The music from the rooftop was just a dull hum now. The Paris air had turned colder, or maybe that was just Shruti, barefoot on the pavement, clutching her heels in her hand as she tried to flag down a taxi.
Her head swam. The champagne blurred her vision, her steps uncertain.
A black car whizzed by, ignoring her outstretched hand. Her phone had fallen somewhere back at the bar and she couldn’t find it. Or care enough to.
Then came voices—too smooth, too close.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” a man said with a smirk, stepping into her path. His friend flanked her from the side. “You’re lost, aren’t you?”
“I’m... I’m okay,” Shruti muttered, blinking.
“Don’t worry,” the second one said. “We’ll take good care of you.”
One hand brushed her arm, lingering longer than it should have.
“Don’t touch me—” she began, but the words tangled in her tongue.
Before she could react further, the man was yanked backward with terrifying force.
THUD.
He hit the ground, groaning.
The second man barely had time to turn before a solid fist cracked against his jaw, sending him stumbling.
Siddharth stood there, eyes blazing, chest heaving.
The goons scrambled and ran off without a second glance.
He turned on Shruti.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped. “Do you even realize what could’ve happened? Are you out of your mind?!”
Shruti flinched at his tone. Her lips parted, but the words wouldn't come. Tears threatened to spill.
He stepped closer, his voice still sharp. “You drank yourself senseless and wandered off into the night like it’s a joke—what were you thinking?”
Her eyes met his, glassy and pleading.
“I wasn’t,” she whispered. “Because every time I think... I remember you.”
Siddharth stared at her, the anger in his eyes flickering.
Shruti’s voice cracked as she continued.
“You think I wanted attention? Is that what you believe about me now?”
She took a step toward him, trembling. “Do you really think I’d call off our wedding for something that shallow? Do you think so little of me?”
He didn’t answer.
Shruti let out a choked breath, her hands curling into fists.
“I know I hurt you. I know I broke you. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.” Her voice was shaking now. “But everything I did... was to protect you."
"And even if you hate me for it, I will never, never regret loving you.”
She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself.
“But hearing you question my character... after everything... That—” her voice wavered, “That broke me, Siddharth.”
Silence stretched between them. Her tears rolled quietly, but she didn’t look away.
“I didn’t drink because I wanted fun. I drank because you walked away… and I didn’t have the strength to follow you this time.”
Siddharth looked at her, his expression unreadable. The storm in his eyes had stilled, but the wreckage it left behind echoed in both of them.
And in that quiet Paris night, Shruti stood in front of the man she still loved—heartbare, exhausted, and shattered.
Siddharth held her awkwardly in his arms as her sobs shook her fragile frame.
She wasn’t clinging to him—she wasn’t asking for comfort. She just broke, right there, her face buried against his chest, whispering broken confessions between hiccuped breaths.
“I never stopped loving you… never… not even for a day.”
He stood still, stiff. His arms didn’t return the embrace. His heart clenched, but his mind was a battlefield. He didn’t know which emotion deserved to win—anger, pain, or something terrifyingly tender.
Shruti went silent mid-sentence. Her breathing slowed. She’d fallen asleep.
As her body slumped, he instinctively caught her before she hit the pavement.
“Damn it, Shruti…” he muttered under his breath.
With effort, he carried her once again—this time not out of instinct, but out of something he couldn’t name.
He brought her back to her hotel room. He used her keycard and stepped into the quiet hotel room. The warm lighting cast gentle shadows on the cream walls. He laid her gently on the bed. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake.
He pulled the blanket over her, then stood still, staring.
For a moment, he just watched her—the way the moonlight hit her tear-streaked cheeks, the way her hand unconsciously curled against the pillow.
She looked like someone who hadn’t slept in months.
He sat beside the bed, elbows on his knees, hands tangled together. The storm inside him refused to calm.
Her words echoed again.
“Everything I did… was to protect you.”
“I’ll never regret loving you.”
“But hearing you question my character… that broke me.”
He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands.
If she truly loved him, if every word she just confessed was true… why?
Why did she end their wedding so publicly?
Why would she say she was avenging her father?
Why would she humiliate them both if her heart was never in it?
What could she possibly be hiding that she still can’t speak of?
Was it guilt? Shame? Or something far more complicated?
Siddharth stared at the floor, jaw tight, heart heavier than it had been in a year.
“If you loved me… why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”
The question had no answer tonight.
Only silence.
And the quiet sound of Shruti’s breathing, the first peaceful thing in a long, long time.
