Two days later…
Inside SparkLight Studios, the air pulsed with quiet urgency — phones ringing, staff flipping through call sheets, printers churning out scripts like factory wheels. It was one of those floors where time didn't move — it sprinted.
In the middle of this chaos sat Maholi, fidgeting with the strap of her old canvas bag. Her notebook peeked out from the zipper like a secret begging to be kept.
She had applied online — for an assistant scriptwriter's internship — more out of desperation than hope. Just something small. Something real.
She hadn't known Amantra Studios was part of Abir's world. The name didn't appear in tabloids. The logo — sharp, red, unassuming — hid its empire well.
Now here she was. Waiting. Hoping the receptionist wouldn't recognize her. Praying her face would stop trending.
The memory of that night — his hand on her waist, the way he said "married" like it was a line from a script — still made her stomach twist.
"This is a mistake," she murmured to herself, rubbing her temple. "I should go."
The door clicked.
A man entered, holding a slim file. His smile was polite but unreadable. "Maholi Roy?"
She stood, hesitantly. "Yes?"
"You've been selected. Congratulations."
Her breath caught. "But… I haven't even been interviewed."
He glanced at the file. "The director approved your profile personally."
She blinked. "Director? Who—"
"You'll report directly to the lead writer starting tomorrow," he said, already turning away. "Mr. Abir Sen."
Maholi's heart dropped.
Meanwhile...
Inside a private lounge lined with leather chairs and city-view windows, Abir scrolled through the intern shortlist — all clean portfolios, digital smiles, eager ambitions.
Then one name stilled his thumb:Maholi Roy.Her passport photo — understated, unsmiling — stared back at him.
Something in his chest twisted. Again.
He tossed the phone aside, but the name stayed. Etched.
Not because of the locket. Not because of the chaos she brought to his press life. Not even because she wasn't his type — she wasn't anyone's type by industry standards.
But because… he knew her.
And not in the vague déjà vu way.
No — he had seen her before.
A girl.Blood.A scar on her ankle.Screams.A woman's arm flung around two children like a shield."Please… protect her… promise me…"
Sirens. Stretchers. Then darkness.
He shot up, heart pounding.
Could it be?
No.The reports said the girl was transferred. Disappeared in the system.
But Maholi's eyes — those brown, searching, defiant eyes…
He poured himself a glass of water with trembling fingers.
Maybe the universe wasn't done with him. Maybe the ghosts of the past didn't vanish — they just waited. In silence. With notebooks.
Later That Evening…
Maholi sat cross-legged on the floor of their small dining room, eating dinner with her family. For the first time in days, things felt calm. The media buzz had dulled. No new hashtags. Just the warmth of turmeric and rice, and the soft hum of her mother's oil lamp.
Until—
A black BMW pulled up outside the building.Its headlights washed over the chipped walls like stage lights on a dusty set.
Footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Firm. Familiar.
Arko peeked through the curtain. His voice shot up like a firecracker.
"Didi! It's your husband from TV!"
"Shut up!" Maholi nearly dropped her plate, heart leaping into her throat.
Her parents looked up — her mother frozen mid-bite, her father slowly setting down his spoon.
And then — Abir appeared.
No sunglasses.No guards.No press shadowing his every move.
Just him.
He looked... real.Like someone who'd walked too far with questions he couldn't ask anyone else.
Her mother gasped.Her father stood slowly.
Abir bowed slightly. "Uncle," he said respectfully, "I came to speak with you. In private."
Maholi's heart thudded.
Her father eyed him — sharp, unreadable — then gave a short nod.
"After dinner."