Bhagyashree froze, her hand still reaching for the glass of drink she no longer needed. Across the crowded ball room, amidst the hushed murmurs and clinking glasses, stood a figure that ripped through her composure like a sharp shard of ice. Her eyes widened, a gasp catching in her throat that no one else heard.
The man before her was standing before her in a dark, tailored three-piece suit. The crisp black shirt, the perfectly knotted tie, the expensive fabric – it just didn’t fit.
This wasn't just a change of clothes; it was a declaration. It spoke of a life she couldn't picture him in. His usually expressive face seemed more guarded, his shoulders straighter, almost rigid. He looked successful, and utterly alien.
Rishabh.
A man she met only a week ago became Bhagyashree’s saviour. He was impossibly handsome, with eyes that crinkled at the corners when he laughed and a quiet confidence that instantly charmed her family.
The charade had begun when her parents contacted her after 5 years, and were kin to meet her husband. Rishabh, a struggling actor who had recently joined her office, had seemed like a godsend in her moment of crisis. For a hefty sum, and a promise of a few weeks’ performance, he had agreed to play the doting husband.
But Rishabh was more than just a good actor. He was a master illusionist. He remembered her mother’s allergies, complimented her father’s choices, discussed politics intelligently with her brother, and charmed her other relatives with effortless ease. He laughed at her jokes, finished her sentences, and gazed at her with an intensity that made her cheeks flush. He seemed to see past her public facade, understanding her unspoken fears and desires.
Slowly, the lines between performance and reality blurred. Bhagyashree found herself looking forward to his touch, the warmth of his hand in hers, the shared glances across a crowded room. His compliments didn’t feel like lines from a script anymore; they felt genuine. His concern for her wellbeing, his protective instincts, began to feel like something she hadn’t felt in years.
She had fallen, head over heels, for her fake husband.
And now, he had broken her heart. Not with words, but with this silent, devastating transformation. Every shared dream shattered into fragments at the sight of that unforgiving suit and those perfectly shined shoes. He was a stranger, and the realization was a wound too deep for tears.
“Bhagyashree?” he began, his voice losing its practiced warmth.
She looked up, her eyes no longer soft with adoration, but hard with a pain that felt like acid. “The performance is over, Rishabh,” she said, her voice shaking but steady. “The curtain has fallen.”
His charming facade crumbled, replaced by a cold, predatory glint.
“You were surprisingly easy to read,” he said, shrugging. “So desperate for love, for someone to rescue you. It was too simple.”
The tears finally rolled down, not for the lost love, but for the shattered innocence, the bitter realization that the most beautiful dream she had ever dared to dream was nothing but a conspiracy. She had given her heart to someone who had carefully crafted this nightmare. He was a mirage, an enigma. But the game wasn't over. Not yet. This time, Bhagyashree would be writing the next act, and it wouldn't be a romance.
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Wrote a Fan Ficlet after a long time. I hope you guys like it :)
Cricket
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