Chapter 2: Trending Topics and Family Silence

When I finally sank into the back seat of my car, shutting out the chaos of the street, I turned on my phone. Not even a minute of peace—my notifications were blowing up.

[“Oh my god, why are you trending? Do you know the woman next to your fiancé is an influencer?”]

[“Are you okay, babe? Someone just sent me photos. How dare Arjun flaunt his lover in front of you—what a jerk!”]

[“That influencer always brags on her livestream about a man who loves her and buys her everything... turns out it’s Arjun.”]

[“Unbelievable! Arjun used to be so decent—never even let a girl near him. Now he’s suddenly keeping a little influencer?”]

My heart thudded against my ribs. For a second, I wanted to throw my phone out of the car window, just to stop seeing their perfect faces. My hands trembled as I forced myself to reply to each message with careful, non-committal words—because one wrong word, and it would be all over social media in five minutes. Then I opened Twitter. There it was, the number one trending topic, staring me in the face.

Photos and videos showed every angle of my standoff with Arjun. The comments were savage, all on Riya’s side:

[“I knew this woman couldn’t stand our Riya being happy—she even tries to seduce her boyfriend.”]

[“Didn’t you see how her boyfriend treats her? He’s strict, but so doting to Riya.”]

[“This woman just keeps hanging around, staring after they leave, pretending to be deep and affectionate?”]

[“Ugh, green tea, get lost! Stop seducing other people’s boyfriends.”]

My fiancé—already claimed by someone else, with the receipts posted for the world to see.

I slumped further into the car seat, the city lights smearing into streaks as the driver wove through the traffic. The sticky feel of my lipstick reminded me how exposed I was, the world’s eyes on every move. Everything felt distant, unreal.

The trending topic kept climbing, refusing to die down. Arjun must have paid extra for the privilege—Malhotra money always spoke the loudest.

Did he actually care for me, as everyone online claimed? Was this his way of showing affection—letting strangers drag my name through the dirt?

I closed my eyes, throat tight. What a joke.

Much later, after the car had trundled halfway to our bungalow in Vasant Vihar, I called someone from PR, my voice barely a whisper: “Take down the trending topic. Quickly.”

But WhatsApp forwards kept pouring in:

[“My heart aches for didi. If only she’d soften up and act cute, things wouldn’t be like this...”]

[“These brainless netizens are just following the crowd. Priya is the real homewrecker—so mad!”]

[“The MLA’s son is a bit much, but didi is too independent. He just wants her to rely on him, to be unable to live without him.”]

[“This trending topic is hard to suppress—someone’s started a hate account, people at Priya Group have seen it, it’ll definitely affect the stock.”]

My gaze snagged on the last message, a sense of dread settling over me like monsoon humidity.

Sure enough, my phone rang—our corporate comms head, his tone frazzled. “Someone keeps buying the trending spot. We’re trying to take it down, but it’s not working.”

I didn’t bother responding. He sighed, “Did you offend someone? The trending topic keeps getting pushed—someone’s spending big. Isn’t your fiancé taking it down? Just watching?”

Because the one buying the trending spot is my fiancé. But not for long.

My father called next, voice booming so loud the driver nearly jumped. “Priya, what’s going on? If someone hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t even know!”

I steadied my voice, refusing to let him rattle me. “Arjun cheated. Is that my fault too?”

He snorted, “Men cheat all the time, but how could you let this get out, and let that woman parade around in front of you!”

I held my tongue, then said, “Arjun bought the trending topic. The mistress is his. Dad, this has nothing to do with me. I’m already trying to take it down.”

He scoffed, “If you can’t control a man’s heart, it’s your fault.”

With that, he cut the call—no goodbye, no sign of concern for my side of the story. I stared at the empty whisky glass on his desk in my mind’s eye, remembering how he always poured himself a drink before deciding anything about my life. The inherited power weighed heavy.

The car slowed. The driver turned back, respectful as always, “Madam, we’ve reached the bungalow.”

I stepped out, the quiet of the leafy street contrasting with the storm raging in my head. The bungalow loomed ahead, its lights off—my supposed home feeling as cold as the marble floors inside.

My father’s words echoed, so full of self-righteousness, it was almost laughable.

He’d done worse—kept women outside, blamed Ma for not looking the part. Forgotten all those years she pawned her gold bangles to keep his business afloat, standing in the shadows while he took credit for everything.

A bead of sweat slipped down my back as I closed the gate behind me. The silence pressed in, thicker than the Delhi air at dusk.