The photo lands in my hand like a live grenade with a bow on it. I stare at it until the pixels blur and my brain switches to emergency mode: this is not a drill; this is a full-blown existential crisis bundled as jpeg.
Darian Malhotra — my fiancé, everyone's favorite business unicorn — is smiling in the picture. Not his usual "I-solve-global-markets-before-breakfast" smirk, but a real, stupid, human smile. He's got his arm slung around a man I don't know, someone with a crooked grin and a scar on his knuckle that looks suspiciously like it was earned doing something cool, like fixing a motorcycle or fighting off an army of villainous baristas. To top it off, the message attached is three words: "Tell her."
For the record, in case the universe didn't get the memo: our engagement party is tomorrow. The dress is steamed. My mother has perfected the "proud but slightly worried" smile in case any cameras angle her profile badly. The caterer confirmed the hors d'oeuvres. The PR team has drafted three possible statements and one slightly menacing contingency plan. I have been practicing the polite, interested smile Darian likes me to wear at charity galas because the cameras favor a certain jawline. It is all very neat and very colonial banquette-table of my life.
And now there is a man with a scar in a photo with my fiancé and one cryptic message that feels less like a favor and more like a detonator.
My thumb floats over the screen for a breath — ten seconds? — before common sense gets bored and my fingers do the dumbest, most Lyra thing ever: I open a new post.
We all think we know him. We don't.I attach the photo. I hit upload.
The sound my phone makes when the post goes live is the sound of a thousand tiny gossips whispering, then screaming, then starting a conga line across the internet. Within minutes my notifications turn into a living creature: pings, comments, DMs. My screen looks like a disco of concern.
"Maa," texts my mother. Are you okay? (She uses a heart emoji as if that will salvage our family dignity.)Who sent you that? comes from my sister. My stylist sends a voice note that says three things: "Delete it," "Don't delete it," and then, "Lyra, tell me you're wearing flats at the engagement so you can run if needed." Practical, as always.
An account I follow — TabloidChai — posts my picture with the headline: "ENGAGEMENT IN CRISIS? DARiAN MALHOTRA EXPOSED!" (Yes, they inexplicably alternate between lowercase and screaming case like it's a constitutional right.)
Before I can form a sentence, my phone pings again and the screen name I've been trying not to think about lights up: Darian Malhotra. It's three texts in a row, each one punctuation-heavy, like his fingers are hitting the keyboard like he's trying to build a physical wall out of full stops.
Where are you?Pick up.Don't. Post. Anything.
Well, that last one is a little late, isn't it?
I do not, as a life choice, make dramatic decisions often. I mean, I used to color-code my bills until the electricity company sent a scolding letter about "unnecessary aesthetics." But apparently there is something deliciously impulsive embedded in me like a small, rebellious ringtone. Maybe it's the years of smiling politely while people explained corporate mergers to me like bedtime stories. Maybe it's the part of me that is very tired of being polished for other people's photo shoots.
So I type back: An old friend. It was a warning.And then I brace for the PR storm.
He arrives faster than I expect. Darian's presence is like a power cut — the whole room adjusts to the edge of his silhouette. He looks incredible in a way that should be illegal: suit that could probably list on the stock exchange, shoes that are a crime against comfort, and a jawline trained in the art of being photogenic. He's not angry the way a human is angry; he's angry the way a corporation is — precise, strategic, and very, very expensive.
"Why?" he says, not asking the question but filing it.
"Because someone sent me a photo and I thought people deserved to know." My voice is blasé, which is the truth and also a lie. On the inside my chest is doing something awkward that usually happens only during high school history tests.
He makes a noise that could be a laugh if it weren't edged with knives. "You posted this three hours before the press conference. Do you understand the damage you've done?" Damage, he says, like it's something packaged in bubble wrap and sent with a return label. I stare at him, then at my phone, then back at him.
"Yes. I do," I say. "And you lied." The word tastes like stale coffee — bitter, unpleasant, and wholly accurate.
For a moment there's something in his face I did not expect: not the corporate mask, but a flicker of — what? Surprise? Hurt? He quickly corrals it and shoves it into his sleeve. "We have options," he says. He behaves like a man offering me procedural alternatives. "You can apologize, delete the post, and we will issue a joint statement. That will calm things down."
I snort. "Apologize for telling the truth? No thanks."
He studies me the way an investor studies a risky market. "Then the wedding is off."
I blink. The world rearranges itself into a gif of horror and my mum's pained face and RSVP lists. "You can't—" I start.
But he's not done. "Or," he continues, voice cool as clinical tea, "we get married privately tomorrow. No press. No statements. We sign papers. Three months. We separate. You sign an NDA. We close the loop. You get privacy. I get control."
He sounds like he's describing a subscription plan. It is absurd and somehow also the most Darian solution possible. My brain, traitor that it is, counts pros and cons. Pros: Mum doesn't cry. Cons: I become Mrs. Malhotra, albeit briefly, which would look terrific in seasonal photos.
"You want me to marry you as damage control?" I say.
"Yes," he replies, and the flatness of the word is a scalpel. "Public optics are fragile. The public loves a redemption arc."
My laugh is involuntary and short. "You want a PR-friendly romance. Fine. But I'm not your prop." I say it loudly enough for the curtains to hear.
He approaches, closer than protocol would suggest, and for a second I notice the faint smell of his cologne — cedar and something faintly dangerous. "You will play along," he murmurs, right next to my ear. "You will appear on camera. You will smile. And you will not post a single thing."
I want to tell him I won't be anyone's puppet. I want to shout that I will not be quieted. Instead, I picture my mother's hands, my sister's nervous chirps, the caterer's invoice. I picture the neat life I have been building — color-coded, predictable, safe — and the fissure that photo has opened like a splintering glass.
"Fine," I say. "A contract marriage. For three months. But I get full control of my social accounts and one clause: you disclose nothing to the press about—about the man in the photo." Negotiation is a habit; I have excelled at it my whole life.
He fixes me with one level-eyed look like a CEO reading a quarterly report. "I accept most of it," he says. "Except the clause. We disclose nothing." He hands me a printed sheet of paper — a sterile, contractual thing that will make our legal counsel very happy.
My phone buzzes in my hand with one more text. The sender is a number I don't have saved. The message: Good. Now we begin.
It is either a threat or an invitation. My fingers curl around the phone. I slide it into my pocket like a talisman. Around us, Darian's world hums with controlled efficiency. My life, formerly a comfortable spreadsheet, just had a column added called: unpredictable.
Tomorrow we sign. Tomorrow I marry a man I barely know in a ceremony devoid of vows but full of consequences. Tonight, I put my dress on the bed and stare at it like it might walk out and do something scandalous without me.
I can feel it already: my life is about to become content. And if you think that's a sentence I ever thought I'd say, congratulations, universe — you're about to get a lot more than you bargained for.