Teaser:
"In a stadium built for gods, he stood alone.And in a crowd that worshipped him, she held the one thing that made him human.Two strangers.One locket.And a forgotten past that refuses to stay buried."
The auditorium throbbed with neon chaos — flashing lights, pulsing music, perfume and sweat thick in the air. Fans screamed from every row, camera phones raised like torches in worship.
Maholi clutched her crumpled ticket like a lifeline, already regretting every step she'd taken toward the spotlight.
Ritu tugged at her wrist, eyes shining. "If you blink when Abir walks on stage, I swear I'll disown you."
Maholi rolled her eyes. Her white tee stuck slightly to her skin beneath a faded denim jacket, and her jeans — loose at the waist, fraying at the hem — bore more stories than most glossy magazine covers.
"I won't blink," she muttered, adjusting her sling bag. "I'll sleep."
Ritu ignored the sarcasm and giggled. "He's more than a face, you know? His mother was—"
But Maholi had already tuned out. Her gaze drifted to the floor near the aisle, where something metallic winked under a row of empty seats.
She crouched, reaching between discarded popcorn tubs and crushed glowsticks. Her fingers closed around a small pendant.
A locket.
Not flashy. Not even pretty. Just... old. Worn like a secret someone had carried too long.
She snapped it open.
Inside, a black-and-white photograph. A little boy, maybe five. Wild hair. Intense eyes. His smile didn't reach them.
A strange tightness curled in her chest.
She didn't understand why. But her hand closed around the locket before she could second-guess it, slipping it deep into her bag like a reflex.
No one had seen. No one had dropped it. And no one needed to know — not yet.
Backstage, Abir Sen paced like a storm waiting to break.
Not because of the show — he'd danced under hotter lights and lied through shinier smiles a thousand times.
But something was missing.
His locket.
His fingers had searched every surface in his dressing room this morning, even tearing apart the inside lining of his favorite leather bag. Nothing.
The last time he'd worn it had been yesterday, during the final walkthrough. Somewhere between the chaos and the cameras, it had slipped away.
And now, someone else had it.
A fan? A reporter? A thief?
His chest tightened.
That photo — the only proof of the woman who'd brought him into this world — wasn't just a memory. It was a promise. Something fragile and sacred that fame couldn't fake.
He stepped onto the stage as the host announced his name. The crowd detonated in screams and hysteria. He raised a hand, waved, forced the signature smirk.
But his eyes were searching.
And then… they found her.
Not cheering.Not filming.Just watching.
Still. Quiet. Unshaken.
Like she didn't belong to the madness around her.
His heart kicked.
Because dangling from her fingers — half-tucked into her palm — was his locket.
His.
Their eyes locked, again.
It wasn't chance.
It was recognition.
A storm that hadn't started yet, but already knew its name.