"Keyu, is this you?" Jaanvi asked, her voice laced with concern, thrusting a crumpled news article towards me.
My breath hitched as I stared at the photo. A blurry image, but undeniably me, alongside CM Sir. My face was invisible, but the context was accurate to tell that it's me. Our posture, the angle, it painted a picture of something entirely inappropriate. How? Why?
"Yes," I whispered, the word barely audible. "It's me."
The headline screamed: "Randheer Yaduvanshi, the CM of the State, Caught in Scandal! Who is the Mystery Woman? Is She a Source of Entertainment? Can We Trust Our CM to Protect Women? Or is She a Seductress?"
The article was a venomous cascade of accusations, degrading remarks aimed at CM Sir, and a relentless hunt for the "mystery woman." And that woman was me.
The online comments were even worse. "Slut," they called me. "Gold digger." "She'd do anything for power and money." Each word, a barbed hook tearing at my soul. I tried to dismiss them, to convince myself they didn't matter, but they were like thorns, embedded deep, impossible to remove. They were imprinted on me, a stain on my very being.
I took a shaky breath, trying to quell the rising panic. The political fallout was explosive. The opposition was hungry for blood, demanding the dissolution of the cabinet.
The public was in an uproar. How had 24 hours passed, and I was only now seeing this? I should have been warned.
I knew I had to be careful. Politics was a viper's nest, a game where pawns were sacrificed without a second thought. If the media discovered my identity, I'd be their next victim, a spectacle for their sensationalist agenda.
And then there was my father. The thought sent a chill down my spine. He would kill me, I knew it. Not a figure of speech, but a cold, hard certainty. Years ago, when a similar scandal involving a young girl surfaced, he had declared, "I would bury my daughter alive if she ever brought such shame to this family."
His eyes, hard and unwavering, left no room for doubt.
My marriage to Mihir, a man who seemed genuinely kind, was also on the line. This scandal would shatter everything. No one would believe it was an accident, a mere misunderstanding.
I buried my face in my hands, the weight of the situation crushing me.
"Calm down, Keyu," Jaanvi said, her arms wrapping around me in a comforting embrace.
"It's just political maneuvering. They're trying to destabilize the government. You won't be dragged into it."
"Just stay inside for a few days," she continued, her voice soothing.
"Tell me if you need anything, I'll take care of it." I nodded, grateful for her unwavering support.
My wedding in Haryana was just days away. I desperately needed to avoid any further complications. But the public outrage was escalating, fueled by the opposition's relentless campaign of character assassination.
Why was I cursed with such misfortune? Ever since childhood, my life had been a series of trials, a relentless onslaught of hardship. Just as I thought I had found some semblance of stability, this scandal erupted, threatening to destroy everything. It felt like God was testing my limits, pushing me to the breaking point.
The girl who once contemplated suicide was fragile, wounded. But I had used my job, my independence, to build a semblance of strength. I had to be strong now. For Jaanvi, for my mother, who had always been my rock.
Two days had passed, and I remained a prisoner in my own home. The streets were filled with protesters, demanding answers from a silent CM Sir.
I was alone in home because jaanvi went to school and then the doorbell rang,
I opened the door and it was Mihir. Why was he here? Did he know about the news, about me being connected? I wasn't terrified of him, but if the marriage broke off, it would be a humiliation for my family, an unbearable blow to their reputation.
"How do you know my address?" I asked, as he stood in the doorway.
"Won't you at least say 'hi' or 'hello'?" he asked playfully.
"Hello, Mr. Mihir. What brings you here?" I asked.
"I asked your mom," he said, and we both entered the apartment.
His presence was unsettling, my mind still reeling from the scandal.
"Mom agreed? Didn't she say, 'Meeting before the wedding isn't appropriate'?" I asked.
"I had some work here, so I thought I'd stop by and see you," he said, settling onto the sofa.
It felt like an intrusion into my personal space, but I forced a smile.
"Let's sit and talk," he said.
I sat down beside him, keeping a careful distance.
"How will we manage the distance? You're in Delhi, and I'm in UP," he asked.
"You could come here every Saturday and Sunday," I suggested.
"But my parents are in Delhi, and we've already bought a house there. I think it would be more practical if you came to Delhi," he said, imposing his preference.
"I'll think about it," I said, a thin veil of politeness masking the turmoil churning within me. Arguing felt futile, a draining exercise I simply didn't have the energy for.
"Are you happy about the marriage?" I asked.
"Look at me," he replied, his voice a touch too loud, a touch too confident. He moved closer, an almost predatory stride, and reached for my hand, attempting to cover it with his. The instinctive recoil was immediate and I got up immediately.
"I'll bring water for you," I stammered, needing to create distance, a physical barrier against the growing unease.
"Keya," he said, his voice laced with a hint of reproach, "we're going to be married, a lifetime relationship, and you're being too distant."
His eyes, once seemingly friendly, now held a sharp, scrutinizing gaze.
Too distant? I thought, the words echoing in my mind. He can't possibly understand. This was only our second meeting, a fragile bridge built on hesitant conversations.
"It's all so new for me," I tried to explain, my voice trembling slightly, hoping he would grasp the depth of my hesitation.
"I need time..."
He fell silent, a heavy, uncomfortable silence that stretched between us. After a prolonged pause, he rose, his movements stiff and deliberate. "Okay," he said, his tone flat, devoid of the warmth he'd projected earlier.
"Let's meet on the marriage day. I hope after that, you won't hesitate about these little things." He turned and walked out of the apartment, the click of the door echoing the finality of his departure.
The silence that followed was deafening. On the phone, he was charming, easy to talk to, seemingly understanding. But in person, he was different, almost unrecognizable. He dismissed my concerns, my need for space, as "little things." He didn’t even try to understand my perspective. It was as if he was following a script, a pre-determined course, oblivious to the nuances of my discomfort.
From the moment our families suggested this match, a doubt had lingered at the back of my mind. Now, his reaction, his dismissive attitude, converted that doubt in truth. Was this the man I was supposed to spend my life with?
The weight of his words settled upon me, a heavy burden. "Let's meet on the marriage day." The implication was clear: he expected me to simply fall in line, to suppress my anxieties and embrace a future I wasn't sure I wanted.
A wave of anxiety washed over me. He had a point, practically. I was living in a rented apartment, a temporary dwelling, while he offered the stability of his family's home in Delhi. It was a practical consideration, a logical step. But marriage wasn't about logic; it was about connection, about understanding, about shared respect. And in those crucial moments, he had shown me a side that chilled me to the bone.
Was I overreacting? Was I being unfair? Perhaps I was magnifying his words, reading too much into his actions. But the instinctual fear that had gripped me when he reached for my hand felt undeniably real. The feeling of being rushed, of being pressured, was suffocating. I needed time, time to breathe, time to understand my own feelings. Time that, it seemed, he wasn't willing to give. The phone conversations were easy, but this reality was hard, and it was becoming clear that I was going to have to make a very hard decision.
And,
If my identity is revealed in the media, then everything will be destroyed.
I need to be strong.
I'm strong.
I've handled myself all these years; I can do it now.
Until now, I've never let anyone cross me except my family, which I'm doing just because of my mom.
I know when to apply medicine to someone and when to slap them.
Regarding Mihir, I will never let him walk over me because my self-respect is above everything.
I was in thoughts when the doorbell rang again.Jaanvi wasn't expected until later. "Must be a parcel," I muttered, opening the door.
The sight that greeted me froze me in place. It wasn't a parcel. It was someone I never expected to see, someone who
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