

My foot.

I pushed past them, ignoring their protests, and walked right up to the tensed man. "What in the world is happening here?" I demanded curtly.

The man turned, a brief flash of irritation in his dark brown eyes. "Yes?"

"Why are all your men stopping passengers from leaving this airport?" I pressed. "Is this your private property?"

He removed his dark sunglasses, revealing sharp, intelligent eyes, contrasting with a thick, chiseled jawline. "I apologize for the inconvenience," he said, the tension easing slightly from his voice.

He glanced at his security detail. "Let everyone through now."

With the barrier lifted, I exited the terminal. My father's car was waiting precisely where it should be. I let out a sigh of relief, slid into the backseat, and the driver immediately pulled away.

Finally, I was on my way home, after years away. I allowed myself a small smile, anticipating seeing Maa and Dad.

The drive was long, giving me time to mentally prepare for the changes. But nothing prepared me for the sheer scale of the place we arrived at.

The house was now a sprawling Mansion.

The small frontyard where I used to chase Maa was gone, replaced by manicured lawns and several gardeners at work.

As I entered the main hall, the servants stopped their work, their faces wide-eyed. They began murmuring, as if they'd just seen a ghost-or an alien.

I ignored the whispers and walked deeper into the house.

Everything felt different, vast, and impersonal. I sighed, feeling a pang of nostalgia for the old home.

Then, a familiar, joyous sound broke the silence.

"Mera Nannu aayo gayoo "

It was Maa.

She raced down the grand staircase and wrapped me in a fiercely tight embrace.

Badi Maa followed, holding a gleaming aarti thali. "Devrani, Nazar to utar lene de Yuv ka," she chided gently.

Maa nodded, and Badi Maa performed the ritual, her hands shaking slightly with emotion. Then Dad and Bade Papa appeared.

I bent to touch their feet.

"Look how big you've gotten, Nannu!" Bade Papa exclaimed, his voice warm with pride.

Maa pulled me close again. "You're so thin! Go, wash up. Bhabi and I have cooked all your favorites."

I went upstairs.

My old room-now massive, almost a suite-was clearly furnished with everything they thought I might need. I set down my bag, feeling a familiar obligation to meet their expectations, and went to freshen up.

About fifteen minutes later, I came downstairs. Maa and Badi Maa had already left for the temple. I took my seat at the huge dining table. Bade Papa took the head chair, with Dad sitting beside him.

It was always just me, the only child in the house, loved equally by my parents and my childless uncle and aunt.

A servant served a simple meal of roti and curry.

I took a first, grateful bite.

Bade Papa cleared his throat, his gaze steady. "Yuv, you'll be thirty this year. I want to see you married."

I paused, the food suddenly tasteless. I looked up. "Bade Papa, I've told you before that-"

He cut me off, the geniality fading. "Yuv, we need to solidify our business relationship with the Shekhawats."

Business?

The conversation shifted from family to transaction.

"Nannu," Dad intervened, his voice softening, "we've always supported your choices. But this time, you have to do what we ask. It's important."

I leaned back, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't travel halfway around the world to get married, Bade Papa."

Bade Papa's voice dropped, becoming stern and absolute. "I am not requesting, Yuv! I am telling you: you will marry the Shekhawat's only daughter. This alliance was fixed years ago by your grandfather and the Shekhawat King."

I clenched my jaw, pushing away from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"I. Will. Not. Do. This. Marriage."

AUTHOR'S POV

The clock in the corner of the hotel room, a sleek digital device, ticked steadily toward six o'clock.

Ayushi felt a familiar blend of anticipation and nervousness settle over her.

The prestigious annual literary and creators' summit was about to begin, and for a writer who preferred the shadows, it felt like stepping into the glaring spotlight.

Ayushi stood in the center of the room. Her attire was deliberately unfussy: a comfortable, sky-blue cord set that fell gracefully around her frame, paired with simple, understated flat shoes.

The only concession to the evening's formality was the subtle gleam of her smartwatch on her wrist.

She reached for the silver-backed brush and drew it through the length of her thick, black hair, a cascade that reached well past her shoulders.

The rhythmic motion was a small comfort, a centering ritual. Next came the layering of a delicate, citrus-scented moisturizer on her hands and neck, followed by a light spritz of her favorite perfume, fragrance that was earthy and slightly spicy, noticeable without being overpowering.

Her final, most vital preparations centered on her constant companions. She retrieved her leather-bound diary,a repository of fleeting thoughts, half-formed plots, and raw, unfiltered emotions.

It was a secret sanctuary; its contents were known only to her. With the diary tucked securely under her arm, she picked up her beloved fountain pen, the weight and texture of it a familiar reassurance.

