The moment the stage curtain fell between them and the screaming crowd, Maholi yanked her hand free.
"What the hell was that!?" she hissed, breathless, her voice sharp and shaking.
Abir didn't answer.Didn't even look at her.
He stormed into the green room like a man on the edge of something dangerous — pacing, scanning, his breath ragged as if he were searching for oxygen.
And then, without a word, he turned — and grabbed her.
Not violently.Not cruelly.But urgently.
"Wait—what are you—!"
Before she could react, his fingers slipped beneath the neckline of her shirt. One tug. One gasp.
The locket came free.
Maholi staggered back, arms instinctively crossing her chest, cheeks burning. "Are you insane?"
But he wasn't listening.
He stood there, the silver chain wound in his fist, staring down at the worn locket like it was the only real thing in the room. His chest rose and fell with silent thunder.
Then his voice cut through the silence. Cold. Final.
"Pay her. Whatever she wants."
Maholi blinked. "What did you just say?"
His manager — a wiry man in all black — had just entered, panting and pale. He paused, confused.
Abir's back was already turned to her.
"She can leave now," he said. "She's done."
The words cracked something open.
Done?
Like she was a prop.
Maholi's heart slammed against her ribs. Shame. Rage. Disbelief.
She stepped forward, heat rising in waves."You think you can use people like that? Just because you're some goddamn star?"
Abir finally looked at her. His face was unreadable — sculpted marble with shadows for eyes.
"I wasn't going to keep it," she snapped. "I didn't even know it was yours."
"But you wore it." His voice was low. Accusing.
"I found it!" she fired back. "I was going to turn it in. But no, you dragged me onto a stage, made me your fake girlfriend in front of half the country, and now you want to throw me away like nothing happened?"
Their gazes clashed — fire meeting ice.
Then — buzz.
The manager's phone vibrated violently. He checked it. His face drained.
"Abir… you just started a firestorm."
Abir stiffened. "What firestorm?"
The manager swallowed. "The press. Social media. The hashtag #AbirMaholi is already trending. Your agency's phones won't stop. Every sponsor wants confirmation. The media wants interviews. And—" he paused, wincing, "—your father's called five times."
Abir cursed under his breath. His hand clenched tighter around the locket.
The manager turned to Maholi now, awkward and nervous."You can't just leave," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "Watch me."
"I mean it. He introduced you as his girlfriend. Publicly. If you vanish now, it becomes a scandal. The agency has rules, image contracts… expectations."
"I didn't sign anything."
"You didn't have to. You played along. On stage. In front of millions."
Maholi's voice went flat. "So now what? You're offering me a script? A salary? A leash?"
"No," the manager said carefully. "We're offering you a chance to… become part of the illusion. And illusions have value. Power. But they come with contracts."
Maholi looked at both of them.
This wasn't her world.
She hadn't come for fame, or fantasy. She hadn't come to be someone's beautiful lie.
She had come with a bag full of rejection letters, half a dream, and the ache of being unseen.
And now here she was — center stage in someone else's show.
She looked at Abir one last time.
"You may have the locket," she said, voice quiet but steel-lined. "But you don't get to take my dignity with it."
And then she walked out.
No applause. No lights.
Just the sound of silence — the kind that follows a decision that cannot be undone.