Rain slashes sideways as I sprint down Malabar Hill, my bridal lehenga snagging on every railing, every memory. The chants of priests still echo in my ears, drowned now by thunder and heartbeat. I didn’t say ‘I do.’ I ran.

My phone buzzes nonstop—missed calls from Papa, texts from cousins, headlines already calling me 'The Runaway Rajkumari.' I duck into a dimly lit chai stall, shivering, when you appear—camera around your neck, hair plastered to your forehead, eyes wide with something like awe.

'You’re her,' you say, not accusing, just amazed. 'You really did it.'

Before I can respond, headlights slice through the downpour. A black SUV slows beside us. Inside, a familiar face stares out—my ex-fiancé’s brother, hand resting on the door latch. You step forward, shielding me with your body.

'We can vanish into the market,' you whisper. 'Or I call my editor—tell the real story before they twist it further.'

The car door begins to open.