Aishwariya's POV
Five days.
That's how long it's been since I saw Carter.
Five days since I held him, since I pressed my lips to the corner of his mouth and whispered that everything would be okay. Since we promised, in our own shattered ways, to try again.
Then...nothing.
No calls. No messages. No updates from Olivia. Just silence so thick I could choke on it.
And the headlines — they're still screaming.
His name. My face. His past. My downfall.
But this isn't about the press anymore.
This is about Carter. Where is he?
A voice keeps whispering in the back of my head — quiet, cruel:
What if he relapsed? What if he's not safe? What if he's gone?
If something happened to him, I swear to God, I would not survive it. And I will not forgive Aaron.
Something in me cracks.
I pick up my phone, scroll to my parents' contact, and press call.
The phone rings three times before my mother answers, her voice immediately worried.
"Aishu? Beta, where are you? We've been trying to reach you for days!" Her voice is strained with concern. "We heard about the engagement being called off. The whole family is talking about it. Why haven't you been answering our calls?"
"Maa," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I need you. Both of you. Can you come?"
"Of course we'll come, but where are you? You're not at your flat. We went there yesterday, and the landlord said you'd moved out. Aishu, what's happening? Your father is—" I can hear her voice breaking. "He's been pacing all night. He's so angry, beta. So angry."
I can hear my father's voice in the background, sharp and demanding. "Is that her? Give me the phone!"
"Baba's angry?" I ask, my heart sinking.
"He's furious," my mother admits quietly. "At you, Aishu. He thinks... he thinks you've ruined everything. That you've thrown away a perfect match for no good reason. He's been saying terrible things about your judgment, about how ungrateful—" She stops herself. "But he's also worried sick because we can't find you."
I hear the phone being passed, and then my father's voice, tight with anger and disappointment.
"Aishwariya, what have you done? Do you have any idea what you've put this family through? Aaron was the perfect match - educated, successful, established - and you threw it all away!" His voice is harsh. "Three days of not knowing where you are, while everyone is asking us what went wrong. Just tell me where you are so we can sort out this mess."
I give them my new address, and I can hear him writing it down, his breathing heavy.
"We're coming right now," he says. "Don't you dare disappear again."
"We'll be there in twenty minutes," my mother adds, taking the phone back. "Just... just stay where you are, okay? We love you."
They arrive within forty-five minutes.
My mother's face is tense, her saree perfectly pressed as always, but her eyes are red-rimmed from crying. My father steps inside the flat like a storm — silent, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes blazing with anger and disappointment.
"Aishu," my mother says, rushing forward to embrace me. I collapse into her arms, breathing in her familiar scent of jasmine and home.
My father stands behind her, his face hard with anger. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Aaron called us yesterday, devastated. That man was ready to give you everything - a beautiful life, security, respect - and you threw it in his face!" His voice is cold. "Everyone is talking. His family is humiliated. And for what, Aishwariya? For what?"
I pull away from my mother, gesturing toward the living room. "Please, sit. I need to tell you everything."
"We heard you called off the engagement," my father says as we settle into the living room, his voice harsh with disappointment. "Aaron told us how ungrateful you've been, how you've been acting out, how you humiliated him." His eyes flash with anger. "That man loved you, Aishwariya. He was willing to work through whatever problems you were having, and you spat in his face."
My mother sits quietly beside him, looking torn between supporting her husband and comforting me.
"Would you like some chai?" I ask, my voice small, trying to delay the inevitable.
"No chai!" my father snaps. "I want answers, Aishwariya. I want to know how my daughter became so selfish, so thoughtless that she would destroy her own future like this."
I take a deep breath, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to stop them from shaking.
"Baba, Aaron isn't who you think he is," I begin, voice barely above a whisper. "What he told you... It's not the truth."
My father scoffs. "Not the truth? So now you're calling him a liar? Aishwariya, I raised you better than this."
"Please," I whisper. "Just listen to me. Let me tell you what really happened. What he really did to me."
My mother leans forward slightly. "Aishu, what are you trying to say?"
"Let her speak," my father says dismissively, "so we can hear what excuse she's come up with for destroying her own life."
The voice messages he left were when I didn't respond fast enough. The way he isolated me, took my phone, and decided who I should be. The paintings he ripped. The ones I created in secret, the identity I clung to when I couldn't breathe.