Shruti shifted in her sleep, her arm slipping off the edge of the bed.
Siddharth, still sitting nearby, leaned forward to gently tuck her hand back under the blanket. But the moment his fingers touched hers, his expression changed.
She was burning.
He placed his palm lightly on her forehead, then her cheeks.
“She has a fever…” he muttered, alarmed. He checked again to be sure. Her skin was unnaturally warm, her breathing shallow.
He stood quickly and strode to the room phone, calling the reception.
“Send up a medical kit. Fever meds. And a female staff member—immediately.”
Within minutes, the door opened. A maid entered while Siddharth turned away, giving Shruti privacy as she helped her out of the heavy party dress and into a comfortable cotton nightshirt — his, since nothing else was available.
Shruti murmured incoherently in her half-sleep, brows furrowed, cheeks flushed. She flinched at the cold water cloth the maid placed on her forehead but didn’t wake.
Once the maid left, Siddharth sat down again, now beside her, holding a glass of water and two tablets.
“Shruti. Wake up for a second.” His voice was firm but gentle.
She groaned lightly, eyes fluttering open just enough to recognize his face. Her lips trembled.
“Siddharth…?”
“Take this.” He helped her sit up slightly and guided the glass to her lips. She obeyed groggily, sipping water and swallowing the pills.
She blinked at him again. “Are you… still here?”
He hesitated, then replied, “Yeah. I’m here.”
She tried to say something else, but her head dropped to the pillow again, too exhausted to speak.
Siddharth adjusted the blanket around her, tucked in the edges, and finally allowed himself to exhale. He leaned back in the chair beside her bed, resting his head against the wall.
He didn’t know why he stayed.
Maybe it was instinct.
Maybe it was the broken whisper of his name on her lips.
Maybe... he just couldn’t leave her like this.
As the minutes slipped into hours, his eyes drifted shut—still wearing last night’s anger, wrapped now in quiet worry.
The morning sun filtered gently through the pale curtains, casting golden lines across the room.
Shruti stirred, her head pounding, lips dry. She winced and sat up slowly—only to pause in surprise.
She was wearing a loose, oversized nightshirt—definitely not her own.
She looked down. The fabric smelled faintly of cologne and clean soap.
What…?
Her brows furrowed as last night returned in hazy, broken images—laughter, footsteps, his voice… his arms… something warm against her cheek…
The events blurred like watercolors.
Before she could gather her thoughts, the bathroom door creaked open—and Siddharth emerged, towel slung low on his waist, wet hair dripping over his forehead, wiping his neck with another towel.
Shruti blinked.
Her eyes widened.
“Wha—what are you doing in my room half-naked?!” she asked, her voice cracking slightly.
Siddharth looked at her calmly and offered the most casual, infuriatingly smug “Good morning.”
He crossed to the wardrobe without rush, grabbing a shirt.
Shruti clutched the blanket up to her chin. “Wait—why am I wearing… your clothes?” she asked, baffled.
He turned back to her, a sly glint in his eyes. “You really don’t remember what happened last night?”
She froze. “Wh–what do you mean?”
He casually brushed his hair back and tilted his neck, revealing faint scratch marks near his collarbone—barely visible, but enough to draw a gasp from her.
Her jaw dropped. “That’s not—! I didn’t—!”
“Hmm… pretty bold for someone who cried in my arms first,” he said, pretending to reflect. “Then scratched me like a jungle cat.”
Shruti’s face went bright red.
“Y-you’re making this up!” she exclaimed.
He chuckled softly, then sat on the edge of the bed.
“Relax. You were burning with fever. You scratched me while I was carrying you upstairs. You were half-asleep the whole time.”
He gestured toward the bedside table—a strip of medicine, a thermometer, and a cold compress.
“I got you meds. Called a female staff member to help change your clothes. Then I sat here all night while you mumbled things in your sleep.”
She softened immediately. The blush still remained, but now mixed with guilt and gratitude.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For last night. For everything.”
Siddharth didn’t answer immediately.
He buttoned his shirt slowly and finally said in a low voice, “Don’t be sorry. Just... start telling the truth someday.”
The warmth in the room faltered for a second. But only for a second.
He stood up, composed as ever.
“Breakfast is in an hour. Try not to scratch anyone else before that.”
And with that, he walked out—leaving Shruti stunned, speechless, and more confused than ever.
Siddharth stepped out of Room 608 and leaned against the hallway wall. The door clicked shut behind him, but the whirlwind inside his chest didn’t.