She checked her minimalist tote bag one last time, ensuring her necessities were in place, and with a deep breath, Ayushi stepped out of the silent hotel room and into the bustling corridor.

The cab ride to the venue was a blur of city lights and encroaching twilight. As she drew nearer, the air outside grew thick with the low, excited hum of a large gathering. When the cab pulled up to the grand entrance, Ayushi's breath hitched.

The venue was already swarming. It wasn't just a handful of authors-the crowd was a vibrant mosaic of creators, artists, established authors, social influencers, and industry figures.

The air thrummed with networking, laughter, and the palpable energy of creative minds converging.

Ayushi paid the driver and stepped onto the curb. She felt acutely aware of her anonymity. To the world outside, she was a ghost; she was known only within the select, close-knit circle of her publishers.

Holding her composure, she walked toward the main doors, intending to find a quiet corner before the main event began.

Just as she passed the threshold, a minor, jarring moment broke her concentration.

The strap on her smartwatch-the one that had felt slightly loose all day-suddenly gave way. Instinctively, she pressed her diary and her fountain pen tightly between her arm and her side and fumbled with the clasp, trying to secure the watch before it slipped.

It was in that moment of distraction that it happened. Someone coming around a pillar with unexpected speed collided with her side. The impact wasn't hard, but it was enough.

Her grip on her diary loosened, and it-along with the freed smartwatch-clattered onto the polished floor with a sickening sound.

Ayushi flinched, her cheeks instantly flushing crimson.

"Oh, goodness! I am so incredibly sorry," she quickly apologized, bending down to retrieve her scattered belongings.

The person who had bumped into her also knelt immediately. "Please, it was entirely my fault," a melodious voice replied, tinged with genuine concern. "I was distracted. Let me help you."

Quickly, the person gathered the scattered items. Ayushi's heart hammered as her precious diary was momentarily in a stranger's hand. As the items were returned, the stranger rose and extended a hand-a confident, elegant gesture.

"Kyra Singhania," the woman introduced herself with a warm, genuine smile. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and held a spark of humor. "And you are?"

Ayushi took the offered hand, her own feeling small and slightly sweaty. "Umm... Ayushi Shekhawat," she replied, offering a tentative smile in return, trying to ignore the lingering panic from the near-disaster with her diary.

Kyra's smile broadened, a lovely, disarming sight. Ayushi couldn't help but smile back, a flash of connection passing between them.

"It was lovely meeting you, Kyra," Ayushi said, glancing toward the main hall, needing to retreat and regain her composure. "I actually have to slip away to handle something before the program starts. Perhaps we'll run into each other later?"

"Definitely!" Kyra affirmed. "Go on, then. See you around, Ayushi."

Ayushi offered a small nod and quickly slipped into the surging crowd, feeling a sudden, inexplicable rush of shyness and the desire to be invisible again.

Kyra watched Ayushi disappear, a thoughtful expression on her face, before pulling out her phone to check the time. She was about to tuck it away when she felt something small and hard press against her palm. She opened her hand.

Kyra's eyes widened momentarily. "Oh, Shit!" she muttered under her breath, a flash of recognition crossing her face.

"That has to be Ayushi's. Damn, I should have said something sooner."

She slipped the watch into her small clutch bag. "Never mind," she told herself, glancing toward the stage where a light was starting to brighten. "I'll just catch her after the program. Right now, I can't be late!"

....

Anshrik Singh Shekhawat leaned back in his leather swivel chair, the twilight cityscape a sprawling, glittering tapestry outside the panoramic windows of his penthouse.

He held a tumbler of amber liquid, the ice silent against the glass. The air of formidable calm that usually encased him was momentarily fractured by the sharp, decisive entry of his second-in-command.

"Rawal," Anupam's voice was clipped, a rare note of urgency cutting through his usual composure. "The Princess's smartwatch. We've got a track."

Anshrik’s gaze snapped from the horizon, the cool detachment in his eyes instantly replaced by a searing, intense focus. He set the glass down with a soft clink. "Get the location. Now,"

He commanded, his voice a low, resonant rumble that demanded immediate obedience.

Anupam didn't hesitate. "Sir, it's pinging from the Sunrise Venue. And it's not so far."

Anshrik simply gave a curt nod. The silence that followed was charged with anticipation. Within minutes, the penthouse elevator descended, carrying the two men toward the waiting obsidian sedan.

The drive was swift. As the car pulled to a stop, the venue's brightly lit facade loomed before them.

A massive, gaudy banner spanned the entrance, declaring in bold, sweeping script:

‘Prestigious Annual Literary and Creator's Summit.’

Anshrik stepped out, his tailored suit jacket catching the light. His brows drew together in a tight, perplexed knot.

