Chapter 4
The harsh buzzing of her phone woke Poorvanshi from a deep, dreamless sleep.
She groaned, reaching a hand out from under the thick, soft duvet to grab the device from the nightstand.
The bright screen made her squint. It was barely seven in the morning, but she already had twenty-four missed calls and fifty-two unread messages.
Most of them were from her best friend, Ayesha.
Poorvanshi answered the next incoming call, rubbing her tired eyes. "Ayesha? It is too early to be this frantic."
"Do not look at the internet," Ayesha’s voice came through the speaker, breathless and tight with anxiety. "Poorvi, listen to me carefully. Do not turn on the television, and do not open any social media apps."
Poorvanshi sat up instantly, her heart dropping into her stomach. Her architectural brain immediately recognized the warning signs of a structural collapse. "What happened?"
"It is the media," Ayesha said softly. "Someone from the wedding leaked the details of Aryan running away. The press has completely twisted the story. They are tearing you apart, Poorvi. I am so sorry."
Poorvanshi ended the call without another word. Despite Ayesha’s warning, her fingers moved automatically, opening her news browser.
She didn't even have to search for her name. Her face, a zoomed-in, grainy photo taken from a distance during the wedding, was plastered across the front page of every major news portal in the country.
The headlines were vicious, printed in bold, screaming letters.
'THE ABANDONED brIDE: ARYAN CHATURVEDI FLEES ON WEDDING NIGHT.'
'CURSED ALLIANCE? WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE RATHORE GIRL?'
'THE RUNAWAY GROOM: BILLIONAIRE HEIR CHOOSES FREEDOM OVER FORCED MARRIAGE.'
Poorvanshi’s breath caught in her throat.
She scrolled down, reading the cruel, speculative articles.
Journalists who had never met her were confidently claiming that she was overly demanding, that she had a secret affair, or that she was simply not beautiful or charming enough to keep a wealthy man like Aryan.
They were painting her as a tragic, desperate woman who had tried to trap a billionaire and failed miserably.
A cold, heavy numbness spread through her chest. It was one thing to be abandoned in private, it was entirely different to be humiliated in front of millions of people.
She thought about her father, Rajesh, waking up and seeing these headlines.
His weak heart could not take this kind of public shame.
A knock on the door interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
"Ma'am?" It was one of the maids. "Breakfast is being served in the main dining room. Mr. Siddhant has requested your presence."
Poorvanshi took a deep, shaky breath. She closed the browser on her phone and tossed it onto the bed. She refused to hide. If she stayed in her room today, she would be admitting defeat. She would be playing the exact role the media had written for her: the weeping, broken victim.
"Tell him I will be down in ten minutes," Poorvanshi called out.
She walked into the bathroom, splashed freezing cold water on her face, and stared at her reflection.
There were faint dark circles under her eyes, but her jaw was set with fierce determination.
She dressed quickly in a sharp, structured emerald green suit.
It was a power color. It made her look like a woman who gave orders, not a woman who took pity.
When Poorvanshi walked into the grand dining room, the atmosphere was completely toxic.
Raghav Chaturvedi was pacing the length of the room, loudly speaking on his phone to his public relations team. Nandini was sitting at the table, aggressively flipping through a stack of morning newspapers.
Siddhant was sitting at the head of the table, calmly drinking his black coffee. He looked completely unbothered by the chaos around him, dressed impeccably in a dark navy suit.
As soon as Poorvanshi entered, Nandini slammed a newspaper down on the polished wooden table.
"Look at this!" Nandini shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at Poorvanshi. "Our family name is being dragged through the mud because of you! The shares of Chaturvedi Group have already dipped by two percent this morning. The media is calling my son a criminal, and they are calling you a curse!"
Poorvanshi walked over to the table and calmly pulled out her chair. "Your son is a coward, Mrs. Chaturvedi. The media is simply pointing out a fact. As for me, I cannot control what cheap tabloids write."
"How dare you?" Nandini gasped, standing up. "Raghav, do you hear how she speaks to me? We need to issue a press release immediately distancing ourselves from the Rathore family. We need to tell the media that this marriage was a mistake and send her back to where she came from!"
"Sit down, Nandini," Siddhant’s voice sliced through the room. He didn't raise his voice, but the sheer, icy authority in his tone made his stepmother freeze instantly.