My voice breaks halfway through.
"He... he controlled everything. What I wore, who I spoke to, what I said in interviews." I swallow hard. "He would shout at me, call me stupid, worthless. And when I tried to pull away or argue back, he would grab my wrists so hard—" I push up my sleeves, showing the faded bruises. "He left marks."
My mother gasps, reaching for my arms.
"But the final straw," I continue, my voice breaking, "was after my art show. ye I know I hid that from him, but he should have talk to me calmly. But he started shouting at me and then He slapped me."
The silence that follows is deafening.
"He did what?" My father's voice is barely audible, but I can see his anger shifting, confusion replacing the disappointment in his eyes.
"Just once," I whisper. "But that's when I knew. That's when I realized it would only get worse. So I broke the engagement."
My mother presses her fingers to her lips, her eyes filling with tears. "Oh my God, Aishu. Oh my God."
My father, usually composed, even in business negotiations, looks like he might actually explode.
"That bastard," he growls, his fists clenching so tight his knuckles are white. "That absolute bastard laid his hands on my daughter? And we had no idea?"
"Raj," my mother warns, but there's no stopping him now.
"All this time," he continues, his voice rising, "all this time, we were worried about family reputation, about what people would say about a broken engagement. And meanwhile, he was—" He breaks off, unable to finish the sentence. "We should have known. We should have seen it."
"I stayed," I whisper. "I stayed because I thought it was my fault. That if I were better, quieter, more obedient—he'd stop."
My father's anger immediately shifts, his face crumpling with guilt and pain. "Aishu, no. No, beta, none of this was your fault."
He walks toward the window, running his hands through his hair. "I'm such a fool. When we heard about the broken engagement, I was angry about the scandal, about what people would think. I never stopped to wonder if you were safe, if you were okay."
My mother reaches for my hand. Her touch is warm and trembling.
"Oh, Aishu," she whispers. "My baby. Why didn't you tell us sooner? Why did you feel you had to handle this alone?"
I shake my head, tears streaming down my face. "I was ashamed. I thought you'd be disappointed in me. That I'd failed as a daughter. That I wasn't strong enough to make the marriage work."
"Disappointed?" my mother echoes, her voice cracking. "Beta, we could never be disappointed in you for protecting yourself from someone who hurt you."
"We failed you," my father says, turning back to face us, his eyes wet with unshed tears. "We pushed you toward that marriage, toward that life, and we never asked if it was what you wanted. We never checked if you were happy."
I cry.
The dam bursts. I cry for the girl I used to be. The one who dreamed of color and light and messy art. I cried every time I apologized to Aaron for making him angry. I cry because I was so afraid to tell them, and now they know, and they're not angry at me.
When I look at my father again, his expression has changed completely. The anger is still there, but it's not directed at me anymore.
"This ends now," he says, his voice sharp but protective.
I don't recognize the look in his eyes. It's not disappointment. It's something deeper. Rage at Aaron. Guilt. Protection sharpened into steel.
My mother nods, wiping her tears. "We should've seen it sooner. We should've... we should've asked more questions when you got quieter. When you stopped coming home as often."
"It wasn't your fault," I say, my voice stronger now. "Aaron was... he was careful. He made sure everyone thought he was perfect. Even I believed it was normal at first."
"What about this Carter person?" my father asks suddenly, his tone more curious than angry now. "The one from the headlines. How does he fit into all this?"
I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. "Carter is... he's someone who saw me. The real me. Not the person Aaron wanted me to be."
"The addict?" my father says skeptically.
"He's in recovery, Baba," I correct him gently. "And yes, he's struggled. But he's also kind, and genuine, and he never once tried to change me."
My father shakes his head. "Aishu, this man has brought nothing but scandal to your door."
"No," I say firmly. "Aaron brought the scandal. Aaron leaked Carter's past to the press. And now... now I don't know where Carter is. I haven't heard from him in five days, and I'm worried that—"
"That's what?" my mother asks gently.
"That the pressure was too much. That he might have relapsed. Or worse." My voice catches. "And if he has, it's because of Aaron. Because Aaron couldn't stand to see me happy with someone else."
