It started with an email.
Simple. Unassuming.Subject: "Script Greenlit – Let's Roll."
Maholi stared at the screen, blinking—half-afraid the words might vanish.
But they didn't.
It was real.
Her script—the one poured from sleepless nights and coffee-stained mornings, the one built from broken memories and bold dreams—had been picked up.
A woman-centric drama about survival, power, and passion.By a production house known for fearless cinema.
She screamed.
Abir dropped his coffee mug in the living room. "What happened?!"
She burst into the room and launched herself into his arms. "They said yes!" she gasped. "Abir—it's happening. They want me as creative director. Casting, costumes, storytelling—the whole vision. It's mine."
He held her tight, spun her in a circle like a boy on Christmas morning. "I knew it. You shook me when I read that second act—hell, I wanted to stand and clap."
They celebrated like lovers and children—ice cream at midnight, dancing barefoot to loud music, making love like they were scribbling passion into the margins of their own story.
For a while, the world shimmered.
Three weeks later, the shimmer dulled.
Enter: Aarav Sen.Top-billed actor. Irresistible charm. A smile dipped in mischief.And far too interested in Maholi.
The first meeting was casual. Professional. Maholi didn't notice anything off.
But Abir did.
The way Aarav's eyes lingered a second too long.The compliments that grazed past "your writing is powerful" and landed in "you have a kind of spark I haven't seen in years."The soft laugh, the lowered voice.
At first, Abir stayed quiet.
This was her win, her world. Her script.
But one evening, when Maholi came home and casually said, "Aarav jokingly offered to take me out for drinks—to help me brainstorm," something in Abir's voice changed.
"Did you say yes?"
She blinked, confused. "Of course not. I laughed it off."
He nodded, silent. But his jaw tightened.
A week later, it got worse.
Aarav posted a behind-the-scenes snap on social media.Maholi mid-laugh. His hand resting just a little too close to her waist.
Caption:
"Brilliant minds. Beautiful muse. #InspiredByHer"
Abir saw it before she did.
He didn't speak. He just threw his phone onto the couch. The case cracked.
That night, when Maholi returned late from a script run-through, she found him standing on the balcony, silhouetted by city light. A glass of whiskey in his hand. Silent storm behind his eyes.
"You didn't answer my texts," he said without looking at her.
"I was in a meeting," she replied, dropping her bag. "Lighting, wardrobe… and yes, Aarav. It's work, Abir."
He finally looked at her. "Is that what it is for him?"
The silence between them turned sharp.
Then she snapped, "You don't get to act jealous. Not when the entire industry still thinks Ruchika is your fiancée."
He turned, his voice like flint. "That was never real. You know it."
"But they don't," she said, her voice rising. "You never made it clear. You never claimed me. But the second another man smiles at me, suddenly I'm the one out of line?"
The air cracked between them—anger, hurt, desire, fear—all tangled in heat.
Finally, she whispered, "Why does this bother you so much?"
He crossed to her in one step.
His hand cupped her jaw, firm but reverent. His voice dropped, hoarse."Because you're mine."A pause."And I'm barely holding it together—watching someone else flirt with what I can't even name in public."
Her breath hitched."Then name it," she whispered."Claim it."
He stared at her.Then kissed her—hard, desperate, like he was sealing a vow with breath and heat.
But the kiss didn't end the conversation.
And neither, it seemed…Did Aarav.