Siddhant placed his coffee cup down on the saucer with a soft, final clink.
He finally looked up, his dark, calculating eyes locking onto Poorvanshi.
He took in her sharp green suit and the defiant tilt of her chin.
He noticed that she wasn't crying, though he could see the faint tension tightening her jaw.
"There will be no press release distancing our families," Siddhant stated, looking away from Poorvanshi and directing his cold gaze towards his father.
"If we push her away now, it proves the rumors right.
It shows the world that the Chaturvedi family is unstable, chaotic, and incapable of handling a crisis.
It makes us look weak. And I do not tolerate weakness. "
Raghav ended his phone call and rubbed his temples in frustration. "Then what do you suggest we do, Siddhant? The media is acting like a pack of starving wolves. They have surrounded the gates of the mansion. We cannot just ignore them."
"We are not going to ignore them," Siddhant said smoothly. "We are going to give them a different story to write about."
He turned his attention back to Poorvanshi. "Miss Rathore. Tonight is the annual Crystal Hope Charity Gala. The Chaturvedi Group is the primary sponsor. Hundreds of high-profile guests and top-tier media outlets will be there."
Poorvanshi frowned, suddenly feeling a spike of nervousness. "And?"
"And," Siddhant continued, leaning back in his chair, "you are going to attend the gala. With me."
Nandini gasped loudly. "Are you insane? You want to parade her in front of the cameras? They will eat her alive! They will ask horrible questions!"
"They will not ask anything, because I will be standing right next to her," Siddhant replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous, deadly pitch.
"We will show the world that the Chaturvedi family stands united.
We will show them that Poorvanshi is under my direct protection.
Once the media sees that I am personally backing her, the negative rumors will die instantly.
No newspaper in this country has the courage to print a single bad word against a woman standing by my side. "
Poorvanshi stared at him, her heart beating wildly. She understood his logic. It was a brilliant, flawless public relations strategy. But the thought of walking into a room filled with flashing cameras and judging eyes terrified her more than she wanted to admit.
"What if I don't want to go?" Poorvanshi asked quietly, challenging him.
Siddhant held her gaze. "Do you want them to keep writing that you are a broken, rejected woman hiding in a dark room? Because that is what they will say if you stay home."
He knew exactly which button to push. Poorvanshi’s pride flared up instantly, burning away her fear.
"Fine," Poorvanshi said, her voice steady and hard. "I will go. But I am not doing this to protect your family's stock prices, Mr. Chaturvedi. I am doing it to protect my own dignity."
Siddhant’s lips twitched in that familiar, almost invisible smirk. "Whatever gets you in the car, Miss Rathore. Be ready by seven."
***
The rest of the day passed in a blur of nervous anticipation.
At exactly six-thirty, Poorvanshi stood in front of the full-length mirror in her suite.
She had chosen her outfit carefully. It was not a traditional, heavy Indian outfit, nor was it a soft, delicate gown.
It was a sleek, long-sleeved black evening gown with a high neckline and a sharp, structured silhouette.
It fit her perfectly, making her look tall, elegant, and entirely untouchable.
She wore no heavy jewelry, only the cold diamond wedding ring that Siddhant had forced back onto her finger.
She took a deep breath, smoothing her hands down the dark fabric. This dress was her armor.
When she walked down the grand staircase, Siddhant was waiting for her in the foyer.
He was wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly.
The crisp white shirt and black bowtie made him look incredibly handsome, but it was his aura that was truly captivating.
He looked like a king completely in control of his domain, exuding a dark, dangerous power that made the security guards around him stand perfectly straight.
When he heard her footsteps, Siddhant looked up.
For a brief, suspended second, the cold, calculated mask on his face completely vanished.
His dark eyes swept over her black gown, taking in her simple makeup, her loose, dark hair, and her fierce, confident posture.
He had expected her to dress like a victim trying to look pretty.
Instead, she looked like a queen ready for a war.
A heavy, electric tension sparked in the air between them, completely different from the anger they usually shared. It was the exact same dangerous pull they had felt in the library the night before.
Siddhant quickly cleared his throat, pulling his cold mask back into place. "You look appropriate," he said smoothly.