My father returns to the sofa, sitting heavily beside me. "Why him, Aishu? Of all people, why someone with such... complications?"
I look at my father, really look at him.
"Do you remember Uncle Vikram?" I ask quietly.
My father's expression shifts, pain flashing across his face. "Your mother's brother is not a topic we discuss, Aishu."
"Maybe we should," I challenge. "Maybe if someone had helped him, had stood by him during his addiction instead of cutting him off, he might still be here."
"That's different," my father argues, but his voice lacks conviction.
"Is it?" I press. "Uncle needed help, and no one was there for him. Everyone was too concerned with what people would say, with saving face. And in the end, we lost him anyway."
My mother's eyes fill with fresh tears. "Vikram was... he was my best friend, Raj. My little brother. And we abandoned him when he needed us most."
My father's jaw works, emotion etched into every line of his face. "We tried, Ranjana. We tried for years."
"But we gave up," she whispers. "We chose our reputation over his life."
I take my father's hand, surprised to feel it trembling in mine. "Carter is a good man who's fighting his demons every day. Is it so wrong to want to help someone like that? To stand by them?"
My father is silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on our joined hands.
"No," he finally says, his voice rough with emotion. "No, it's not wrong. It's... It's what we should have done for Vikram."
My mother reaches across me to touch my father's arm. "It's what Aishu is doing now. Being stronger than we were."
The silence that follows is heavy with grief and regret, but also with understanding.
After a moment, my father looks at me, his eyes clear and determined. "Tell me everything about Aaron. Everything he's done, everything he's said. I want names. I want every detail. He went after you—and now he's going to deal with me."
The next morning, my father filed a formal complaint.
Not just a restraining order. Not just warnings. A case.
A private investigator is hired within hours.
"Are you sure about this, Baba?" I ask as we leave the lawyer's office. "It's going to get messy."
My father's expression is granite. "Let it get messy. Let the whole world see what kind of man Aaron Wells is."
"But the press—"
"To hell with the press," he snaps. "To hell with what people will say. My daughter was hurt, and I did nothing. I will not fail you again, Aishu."
Everything happens fast — almost too fast for me to process. The investigator's team is discreet but efficient. They go through my studio security system, my phone logs, and my messages. They trace the footage Aaron installed. They track down the man he hired to follow me. They trace his emails and bank transfers.
And then... they find something else.
A bank trail linking Aaron to a PR firm known for planting anonymous tips to gossip tabloids.
That's how Carter's past got out.
That's how the "anonymous source" knew about the rehab center, about the relapse, even about me. The fairytale wedding planner turned scandal.
My father is in the room when the report is delivered.
He reads every line with eyes like fire.
"This man," he says, his voice trembling with rage, "this man deliberately set out to destroy not just you, but another person's hard-fought recovery. All because he couldn't control you anymore."
My mother sits beside me, her hand tight around mine. Her thumb strokes my skin in soft circles, like she's trying to soothe a child again.
A week later, a warrant is issued.
Aaron is no longer just a name I avoid. He's a man under investigation.
And the world is beginning to see the truth.
"They're calling you," my mother says one morning, holding out her phone to me. "The women from your old clients' list. They want to know if it's true."
"What are they saying?" I ask, not taking the phone.
"That they saw it too," she says softly. "The way he spoke to you. The way you changed around him. They're coming forward, Aishu. They're speaking up for you."
For the first time in months, I feel something like hope flickering in my chest.
But it's not over. Not for me.
That night, my father came into my room.
He hasn't done that since I was a teenager. He used to stand in the doorway and ask how my day went — I'd grumble something about exams or boys or deadlines, and he'd ruffle my hair with a quiet, proud smile.
Tonight, he doesn't smile.
He just sits beside me on the bed, both our eyes fixed on the floor.
"I keep thinking," he says slowly, "about all the times I pushed you toward that business."
I turn to him.
"Baba—"
"No. Let me say it." His voice cracks. "I told you to manage weddings. I told you it was what our family needed. That it was respectable.Safe. I never once asked you what you wanted."
He looks at me then, really looks.
"And you were drawing the whole time. Creating. Hiding parts of yourself because you thought we wouldn't approve."
I shake my head. "You didn't force me. I made choices."
