Aishwariya POV
It started with a buzz. Then another. And another.
I was painting in the studio above the bookstore when the vibrations began, jittering against the wood of the desk like something alive, angry.
I wiped my fingers on a rag and glanced at my phone.
20 unread messages.
11 missed calls.
The first ping of anxiety hit me low in the stomach. Not because of the number—but because of the names. Most weren't saved in my contacts. One was from my mother. The rest were unknown. And the texts—scattered previews like broken glass—told me everything I didn't want to read.
"Is this true?" "We're concerned about the brand." "This isn't the image we signed on for."
Then came Priya.
She didn't knock. She didn't even say my name. Just burst into the room like someone running from a fire.
Her face was pale, drawn tight.
"You need to see this," she said, shoving her iPad into my hands, her voice trembling. "Aish, they're saying terrible things. About you and Carter."
And there it was.
The headline that would unravel everything.
"Wedding Planner Linked to Ex-Addict: Fairy Tales or Failure?"
"From Elegance to Chaos: The Fall of Aishwariya Patel?"
Sources confirm the once-engaged heiress has recently been seen entering the home of Ex-addict Carter West, whose past includes a stint in rehab, and an alleged recent relapse. Has Aishwariya Patel's heart—and business—fallen into the wrong hands?
My breath caught somewhere between my ribs. I didn't realize I'd stopped breathing until Priya touched my shoulder.
"Aish," she said softly, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry. I came as soon as I saw it."
But her voice came from far away. Like a radio in another room.
"Who would do this?" I whispered, my fingers tracing the venomous words on the screen. "Who would take something so private and twist it this way?"
They had his name. They had mine. And worse—twisted pieces of the truth: rehab, relapse, disgrace. Like they were stains he hadn't scrubbed hard enough to erase.
They didn't know what it meant when Carter looked me in the eyes and said, "I want to live again, Aish. I want to really live, and I think I can with you beside me."
They didn't know I stayed by his side when he flushed every last pill, whispering, "You're stronger than this. I've always known it, even when you didn't."
They didn't know how many nights I spent sketching in silence just so he wouldn't feel alone, how he'd look at me with such raw gratitude and say, "You're the first person who's ever seen me instead of what I've done."
They just saw someone to ruin.
And now—so did the world.
By noon, it was a full collapse.
Three clients canceled.
One cried on the phone. "I'm so sorry, Aishwariya. My father thinks your connection to Carter is... God, I hate saying this... a reputational risk."
"A reputational risk," I repeated, the words hollow in my mouth. "Because I care about someone who's fighting to be better?"
"I've always admired your work," she said, her voice small. Past tense.
I couldn't even get mad. I just sat there, listening to her tearfully un-choose me.
Then the floral brand cut ties.
"We just can't be associated with this kind of publicity," the representative said, not quite meeting my eyes through the video call. "You understand, don't you?"
"No," I said quietly. "I don't understand how supporting someone through recovery became something shameful."
They disconnected without a response.
Then a silent goodbye from the venue partner I'd worked with for years—her assistant forwarded a canned message:
"We appreciate your contributions and wish you the best in your future endeavors."
Future endeavors. Like I was being politely erased.
My team grew quiet around me. I could feel the way they watched me—differently now. Not with admiration. Not with trust. With caution. Like I might shatter.
"Do you want me to craft a statement?" my assistant asked, hovering in the doorway.
"No," I said, staring at my hands. "Let me think about this. I need to talk to Carter first."
I closed the office door and stared at the framed sketch I kept on the wall.
It was the first bouquet I ever designed. Before I had clients. Before I had a name.
Before I was someone the world had opinions about.
I knew who did it.
I didn't have proof—not yet—but I didn't need it.
Aaron.
Of course, it was him.
He'd been quiet since I left. Too quiet. The kind of silence that stalked.
He'd told my parents about the broken engagement.
I hadn't answered their calls.
Just one message: "I need space. I'll reach out when I'm calm."
But space meant nothing to people like him. People like Aaron didn't know how to let go. Only how to punish.