Shruti's confession from last night came back into his mind.
He didn't hate her. Not anymore. He had tried. For a year, he had told himself she was cold, selfish — that the betrayal was real. That she had left him for pride, revenge, or ambition.
But last night shook that belief.
Still... he hadn’t forgiven her.
How could he? The wound still bled, and the truth remained buried. Her reasons — whatever they were — remained a mystery that clawed at him.
And now, more than ever, he needed to know.
He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then, he dialed.
The voice on the other end picked up almost instantly.
“Hello?” Aryan’s voice came through, cautious, confused.
Siddharth didn’t answer immediately.
Then, “It’s me.”
A beat passed. Then Aryan responded, slower now.
“Siddharth? You okay?”
“I need to see you.”
“…Now?”
“Yes.”
There was surprise in Aryan’s silence. And something else. Relief?
“Where are you?”
"Paris.” Siddharth’s voice dropped. “I wouldn't have called if it wasn’t important.”
Aryan’s voice turned serious. “I’ll catch the first flight.”
The next day, they met at a quiet rooftop café the next morning — no press, no PR teams, just two men with a complicated history and heavier truths.
Aryan stepped onto the terrace and saw Siddharth sitting alone, a black coat thrown over his shoulders, gaze distant. A cup of untouched coffee sat in front of him.
Siddharth looked up as Aryan approached. His eyes held the weight of everything he hadn’t said in a year.
“It’s been a while,” Aryan said, cautiously taking the seat across from him.
Siddharth didn't responded.
"So? What do you want to talk about?" Aryan asked.
Siddharth filled him in with everything that happened in past few days.
After a long silence Siddharth spoke again.
“I left everything behind that day.”
Aryan nodded. “I know.”
“And I told myself I wouldn’t come back… until I could forget her.” His fingers tapped against the porcelain cup. “But last night… she said something. Something I can’t ignore anymore.”
Aryan waited.
“She said she never stopped loving me.” Siddharth’s voice cracked ever so slightly. “But if that’s true… why did she do it? Why did she stand in that mandap and tell me she was avenging her father?”
Aryan looked away, his jaw tightening.
“Because that’s what she had to say to make you hate her,” he said. “To make you walk away.”
Siddharth turned sharply. “Why?”
Aryan exhaled deeply.
Siddharth stared blankly across the café table, his jaw tight, frustration brewing behind his tired eyes.
"So you're telling me… she lied about avenging her father?"
Aryan gave a slow nod, his expression solemn.
"Yes. That part, I know for sure. She never had anything against you, Siddharth. You were everything to her."
Siddharth’s fist clenched on the table. He leaned forward.
"Then why did she do it?"
His voice was low, strained. "Why say such a cruel thing if she loved me?"
Aryan exhaled, leaning back.
"I wish I knew." He looked away. "I asked her once, a few weeks after it all happened… but she just said—‘It was necessary.’"
That wasn't enough. Not for Siddharth.
He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.
"You were her best friend. Her brother in everything but blood. And you just let it go?"
Aryan’s eyes narrowed. There was a hint of pain in his voice now.
"Don’t put that on me. You disappeared, Siddharth. You told everyone to leave you alone — including her. And she… she shut down. Went completely quiet. You both just ran. Hid from the wreckage. Neither of you wanted to face the truth."
The air between them turned heavy with unspoken grief and guilt.
Siddharth leaned back, hands on his knees, defeated.
"So that’s it?" he said bitterly. "No one knows? Not even you?"
Aryan didn’t respond at first. His gaze had drifted beyond the terrace railing… somewhere distant. Then, slowly, his brows furrowed. A memory stirred.
"Wait..." he muttered.
Siddharth looked up.
"Isha."
Siddharth blinked. "Who?"
"Isha," Aryan repeated, sitting upright now. "Daughter of the head maid at the Singh mansion. The three of us used to play together as kids. Isha practically lived with Shruti growing up. She was always around."
Siddharth frowned, piecing it together.
"You think she knows something?"
Aryan nodded slowly, the memory settling into certainty.
"Shruti used to tell her everything — especially the stuff she couldn’t tell us. Isha was like a diary to her." He looked up. "If anyone knows what really happened that day, it’s her."
A moment of hope flickered between them. Small, fragile — but real.
Siddharth stood up.
"Then talk to her."
Aryan nodded and took the next flight to India. He reached the Singh mansion.