The image of the woman he sought—a figure of refined elegance and a fiercely guarded secret—did not align with this setting.

"A literary summit?" he murmured, the confusion palpable. "What on earth is she doing here?"

"Sir, the signal is solid," Anupam confirmed, checking his sleek device. "It's coming from inside the main hall. She hasn't moved from the perimeter."

Anshrik straightened, the surprise hardening into resolve. "Seal the place. No one leaves."

Anupam hesitated, a flicker of concern crossing his face. "With respect, Sir, that's going to be a problem. There are hundreds of attendees. Security here is focused on 'creative integrity,' not perimeter control."

A slow, predatory smirk curved Anshrik’s lips, a familiar flash of ruthlessness. He adjusted his cufflink. "Then let's cut through the red tape. Call the event management. Tell them Mr. Anshrik Singh Shekhawat has decided to grace their humble event as the last-minute chief Guest."

Anupam nodded, already on the phone, the gears of influence turning seamlessly.

Anshrik waited by the car, an island of formidable stillness amidst the bustle of event security and arriving guests.

He was a man accustomed to commanding attention, and the air around him crackled with silent authority.

Anupam returned shortly, a faint air of triumph about him. "It's done, Sir. They're ecstatic. A manager is waiting to escort you."

Anshrik gave a brief nod and strode toward the entrance, the glass doors gliding open before him.

A flustered, perspiring man in a lanyard and a cheap suit materialized, bowing slightly. "Mr. Shekhawat, an honor! Please, right this way to the VIP seating."

Anshrik didn't break stride as he was led through the opulent, buzzing foyer. Once settled in the exclusive section, he cut straight to the point.

"The list of participants," Anshrik stated, his voice devoid of any request, purely a directive.

The manager stammered, "S-Sir, I'm afraid that's confidential creator information. We can't disclose the full—"

Anshrik reached into his inner pocket and smoothly produced a stack of bills. He laid a ten thousand rupee note on the table, pushing it toward the manager. "How confidential are we talking?"

The manager’s eyes widened, darting between the money and Anshrik's steely gaze.

Confidentiality quickly evaporated. The list was produced and transferred to Anshrik’s hand within seconds.

He scanned the digital printout, a roll call of contemporary digital celebrity:

• Kunal Verma: (Best Travel Vlogger)

• Manisha Das: (Best Travelogue Author)

• Kritika Choudhary: (Best Digital Artist)

• Kyra Singhania: (Best Lifestyle Vlogger)

• Samira Ahmed: (Best Crafter)

Anshrik dismissed the names with a flicker of his eyes. "Useless," he muttered. He looked up at the manager. "Is there category? A separate list?"

"Only one other, Sir," the manager offered timidly. "The main award: 'The Golden Quill' for the Best Author of the year."

"The winner's name," Anshrik commanded.

"We genuinely don't know it yet, Mr. Shekhawat. That author is only known by their pseudonym: 'Word Wrecker.' Their identity is a major secret until the award is announced."

Anshrik's jaw tightened. "I asked for the actual name, not a dramatic title."

"I am truly sorry, Sir," the manager insisted, wringing his hands. "It's a strict condition of the submission. We cannot violate the author’s anonymity."

Anshrik let out a slow, controlled exhale, a deep breath to quell his impatience. He nodded once, acknowledging the dead-end, and the manager practically scurried away.

"Sir," Anupam leaned in, keeping his voice low. "Princess is absolutely still inside. Her device hasn't broadcast a signal outside these walls."

"Then she is one of them," Anshrik concluded, his gaze sweeping the large hall.

A few minutes later, the manager reappeared, escorting a new figure.

The man was an impressive physical specimen, tall and powerfully built, wearing a black suit that seemed molded to his broad shoulders—a Greek physique indeed.

Anshrik was reviewing the sparse creator list on his phone when the new arrival spoke, his voice deep and carrying a note of immediate recognition.

"You?"

Anshrik’s head lifted slowly. He took in the man's striking features and powerful bearing. The familiarity was instant, a memory surfacing from a shared, volatile past.

Anshrik stood up, smooth and deliberate.

Anupam started forward, instinctively protective. "Mister, you can't—"

Anshrik silenced him with a barely perceptible gesture, his focus fixed on the new arrival. A sliver of a sharp, dangerous grin appeared. "It is good to see you again."

The man gave a measured, curt nod in return.

Anshrik extended a hand, the gesture formal, almost challenging. "I am Anshrik Singh Shekhawat, Chief Guest for the evening. And you are?"

"Yuvan Rajpurohit," the man replied, taking Anshrik's hand in a firm, equal grip.

The two men exchanged a silent, intense assessment—a brief moment of truce between titans. They released the handshake and settled onto the luxurious sofa.

_____________________

Thank you for reading