He'd waited for the right moment to turn my own name into poison.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I painted. For hours. Until the brush felt like a weapon and the canvas like the only surface that wouldn't judge me.
When Carter called, I didn't answer.
Not at first.
I needed to think. I needed to feel the anger before I let his guilt speak first.
But the second time, I picked up.
His voice was low. Wrecked.
"I'm sorry," he said. "God, Aish, I'm so sorry."
That was all. Just that.
And somehow it made me cry harder than if he'd said everything.
"This isn't your fault," I whispered, my voice catching. "You didn't do this. You never asked for this."
He was quiet on the other end. I could hear the way he was trying not to breathe too loudly. Trying not to make it about him.
But I knew him now. I knew how deeply he felt everything.
"I shouldn't have let you stay," he said, his voice thick with self-loathing. "I should've walked away the moment I saw what it would cost you. I'm poison, Aish. Everything I touch turns to dust."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"You don't get to do that," I snapped, tears streaming down my face. "You don't get to shrink just because the world got ugly. You don't get to decide for me what's worth fighting for. You didn't leak this. Aaron did. And you think stepping back is going to make it better?"
He hesitated. "I don't want to be the reason they ruin you. I couldn't live with myself if—"
"Stop it," I cut him off. "Just stop. This isn't about you saving me. This is about you running. Again. The way you always do when things get hard."
"That's not fair," he whispered.
"Isn't it?" I challenged. "Because that's what this sounds like. You're ready to give up on us before we've even had a chance to fight."
I laughed, bitter and sharp. "They were always going to try and ruin me the moment I stopped playing the role they picked out for me. You just gave them a target. But I'm not ashamed of you, Carter. Are you ashamed of me?"
"God, no," he breathed. "Never. You're the only thing in my life I've ever been proud to be near."
"Then fight with me," I pleaded. "Not against me. Not for me. With me."
Silence stretched between us, weighted with everything unsaid.
"I don't know if I'm strong enough," he finally admitted, his voice so small it broke my heart.
"Then I'll be strong enough for both of us," I promised. "Until you remember how to be."
But I wouldn't let Aaron write my story.
Not this time.
Not with silence. Not with shame.
I stood in front of my shattered business and made a decision: I was going to fight. Not just for my name, but for Carter. For both of us.
Let them call it chaos.
Let them call it a fall.
I knew what it was.
A reckoning.
Carter's POV
I didn't even pack.
I just grabbed the essentials — wallet, phone, keys — and walked out of my apartment like the walls were about to collapse in on me.
I don't know what I was trying to outrun.
Maybe it was her voice on the phone, fierce and hurting, telling me I didn't get to shrink.
Maybe it was the headlines.
Maybe it was I.
By the time I checked into the motel, the air tasted like metal — bitter and dry, like regret.
The man behind the counter didn't recognize me. Good. I didn't want to be recognized. I didn't want to be seen.
"Just need a room," I mumbled, sliding cash across the counter. "For a few days."
He barely looked up. "Name?"
"Tom," I lied. "Just Tom."
He didn't care. He gave me the key and a plastic-wrapped remote control and gestured to the stairs. "Room 12 B. Check-outs at eleven."
Room 12 B. Smelled like bleach and loneliness. The kind of place where nobody asks questions. The kind of place I used to know too well.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the dark TV screen, trying not to think of her face.
But I saw her anyway.
"I was supposed to protect her," I whispered to the empty room. "Not drag her into the mud with me."
I was supposed to protect her. Not drag her into the mud with me.
Now she was losing clients. Losing credibility. All because she let me in.
She let me in.
And I stained her.
I wanted to believe that what we had was real — that our rooftop connection all those years ago, our tentative rediscovery now, the nights we spent in quiet trust — that it meant something.
But maybe I was just the match she lit to feel something before everything burned.
No.
No. That's not fair to her.
I'm the one who's broken.
I should have told her earlier that I was slipping — that Emily had come back, that I took the pill, that I felt like I was crawling through every day with glass under my skin.
But instead, I pretended.
Pretended I was fine. Pretended I could handle it. Pretended I wasn't still carrying the hunger.
Now, sitting in this motel, I could feel it again.
