If I've learned one thing from being married to the internet,it's that it loves you fast — and forgets you faster.
One day you're a meme.The next, you're a monster.
It starts with hashtags.They multiply like wildfire — retweets, edits, angry threads.
#CancelLyra#FakeLoveQueen#MalhotraMarriageScam
Every timeline. Every screen. Every notification.
I used to joke that my phone was my second brain.Now it's a weapon I'm too scared to touch.
The hate comes in waves.First, the gossip accounts — "Anonymous insiders" leaking half-truths and Photoshop.Then the influencers — dissecting my facial expressions, calling me manipulative, "calculating," "fame-hungry."Then… the fans.
The same people who once spammed heart emojis under my photos now call me every synonym of "liar" they can find.
"She used him for publicity.""She's the reason women aren't trusted.""Darian deserves better."
It shouldn't hurt.But it does.Because they're not wrong — at least, not completely.I did post that photo once.I did start the fire.And I'm still burning in it.
By the second day, brands start dropping collaborations.PR calls stop coming.Even UrbanEcho — the magazine where I built my career — suspends my column.
The irony?They use the word "temporary."
There's nothing temporary about being erased.
Aria won't stop calling.I don't answer.She keeps texting anyway:
"He's trying to fix it.""You need to talk to him.""Please don't disappear again."
But I can't.Not yet.
Because how do you look someone in the eye when the whole world is convinced you're the villain in their success story?
By the third day, the paparazzi find me.I leave my apartment for five minutes — hoodie, mask, no makeup.It doesn't matter.
"Lyra! Over here!""Are you and Mr. Malhotra getting divorced?""Did you fake the relationship for PR?""Do you regret marrying him?"
One of them shoves a mic near my face.Something inside me snaps.
"Yes," I say, voice shaking but loud. "I regret believing the internet ever cared about the truth."
The clip goes viral within an hour.Because of course it does.Everything I say becomes content.Every breath I take is misinterpreted.
That night, I sit alone on my floor, phone buzzing endlessly beside me.And for the first time in weeks — I cry.Not the pretty, cinematic kind.The ugly, shaking, can't-breathe kind.
Because it's not just the world that turned against me.It's me — against myself.
Then, around midnight, my phone rings again.Darian Malhotra.
I almost ignore it.But something — maybe stubbornness, maybe exhaustion — makes me pick up.
His voice is quieter than usual."You shouldn't be alone right now."
"I've been alone since the wedding," I say.
He doesn't argue.He just breathes.And somehow, that hurts worse.
"I can fix this," he says finally.
"Stop saying that," I whisper. "You can't fix people's opinions."
"No," he says, "but I can change the narrative."
"By doing what? Another PR stunt?"
There's a pause.Then he says something that makes my heart stutter.
"By telling them the truth. All of it."
The next morning, the world wakes up to a press conference.
Darian Malhotra — live on every channel, standing in front of the Malhotra Group banner.The man who never admits weakness, the CEO made of marble and menace — finally looks human.
I watch from my couch, trembling.
"There's been speculation about my marriage," he says. "And I'm here to tell you it wasn't fake. Not for me. Not for her."
The room erupts — reporters shouting questions, flashes popping — but he keeps going.
"My wife didn't destroy my company. She saved it. She made the public trust us again. And if the world can't see that, then maybe it doesn't deserve her."
My breath catches.
"So if you're looking for someone to cancel," he says, voice steady but raw, "cancel me instead."
Silence.Everywhere.Even my phone stops buzzing.
Because for the first time, Darian Malhotra chose me over his empire.And it wasn't for PR.It was personal.