Chapter 1: The Mask She Wore

My ex-girlfriend, the one I still can’t forgive, is your typical second-generation rich kid—so much paisa, she couldn’t finish spending it even if she tried.

But if you saw her on any usual day, you’d never guess. Always in faded kurtis, chappals with the straps nearly broken, and that cloth bag hanging on her shoulder—like she was just another middle-class girl fighting her way through Lucknow. She wore that mask so perfectly that even my mother once said, “Beta, achhi ladki hai, gareeb par shareef hai.” But honestly, I should’ve known better—the way her English slipped in, the way she scoffed at the rickshaw-walas, and that weird confidence she carried. Even sitting on my old diwan eating Maggi from the saucepan, she never truly belonged with us.

But while we were together, she always acted poor. Three whole years—she ate my food, stayed in my flat, even her underwear was that ten-pack I got for 299 on Flipkart’s sale.

Sometimes, I’d watch her fold those basic cotton chaddis and wonder if she’d ever touched anything branded before. Then I’d scold myself—stop thinking too much. She’d giggle and say, “Arrey, these are the best, Arjun! What’s the use of lace and all that drama?”

I thought she was just some campus beauty, orphaned, struggling alone. Turns out, she was a spoiled princess, used to fine dining but playing at eating dal-chawal for fun.

Now when I look back, it feels straight out of a Karan Johar movie—just, without the violin in the background.

1.

I clicked on the trending video. There she was, lounging against a Mercedes S-Class, giving the camera this lazy, full-of-attitude smile. The guy filming her couldn’t keep the phone steady, and you could hear a bunch of excited screams in the background.

That car—Mercedes S-Class, yaar! I’ve never even seen one up close. But the way she leaned, like she owned the road, like the streetlights were there just for her. Sari deep green, hair brushed back, diamond earrings flashing—each one probably enough to pay our rent for a year.

“Arey, she looked at me! Dekh na, kitni sundar hai!”

In the background, some girl was giggling, the type of college laugh you hear when someone spots a celebrity. Aunty from the first floor was shouting for her daughter to come in, but nobody cared. The video was short—just a few seconds—but I must have watched it a hundred times.

It blew up everywhere yesterday: #Kabir Malhotra spotted with newcomer—romance confirmed?

Kabir Malhotra, yaar. Brand new superstar, CEO, the one everyone says is actually decent in real life. He’s thirty, single, always talking about love like it’s his hobby, and every new girlfriend is younger and prettier than the last.

Even my chacha and the aunty who waters her tulsi at 6 a.m. know Kabir Malhotra. My mother? “Beta, sab actors ek jaise. Inka koi bharosa nahi.” Still, he’s got that charm—even on Koffee With Karan, you feel like he’s the real deal.

Every time he’s with a new girl, people go crazy: “Kabir bhai, player ka baap!” The jokes fly—by the time a girl turns eighteen, it’s too late for Kabir.

Memes are everywhere. Even the chaiwala outside my office once said, “Aaj kal toh Kabir bhai hi superstar hai. Puri Lucknow ki ladkiyan line mein hain.”

The moment the video came out, Rohan sent it to me.

His message: "Arrey, yeh ladki toh bilkul Ananya lag rahi hai! Kya scene hai, bhai? Bata, tu itna broke ho gaya ki Ananya ko filmon mein bhej diya paisa kamane ke liye?"

The words hit me weird. Like Rohan saw something I couldn’t face myself.

Before I could reply, another ping: "Arrey yaar, it’s not just similar—it’s Ananya herself! Check trending, now."

Rohan’s excitement practically jumped out of the screen. That’s Rohan—more invested in my life than his own.

Confused, I clicked trending topics.

There it was. The same video, right at the top.

My hand went numb holding the phone, the chai I’d just made turning cold on the table. For a second, I almost hoped it was a lookalike. But no—it was her. My Ananya, looking like she belonged to some other world.

I never thought some random celebrity gossip would turn my life upside down.

At first, people said Ananya was a fresher at NSD, with Kabir Malhotra for money and fame, trying to break into films.

Even my cousin in Mumbai messaged: “Bhai, yeh sab ladkiyan gold digger hoti hain. Dhoka hi dhoka.” Everyone’s an expert when it’s someone else’s scandal.

But soon, some smartass said Ananya wasn’t at NSD—she was Lucknow University’s campus queen, ordinary family, working part-time for fees. Got with Kabir Malhotra for cash. They even posted a student ID.

My WhatsApp exploded—screenshots, taunts, drama. It felt like the whole city was piecing together Ananya’s life, every version more filmi than the last.

But then, truth ka twist.

Somebody dug up the real story: Ananya was Arya Group’s princess, Rajeev Arya ki beti.

Not just rich—ultra rich. Kept it low, worked part-time for “experience,” and since childhood, had a crush on Kabir Malhotra. Chased him five years before he even looked at her.

I laughed, but it was bitter. This wasn’t the girl next door. This was the type who always gets what she wants. Insta comments were all: “Arya princess finally gets her prince!”

She went public now because Kabir was being harassed by event organisers. She raced over in a Mercedes to stand by her hero.

The net went mad—damsel saves hero! “Arey wah, ab ladkiyan bacha rahi hai mardo ko!”

Kabir’s letting her be seen with him—everyone took it as him saying yes to her feelings.

Of course, the aunties started wedding talk: “Shaadi pakki samjho.”

Then, a photo trended.

Ananya, eyes blazing, facing off against some aunty. Kabir stood behind her, usually Mr. Cool, now looking at her with this softness I’d never seen.

Even blurry, you could feel the energy. I almost smelled the expensive perfume and the tension—like I was there, clutching a cold Thums Up bottle, watching.

The caption said it all: "Heiress x Player—celebrity falls."

My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Cousins, ex-colleagues, even old tuition kids wanted to know: was that really my Ananya? Gossip moves faster than 4G in India, especially when it’s juicy.

Meanwhile, my WhatsApp chat with Ananya was stuck at last night.

She’d written, "So tired, I miss you. Kal biryani kha sakte hain?"

I remembered her voice, dragging the last word, like a kid begging for ice cream in June. It made me smile, then it made my chest ache.

What did I say?

"Don’t work so hard. If your job is so tiring, just leave it. I’ll handle—worst case, I’ll take care of you."

At the time, I thought I was being a hero. Now I see how silly I must’ve sounded.

Thinking back, me pretending to be rich in front of her is a joke.

The Ananya in that video—covered in brands I couldn’t name, wearing a watch worth more than my flat.

Probably a Patek Philippe—my whole office couldn’t buy one if we pooled three years’ salaries.

Tell me, as a guy earning under a lakh a month, what was I even acting for?

Just another middle-class boy, juggling EMIs and Domino’s pizza dreams. And she...well, a different league.

The Insta link I sent? Still unread.

Checked twice—no blue tick, not even grey. The gap between us never felt bigger.

Typed, deleted, typed again—couldn’t decide what to say.

I stared at the unread Instagram link, thumb hovering, knowing that whatever I wrote next would change nothing.