That ache in my veins.
That gnawing whisper just beneath my ribs.
It had a voice, familiar and cruel. Like an old friend wearing a mask.
One won't hurt. Just one. To take the edge off. To quiet the guilt. To make you forget how much you've ruined. You'll be better for her if you're calm. What are you without it, anyway?
"Shut up," I hissed, pressing my palms against my temples. "Just shut up."
I gripped the edge of the bed until my knuckles ached.
The urge was so loud it drowned everything else out.
I wanted to call my dealer. I remembered his number. I remembered the rhythm of his voice. I remembered the places I used to hide the pills: behind bookshelf spines, inside coffee tins, under the loose panel in my nightstand.
I could still taste the last one Emily gave me. Sweet-coated. Warm going down. Easy.
"This is what you do," I muttered to myself. "You run. You hide. You find the closest way to numb it all. Every time."
I closed my eyes and saw her again.
Not Emily. Aishwariya.
The night she found me on the floor, pale and soaked in sweat.
"Carter," she'd whispered, kneeling beside me. "Talk to me. Please."
"I can't do this," I'd choked out. "I thought I could, but I can't."
The way she didn't say anything — just stayed. Just held my hand. Just flushed the pills, one by one, as I cried and begged and broke.
"You can," she'd said firmly. "You are. Right now, you're fighting. And I'm not going anywhere."
She never made me feel like a monster. Even when I was.
Now I couldn't face her.
Not like this.
Not while her name was being dragged through headlines.
Not while brands whispered "risk" and "liability" behind her back.
Not when she needed strength, and I was only made of trembling.
"I'm a coward," I whispered. "She deserves better than this."
So I stayed in this room. Let the hours rot around me.
I didn't shower.
I didn't eat.
I stared at the wall like it might hold an answer.
And the whole time, my body throbbed with the memory of relief. Of pills I didn't have. Of numbness, I craved.
I kept checking my phone. Not for messages. Just for the temptation.
I hovered over old contacts.
I searched pharmacies.
I almost—almost opened a new browser tab and started hunting.
But I didn't.
I didn't.
"I can't," I said to the empty room. "I won't. Not after everything."
I threw the phone across the room instead. It hit the wall with a crack, plastic casing splitting like a warning.
I curled in on myself on the mattress, heart pounding so loud it made my teeth ache.
And I whispered to the ceiling.
"I'm sorry, Aish. I'm so damn sorry."
I wasn't sure how many days had passed. Two? Three?
The motel light buzzed at night. My body didn't know sleep. I survived on vending machine pretzels and tap water.
No news alerts.
No outside world.
Just me. The ghost of my addiction. And the woman I loved more than I had any right to.
That was the terrifying part.
I loved her.
"I love her," I said to myself, testing the words. They felt both impossible and inevitable. "I love her, and I'm destroying her."
And that love made me want to be good.
But sometimes, I didn't know how to be anything other than broken.
By the fourth day, I dragged myself to the window and looked out at the parking lot. It was raining.
Gray. Unforgiving.
I picked up the cracked phone. The screen flickered once, then came to life.
I had one message. From Olivia.
"You okay?"
I typed out a lie.
Then deleted it.
Then another. Then deleted that too.
Finally, I typed what I meant:
"I messed up. I'm hiding. But I'm not using."
I stared at the words, then added:
"Tell Aishwariya I'm sorry. I'm going to try again. Tell her I remember what she said about being strong enough for both of us. Tell her I'm trying to be worthy of that."
I didn't hit send.
Not yet.
But I stared at the words until they burned into my brain.
"I'm not going to lose to this," I said aloud, my voice stronger than it had been in days. "I'm not going to let Emily win. I'm not going to let Aaron destroy her through me."
I wasn't going to vanish. Not again.
If I wanted to earn her trust back, to be worthy of the way she looked at me, then I had to crawl through this.
One night. One breath. One hour at a time.
Some part of me will always want the pill.
But the bigger part — the part she held when I couldn't hold myself — wants her.
And right now, that's enough to stay clean.
Just for today.
Just for her.
Just for us.