There's a version of my life that still exists somewhere in the cloud, probably next to that photo of me in a crooked eyeliner phase.A version where my name isn't trending, my fiancé isn't a PR crisis in a suit, and my mother isn't calling every astrologer within 200 kilometers to check if Mars personally hates me.
In that version, I'm just Lyra Sen: lifestyle journalist, full-time overthinker, part-time caffeine addict.My job? Making powerful people sound human — or at least relatable enough for the internet to pretend they care.My editor calls me "a headline with legs." My best friend calls me "chaotically employed."Both are right.
My world, before the scandal, was built on three sacred pillars:
Deadlines
Dramatic metaphors
Not falling for my interviewees
And then Darian Malhotra walked into my Google Calendar.
The first time I met him, it was for an UrbanEcho cover story — "India's Most Eligible CEO."I was running late, holding a notebook, a dying recorder, and a coffee that had trust issues with its own lid.He was already seated, looking like someone had invented "expensive calm" as a personality trait.
"Ms. Sen," he greeted, standing just enough to suggest manners, but not enough to suggest warmth. "You're late."
"Fashionably," I replied, dropping into the chair opposite him. "Besides, time is a social construct. Especially in Mumbai traffic."
He gave me a look — that signature Darian Malhotra look — halfway between amusement and an HR warning.And then, inexplicably, he smiled.
It wasn't love at first sight.It was more like curiosity at first sarcasm.
Our interviews turned into conversations.Our conversations turned into arguments about headlines, ethics, and the difference between honesty and PR.He'd say, "The public doesn't want the truth; they want comfort."I'd counter, "Then you're selling pillows, not vision."
He said I made him think.I said he made me annoyed.It was, against my better judgment, chemistry — the intellectual kind that hides under debate until it burns.
The first time he asked me to dinner, I laughed. "You're kidding. You're my story."He said, "Then make it a sequel."
And somehow, it worked.
He was… complicated.Kind in ways he didn't show. Controlled to the point of cruelty sometimes, but never reckless.When we started dating, it was like entering a chess match with champagne flutes.Every move elegant. Every silence loud.
I remember the first time he kissed me — on the rooftop of a charity event, with the city glittering beneath us like it had RSVP'd.He said, "You make chaos look like confidence."I said, "You make control look like denial."He laughed, low and quiet, and I thought, maybe this man isn't a headline after all.
A few months later, his proposal went viral.Of course it did. Everything in his world was branded, polished, press-ready.He proposed in front of the skyline, ring gleaming, media pre-alerted.The clip was everywhere — "The Power Couple of the Year."My colleagues texted, my mother cried, my editor asked for exclusive rights.
For a moment — a short, foolish, glittering moment — I believed the story.I believed we were the picture-perfect pair, two PR-savvy people who'd found real love in a world made of press releases.
But looking back now, the cracks were already there.The way his phone would light up late at night and he'd silence it mid-glance.The hesitation in his voice whenever I said "forever."The unspoken warning in his eyes whenever I mentioned his business partner, Riven.
I ignored it all, of course.Love is stupid like that — it teaches you how to rationalize red flags as "modern communication challenges."
The night before the engagement, I laid out my dress, called my mother, texted my sister, and practiced my public smile in the mirror.The one Darian liked — "warm, but not loud; charming, but not childish."I was about to become the face of "power and poise."
The next morning, I'd have a ring on my finger, a husband on my arm, and a career that screamed success.Or so I thought.
Because that's the thing about fairytales —no one tells you how fast they can turn into press releasese.