"But I taught you what was valued in this house. What kind of daughter you had to be."
His eyes grow glassy.
"I saw you shrink. I thought you were being responsible. Obedient. All the things I praised. And now—" He swallows hard. "Now I realize obedience was killing you."
I can't breathe.
Hearing this from him — from my father — feels like something breaking open in me. Like a lock turned inside a cage I didn't know I was in.
"I want to see them," he says suddenly.
"See what?"
"Your art. The pieces you've been hiding. If you'll show me."
I hesitate, then reach under my bed and pull out a portfolio case. With trembling hands, I unzip it and spread the paintings across the bedspread.
Explosions of color. Figures in motion. Pain and joy and fear and hope, all bleeding into each other.
My father stares at them for a long time.
"These are..." he begins, then stops, clearing his throat. "Aishu, these are extraordinary."
"You really think so?"
"I know so," he says firmly. "I may not know much about art, but I know my daughter. And this—" he gestures to the paintings, "this is you. The real you."
"I thought you'd be disappointed," I confess. "That it wasn't practical. That it wouldn't make money."
He shakes his head, reaching out to touch the corner of one canvas, as if afraid he might damage it. "I've been making money all my life, Aishu. And what has it brought me? A daughter who was afraid to show me her heart."
"I'm sorry, Baba," I whisper. "I should have trusted you."
"No," he says firmly. "I'm sorry, Aishu. For not seeing sooner. For not asking sooner."
I lean into him, burying my face in his shoulder like I used to as a child.
"You see me now," I whisper.
And for the first time in years, I feel like I'm home.
The next morning, I open my phone. Still no message from Carter.
My throat tightens.
"Nothing?" my mother asks, watching me from across the breakfast table.
I shake my head, setting the phone down. "It's been five days now."
"Have you tried someone else's number? Who knew Cartor?"
"Olivia? Yes, but she's not responding either." I push my untouched toast away. "I'm worried, Maa."
"Your father has contacts," she says tentatively. "People who could help find him."
I look at her, surprised. "You would do that? For Carter?"
She reaches across the table to take my hand. "For you, Aishu. We've let you down enough. It's time we stood by your choices."
"Even if those choices are complicated?" I ask, thinking of Uncle Vikram, of how differently things might have turned out.
"Especially then," she says firmly. "That's when you need us most."
I squeeze her hand, gratitude washing over me.
"What if we're too late?" I whisper, voicing my deepest fear. "What if he relapsed? What if he's—"
"Don't," my mother interrupts. "Don't think that way. We'll find him, Aishu. And whatever state he's in, we'll help him."
"We?"
She nods. "Your father and I have been talking. About Vikram. About... regrets." She swallows hard. "We can't change the past. But we can do better now."
"Thank you," I whisper, tears pricking at my eyes. "For understanding."
"I don't know if I understand completely," she admits. "But I know my daughter. And if you see something worth saving in this man, then he must be special indeed."
I don't know where Carter is. But I know this: if something happened to him—if the weight of it all dragged him under—I will never forgive Aaron.
Never.
But I also know this: I won't let Carter go without a fight.
And I won't let Aaron decide who I am anymore.
The press may have written their stories. The brands may have walked away.
But this story? My story?
It isn't over yet.
My father enters the kitchen, phone in hand, his expression serious but determined.
"I've made some calls," he says. "We'll find him, Aishu."
I look between my parents, feeling a surge of strength I haven't felt in months.
"And then?" I ask.
My father's expression softens. "And then we start fresh. All of us. No more hiding. No more pretending. No more caring about what others think."
"What about your reputation?" I ask, knowing how much his standing in the community has always meant to him.
He shakes his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "My reputation? My reputation is as the father of Aishwariya Patel. Artist. Fighter. Survivor. If people can't respect that, then I don't need their respect."
My mother reaches for his hand, and for a moment, the three of us sit in silence, connected.
"This isn't going to be easy," I say finally. "Finding Carter. Dealing with Aaron. Rebuilding my life."
"No," my father agrees. "It won't be easy. But Aishu—" he squeezes my hand, "nothing worth doing ever is."
For the first time in days, I smile.
Whatever comes next, I'm not facing it alone.
The headlines may still be screaming. But now, finally, I'm ready to write my own story.