I have been to exactly 47 charity galas in my professional life.And in every single one, someone has worn sequins like a personal vendetta.
But this one — this one is different.This is my first public event as Mrs. Lyra Malhotra, and the entire internet is already waiting to see if I trip, cry, or throw wine on someone.
(Plot twist: all three are possible.)
Aria, our PR goddess, practically glued herself to me as I get ready."Remember, tonight is about image rehabilitation," she says while wrestling a diamond bracelet onto my wrist. "Smile like you've forgiven the world."
"Forgiven?" I ask. "The world hasn't even apologized."
She sighs. "Please don't roast anyone important tonight."
"I'll try," I promise. "But if someone calls me 'brave' one more time, I might commit social homicide."
The gala is in one of those places that smells like old money and ego — chandeliers, red carpets, cameras that click like gunfire.Darian stands beside me, perfect in black tux and apathy.
"You look…" He pauses, as if searching for the right word.
"Like a liability?" I offer.
He almost smiles. "Unavoidable."
"Wow," I say. "That's practically romantic."
As soon as we step inside, the crowd swallows us whole.Everywhere I look — phones, whispers, eyes.
"That's her.""She looks better in person.""Do you think it's real?"
We pose for photos, hold hands (for optics), and smile in perfectly synced fake harmony.My cheeks hurt, but my sarcasm is alive and thriving.
When a reporter shoves a mic in my face, asking, "Mrs. Malhotra, is it true your marriage saved your husband's company?"I smile sweetly. "Oh, no. I just saved him from bad PR."
The cameras love it. Aria, from across the room, looks like she might faint.
Then she walks in.
Alina Kapoor.Darian's ex-fiancée, and every Indian fashion magazine's eternal darling.Silver gown, perfect posture, and an aura that screams: I moisturize with jealousy.
The air shifts instantly.Half the room glances between her and us like it's a live reality show.
She glides over, her smile sharp as glass. "Lyra," she says, voice honeyed. "You're glowing."
"Probably from the fire of public scrutiny," I reply. "Keeps the pores open."
Her smile doesn't falter, but her eyes narrow by a millimeter. "You must find this… lifestyle overwhelming. Darian's world isn't easy."
"Oh, don't worry," I say cheerfully. "I came prepared with Wi-Fi and emotional armor."
A small crowd nearby chuckles.Score: Lyra 1, Alina 0.
But Alina isn't done.She turns to Darian, placing her hand on his arm. "Still keeping up appearances, I see."
He removes her hand like it's contaminated and replies coolly, "Some of us don't confuse appearances with reality."
Her eyes flick toward me, and she smiles — the kind of smile that says checkmate.Then, gracefully, she "accidentally" bumps her glass, sending red wine cascading over my pale gown.
Gasps. Cameras. Chaos.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" she says, tone perfectly innocent.
I freeze. The liquid seeps into silk and dignity alike. For a second, everyone's waiting — for me to cry, to snap, to storm off.
Instead, I smile.Because revenge, my friends, is best served viral.
I lift my champagne flute, grin at the crowd, and clink it against hers."Cheers," I say loudly, "to women who spill things but never own up."
Laughter ripples through the crowd.Even the reporters chuckle.
Darian steps forward, takes off his jacket, and drapes it over my shoulders — again.Flashbulbs go insane.
The internet just got its next meme.
Later, as we step aside for air, I whisper, "You didn't have to do that."
"Damage control," he mutters.
"Admit it," I tease. "You enjoy saving me."
He glances at me, expression unreadable. "You don't need saving."
Something about the way he says it makes my stomach do that annoying twist again.For a man made of steel and spreadsheets, he's unexpectedly good at sounding sincere.
As we walk toward the exit, Aria rushes over, phone in hand."Uh… we've got a problem," she says. "The hashtag #WineGate is trending, but so is #ProtectLyra."
I peek at the screen.The top comment reads:
"If my man doesn't give me his jacket after a wine war, I don't want him."
I burst out laughing. "Well, at least my fan club's consistent."
Darian sighs. "We're turning into a circus."
"Correction," I say, smirking. "We're the main act."
He gives me that half-look again — the one that could be irritation or affection or both.And for a brief, ridiculous second, standing under flashing lights and fake laughter, I almost forget we're supposed to hate each other.