It's official: the internet now thinks I'm getting divorced before I've even finished unpacking my skincare.
"Rumor Mill India" just dropped a headline that says —
"LYRA AND DARIAN: SEPARATE LIVES?"
Separate lives? We literally share Wi-Fi.
I shove my phone at Darian. "Congratulations! You're trending again, but this time as the emotionally unavailable ex-husband of the year."
He looks up from his laptop, completely unfazed. "I told PR to ignore it."
"Sure," I say. "Because ignoring the internet always works."
He sighs. "Lyra—"
"No," I cut him off, pacing. "Do you know what happens if people start believing this? My DMs fill with pity quotes and offers to 'manifest better men.'"
He almost smiles. "I see why that's terrifying."
"It is terrifying!" I throw my hands up. "I worked hard for this chaos; no one's taking it away!"
That earns me the full Malhotra stare — equal parts exasperation and admiration. "Then what do you suggest, Mrs Social Media Expert?"
I grin. "Simple. We give them a show."
Two hours later, I'm standing on the red carpet of a charity gala in a backless silver gown, silently plotting his downfall and maybe his redemption.
Cameras flash everywhere. Journalists chant our names like it's an exorcism.
Beside me, Darian looks sinfully perfect — black tux, hair slicked, expression unreadable. He adjusts his cufflinks and murmurs, "I still think this is a bad idea."
"That's because it's my idea," I whisper.
Before he can respond, a reporter yells, "Mr Malhotra! Is it true your marriage is only for publicity?"
Every camera swings toward us.
I step closer, tilt my head, and smile sweetly. "Publicity? Please. If this were fake, I'd have picked someone easier to live with."
The crowd gasps; Darian chokes on nothing.
He recovers instantly — classic CEO composure — and wraps an arm around my waist. "My wife," he says, voice low enough for only me to hear, "is impossible."
"Then prove you can handle impossible," I whisper back.
The reporters start shouting, "KISS! KISS! KISS!" like deranged wedding guests.
Darian hesitates for half a second. Then, without warning, he turns toward me and closes the distance.
His hand slides behind my neck; his breath brushes my lips. "Smile for the cameras," he murmurs.
Then he kisses me.
And suddenly, the world stops.
For a moment, there's no crowd, no flash, no scandal — just warmth, soft and startling. His lips taste like coffee and something unfamiliar: vulnerability.
I'm supposed to play along, pretend, perform. But my body forgets the script. I find myself leaning in, just slightly, before my brain screams abort mission.
Cameras explode in light. Reporters shriek.
When he finally pulls away, my pulse is sprinting a marathon.
He straightens his tie like nothing happened. "That should silence them."
I blink. "Oh, they're silent, all right — right before the internet combusts."
Within minutes, notifications flood my phone:
#TheKissOfTheYear 💋#DarianAndLyraForever 😭❤️#IWantSomeoneToLookAtMeLikeThat 😩
I groan. "Great. Now we're everyone's couple goals."
"You're welcome," he says, smug.
"I should charge you for this acting service."
He smirks. "You already got paid in exposure."
"Ugh, men."
"Ugh, drama."
Back in the car, the silence is heavier than usual — but not uncomfortable.I'm staring out the window, pretending to scroll through my feed, when he speaks.
"You didn't have to do that," he says quietly.
"Do what?"
"Kiss me back."
I freeze. "Oh please, don't flatter yourself. I was saving our PR ratings."
He chuckles softly. "Of course."
But there's something in his voice — that tiny note of uncertainty — that makes my chest tighten.
I turn to him. "You really thought I wouldn't fight for my own narrative?"
"I thought you'd walk away," he admits. "Most people do."
I blink. "Well, good news — I'm not most people."
He looks at me then, and for once, I can't read him.There's no arrogance, no corporate mask — just this quiet, unguarded intensity that makes me forget how to breathe.
Then his phone buzzes.He checks it, frowns, and mutters, "Of course."
"What?"
"Alina posted something."
Oh. Of course she did.
He turns the screen toward me: a photo of her in a red dress, captioned —
"Some stories never end. Some people are just rehearsals."
I snort. "Wow. Someone's auditioning for the villain role."
Darian's jaw tightens. "She's doing this to provoke you."
"Me? Please. I don't do jealousy. I do revenge."
"Lyra—"
But I'm already typing.
I snap a picture of us — Darian's hand still around my waist, both of us mid-smile — and post it with the caption:
'Some stories get sequels. Ours just went viral.' 😉💋
The internet loses its collective mind.
Within minutes:
"LYRA DROPPED THE MIC!""ALINA WHO???""Queen behavior 👑🔥"
I lock my phone, lean back, and grin. "You're welcome."
He glances sideways at me, amusement flickering. "You're terrifying."
"I know."
And for the first time, he doesn't look away.For a single, dangerous heartbeat, there's something in his eyes that isn't annoyance or strategy — it's warmth.
Real. Unfiltered.
I quickly look out the window. "Don't look at me like that, Mr Malhotra. People might start thinking we actually like each other."
He chuckles, low and genuine. "Would that be so bad?"
"Absolutely catastrophic."
That night, as I scroll through our kiss photos flooding every feed, my phone buzzes again.
Unknown Number.
Beautiful performance, Mrs Malhotra. You almost looked in love.
A shiver crawls up my spine.
Who are you? I type.
This time, the reply comes slower.
Someone who knows the truth you're both pretending to forget.
The message disappears before I can screenshot it.
I stare at the blank screen, pulse racing.
Maybe we fooled the cameras…But whoever's behind those texts isn't buying the act.