By Monday, my life was officially a PR disaster.
The morning sun felt like it hated me personally.
I woke up on the couch, tangled in my blanket, Dadi's phone clutched in one hand. My own phone was dead. Probably symbolic.
Articles had headlines like:
"Billionaire Heartbreaker or Heartbroken Billionaire? Ethan's Mystery Girl Exposed!""From Riches to Rumors: The Curious Case of Sana Rao.""Sana Rao: Intern, Influencer, or In Too Deep?"
Neha hadn't commented on the photo.
Neither had Ethan.
Which was worse. Because the silence? It made the fire burn brighter.
Out of habit, I tapped open Instagram and Twitter on Dadi's screen.
Mistake.
The hashtags were still trending: #EthanAgarwal, #GoldDiggerChronicles, #RedWineMysteryGirl. Apparently, someone found a photo of me outside that restaurant with Ethan—the one where he pretended to be my boyfriend to save me from Andrew. Now it had turned into Exhibit B in the trial against my character.
The memes were relentless.
"Ethan really lost a diamond looking for a gold digger." —with a collage comparing Neha's red-carpet photos to a blurry still of me from the restaurant.
I wasn't even tagged in most of them, but I was everywhere.
And the worst part? The original post was gone.
Taken down. Scrubbed.
Probably by Ethan's team.
But it didn't matter. The damage was done. I was a punchline now.
A notification buzzed: Removed from group: Robot Hate Club.
Nice. Even the snarky escape space didn't want me anymore.
Someone from work had posted, "Guess all it takes to move up in life is a glass of wine and a billionaire's lap."
I shut the phone.
And then I realized I hadn't texted Noah back.
My stomach twisted with guilt. He had sent me messages, checked in, asked if I was okay—and I ghosted him. Not because I didn't care. But because I had no idea what to say.
Before I could spiral, Dadi entered the room, looking composed, holding a cup of tea.
"Your date?" I asked.
She smiled faintly. "It was nice. He had a good laugh, made me feel...young."
"Then why do you look like someone canceled Diwali?"
She didn't answer. Just shrugged. "Some things aren't meant to last."
She didn't say it, but I knew what she meant. The chaos, the drama, the comments—she thought it was all her fault. That her moment of happiness had somehow triggered this mess.
And I hated that more than anything.
At first, I tried to ignore it.
Act like it wasn't happening.
But it's hard to do that when your college WhatsApp group is debating whether or not you're dating your CEO, your mom's cousin sends you blessings with a screenshot of the rumor, and your cab driver asks for a selfie "just in case you're famous now."
Cool. Totally fine. Love this for me.
I was late to work.
Like, embarrassingly late.
When I walked into work, heads turned. The kind that pretend they're not looking but absolutely are. Conversations stopped. The atmosphere felt colder than the AC.
No sarcastic comment from reception.
No eye contact.
I walked faster.
Elevator. 7th floor. I clutched my laptop like a shield.
I wasn't even sure Ethan would show up.
But of course, the man was already in his cabin—glass doors shut, sleeves rolled up, god complex fully charged.
I wasn't going in there.
I walked past desks, trying to pretend the silence didn't sting.
Ethan's glass-walled den was closed.
I slipped into my seat and began writing reports. For four hours straight. No music. No memes. No snacks. That's how you know it was serious.
Raha and Aryan appeared like guardian angels.
"So... are you also on Team Hate-Sana now?" I asked quietly.
"Absolutely," Raha said. "I hate how good your eyebrows still look after all this."
"And I hate that people are jerks," Aryan added.
I exhaled. "Thanks."
Then his assistant came out.
"Ethan wants to see you."
Of course he does.
I walked in slowly. The door shut behind me with a cinematic hiss.
He was staring at his screen, typing. Didn't look up.
"I didn't leak the photo," I said immediately.
"I know."
I blinked. "You… do?"
He looked at me now. "You think I don't recognize my own damn hand in a grainy surveillance image?"
I crossed my arms. "So? You're just gonna let everyone assume we're—whatever this is?"
His jaw tightened. "Do you want me to issue a statement?"
"I don't know," I said honestly. "Do you?"
He stood up and walked around the desk. Too close. Too him.
"Sana," he said, voice low, "I don't do statements. Or scandals. Or… this."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
He exhaled. "That's not what I meant."
"And you had those posts removed?"
"Some of them. My team handled it."
I didn't say anything. He looked at me, eyes sharp. "I'm not a celebrity, Sana. I'm a businessman. I don't owe the media my personal life."
"But this affects me. People are dragging me into it. Comparing me to Neha. Calling me a—"
He interrupted. "That's not my fault."
That one hurt.
"So I'm just... collateral damage?"
He was quiet.
"Fine. So what am I to you then, Ethan? Your secretary?"
"Yes. That's all you are. Just a secretary."
Right.
I turned to leave.
Then paused. "Do you know Roshni was behind the presentation switch?"
He nodded. "I do."
"Then why—"
"I told you not to talk to her."
I walked out.
No rage. No yelling.
Just... empty.
The restroom was quiet.
Until it wasn't.
Voices.
"Did you see her outfit? Like she's still trying to impress him."
"Maybe she's sleeping her way to a promotion."
"We should get seduction tips. Could bag a billionaire too."
Laughter.
"Or maybe he just likes his women... desperate."
I locked myself in a stall.
And cried.
Not loud sobs—just the quiet kind. The kind that make your throat ache. The kind that feel like giving up.
For a full ten minutes, I let it fall apart.
Every insult. Every look. Every lie.
Every time Ethan acted like I didn't matter.
I didn't believe him.
Not anymore.
Then I sat up straighter.
Wiped my tears.
Reapplied my lipstick like war paint.
Pulled my hair back like armor.
Straightened my shirt like it was stitched out of dignity.
And walked out like nothing happened.
Like I hadn't been falling apart ten seconds ago.
Like I wasn't still shaking on the inside.
Because if the world was going to watch—I'd give them a show they wouldn't forget.
At my desk, I clicked a picture of my food.
Sent it to Dadi, Alex, and Dia.
"Enjoying lunch. Don't worry. Love you all."
Then I messaged Noah:
Hey. I'm so sorry I didn't reply. It's been chaos. I should've reached out. You didn't do anything wrong. I just... didn't know how to talk without breaking down. But I miss you. And I hope you're still speaking to me.
No reply yet.
Work resumed.
I took notes. Replied to emails.
Ethan called me back in to finalize design notes.
Professional. Cold.
He was mid-sentence, explaining panel alignments, when the door opened.
Noah strolled in.
I froze.
He smiled casually. "Hey, Sana. Be right back."
I stood. "I'll get back to my desk."
He laughed. "Why would you?"
Ethan looked confused. "Noah, what are you—"
Noah walked over and hugged him.
"I brought the drafts you asked for."
Ethan blinked. "Thanks."
Then, as if reading the confusion etched across Ethan's face, Noah added, "She's my girlfriend. I've been talking nonstop about her, remember?"
I gawked. "You two know each other?"
Noah turned to me. "He's my brother. Technically half. But practically everything."
My mouth fell open.
"He's your—what?!"
"Friend. Lifeline. Annoying older sibling figure. The whole emotional package."
Noah blinked. "I told you my brother works here."
Brother. Works here.
Right. Because that's how people normally say it.
Who says 'my brother works here' when their brother is the fucking CEO?!
The file in my hand slipped.
I needed air.
"I... I need a moment."
And I ran out.