A soft breeze rustled the trees as Aryan stood near the old guava tree where he, Shruti, and Isha used to spend hours as children. He smiled faintly when he saw her—Isha, now a graceful young woman with wisdom in her eyes far beyond her years.
She turned, surprised.
"Aryan?"
He gave her a warm smile.
"It’s been too long, Isha."
They sat on the stone bench under the shade.
"I came here to ask about Shruti, actually." He paused. "About something important. Something that happened a year ago."
Isha stiffened.
"Aryan..." she said slowly, already sensing where this was going.
"I need to know the truth," he said gently. "I know Shruti called off the wedding. I know what she said… but not why. Siddharth still doesn’t know. And Shruti… she’s drowning in the consequences of that day."
Isha looked away.
"I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone."
Aryan sighed. He leaned forward.
"She’s already punished herself, Isha. Every single day since that wedding. She lost him, she lost her peace, and she still carries that guilt like a stone tied to her heart." His voice cracked slightly. "If you truly care about her… if you ever did—then please… help me help her."
Isha’s eyes shimmered. She stayed quiet for a moment.
Then finally, with a nod, she whispered—
"Alright. But what I tell you... it’ll break your heart."
Aryan sat still, breath shallow.
And Isha began.
"The day before the wedding, Shruti overheard her father on a call. He was planning to frame Siddharth’s father with black money through forged accounts tied to the marriage merger. The plan was set. If the wedding happened, Siddharth’s entire company would go down with it."
Aryan's eyes widened.
"She tried to confront her father but he threatened her. He said if she spoke a word or backed out of the wedding with the truth, he’d make sure Siddharth was destroyed anyway. He had enough forged documents ready. She was trapped. So she…"
Isha exhaled.
"She took the blame. Said she was avenging her father, just to protect Siddharth and his family’s name. She killed her own happiness to save him. And she never told anyone, not even me, until much later when I found her crying one night."
Aryan sat frozen. His throat dry. His chest felt tight.
"She… sacrificed it all," he muttered.
Isha nodded.
"And she’s been suffering alone ever since."
The weight of truth finally hit Aryan — heavy and devastating.
He stood up slowly.
"He has to know."
Aryan returned to Paris and went straight to Siddharth's hotel.
The sky was heavy with clouds, Paris lights casting a soft gold through the window. Siddharth stood at the bar, pouring himself a drink, but barely touched it. His mind was spinning ever since Aryan had left for India.
The door opened. Aryan stepped in, looking tired, but his eyes were sharp—haunted.
Siddharth turned instantly. One look at Aryan's face, and he knew.
“You found something,” Siddharth said, his voice barely a whisper.
Aryan exhaled. He sat down heavily across from him.
“I talked to Isha.”
Siddharth's breath caught. He sat, leaning forward.
“She knew?”
Aryan nodded.
“Yes. She knew everything.”
A pause.
As Aryan filled him with everything Siddharth's fist clenched.
“She tried to find a way out. But there wasn’t one. Your father wouldn’t have believed her without proof. And even if he did… the scandal would still go public. Your shares would’ve tanked. Your rivals would’ve pounced.” Aryan said.
Siddharth looked shattered.
“She said she was avenging him…”
“She lied.” Aryan’s voice was firm. “Because she knew the only way you’d let her walk away was if you hated her. If she gave you a reason to.”
A long silence.
Siddharth stood up slowly, walking to the window. He stared out at the Paris skyline, breathing unevenly.
“She let me believe she was the villain,” he said, eyes glassy.
“I would’ve fought the world for her. She never even gave me the chance.”
Aryan stood beside him.
“She still loves you, Sid. I saw it in her eyes the moment your name came up.”
Siddharth turned, pain deep in his voice.
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“She never spoke to me either,” Aryan said softly. “You both shut the world out. She broke down after you left. She stayed silent, suffered alone. Just like you.”
Another beat passed.
Siddharth walked to his desk, picked up his phone. He opened his contact list, fingers trembling. Then paused.
“I know where to call her.”
Aryan looked up.
“Where?”
Siddharth looked at him, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“The rooftop restaurant. The one with the Eiffel view.”
Aryan raised a brow.
“Where you two...”
“Fell in love,” Siddharth finished.
He typed a short message:
“Meet me. 9 PM. Rooftop. Eiffel view.”
He stared at the screen before hitting send.
At Shruti's hotel room, the soft chime of her phone pulled Shruti from her daze. She was curled up on the window seat, gazing at the dusky Paris skyline.
She picked up the phone.
One message.
From Siddharth.
Her heart skipped a beat.
