[POV: Rajesh]
The camera flash died, leaving purple ghosts floating in my vision. Beside me, Divya immediately stepped away, putting exactly three feet of marble floor between us again. The space felt electrically charged, like the air after a lightning strike that's just missed you.
"Perfect! Just one more with a smile, maybe?" the photographer chirped, a man with more enthusiasm than sense.
"We're done," Divya and I said in flat unison, not looking at each other.
I could feel Aunt Meera's gaze from across the ballroom, sharp and knowing over the rim of her champagne flute. The party was swelling around us—a sea of silk, polished shoes, and the low, moneyed hum of Delhi's elite congratulating themselves on existing. The fairy lights in the garden twinkled like they were in on a joke we weren't.
"He's now fifty-three minutes late," I said, checking my phone for the hundredth time. The screen was a taunt: No new messages. Amit's location still pinged at the Rajiv Chowk Metro station, frozen in time.
"Maybe his phone died," Divya muttered, but it lacked her usual fire. She was twisting the thin silver band on her thumb—a nervous tell I'd catalogued years ago.
"Amit's phone is never dead. He has a battery pack the size of a brick. He calls it his 'life support.'" The memory of him saying that, grinning, hit me square in the chest. Where are you, you idiot?
"Okay, CEO. What's your brilliant plan? Stand here looking constipated until someone notices the guest of honor's date is a no-show?"
I ignored the jab. Constipated? Really. "We need to leave. Systematically. Without causing a scene that would make your aunt disinherit you and my parents finally have a valid reason to express disappointment."
She snorted, a surprisingly unladylike sound that didn't match the champagne silk of her dress. "My aunt would never. Your parents, though… yeah, that tracks. So? What's the extraction plan? You gonna create a diversified portfolio to distract them?"
"Funny." I scanned the room, my mind clicking into the mode I used for hostile takeovers and shareholder meetings. Assess, strategize, execute. "We need separate, plausible exits that converge. A staggered departure minimizes suspicion."
She rolled her eyes so hard I was surprised they didn't stick. "Oh my god, just say we leave at different times and meet at the car."
"That's what I said, just with more strategic forethought."
"You said it like a robot reading a terms and conditions agreement." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. The scent of her perfume—something like night-blooming jasmine and defiance—hit me. "Here's the human plan. I'm going to go complain loudly to Aunt Meera about a fictional wardrobe malfunction. Something tragic involving this hem and a glass of red wine that doesn't exist. I'll need to go 'change.' That gets me upstairs and out of the main hall."
I had to admit, it was decent. Theatrical, but decent. "And then what? You'll rappel from the balcony?"
"I have a key to the service entrance by the kitchens. It's how I used to sneak out to meet Amit when Aunt Meera thought I was studying." She said his name, and a flicker of raw pain crossed her face before the mask of annoyance slammed back down.
The idea of her and Amit sneaking out, laughing in the dark, sent a familiar, ugly twist through my gut. I buried it. Now wasn't the time. "Fine. Your plan has merit."
"Gosh, thank you for your approval, your highness. What's your brilliant exit strategy?"
"Mine is simpler. I'll receive an urgent call regarding a fictional crisis at my start-up. A server meltdown. It's always believable. I'll make a show of apologizing to the host—your aunt—and leave looking responsibly devastated."
"Wow," she said, deadpan. "A fake work crisis. How utterly shocking and unlike you. Do you even need to fake it? Isn't your entire personality a crisis?"
"Says the woman who was standing on a table an hour ago threatening defenestration-by-heels." I shot back, my own mask slipping. The worry was a live wire in my veins, and her needling was the one familiar thing I could grip onto. "Your plan relies on your aunt buying a story about a dress you literally sewed yourself. You'd know if it was going to fail."
"It's called acting, Rajesh. It's what emotionally intelligent people do to navigate social situations."
"Manipulation, you mean."
"Potato, 'potahto', billionaire brat."
We were doing it again. The automatic, practiced dance of insults. But the rhythm was off. The pauses between volleys were filled not with competitive heat, but with the cold, gnawing fear that was eating us both alive.
"Fine," I said, cutting through the next insult I saw forming on her lips. "Wardrobe malfunction. Service exit. I'll make my call in ten minutes. Meet at my car in fifteen. Don't be late."
"I'm not the one who's late," she snapped, and the words hung there, brutal and true.
We stood in silence for a moment, two islands of dread in a sea of oblivious celebration.
"What if he's just… forgotten?" she whispered, so quietly I almost didn't hear it. It was the most vulnerable thing she'd said to me all night.
I looked at her then, really looked. Past the armor of the dress and the makeup. She was just a girl, waiting for her boyfriend. The girl my best friend loved more than anything.
"Amit," I said, my voice harder than I intended, "has talked about this night for two months. He made me practice the first dance with him. He asked me seventeen different ways if lilies were a better boutonniere choice than roses because they were your favorite flower but might 'clash aesthetically with the midnight blue.' He didn't forget."
The confession hung between us. I never should have told her that. It was Amit's secret, his nervousness. But I needed her to know—needed myself to remember—that this wasn't normal.
Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. She blinked them away furiously. "Then something's wrong."
"Yes."
"So let's stop arguing and go."
"We have to wait for our exits," I said, the CEO logic battling the frantic urge to just bolt. "A scene will waste more time. We do this clean."
"Since when are you afraid of a scene? You cause them everywhere you go with your… your aura of unbearable superiority."
"It's called competence. And I'm not afraid. I'm efficient. Something you'd understand if you ever finished a project before its deadline."
"My projects are art! They can't be rushed! Your projects are just… spreadsheets that occasionally learn to walk and talk!"
A passing couple in matching ivory outfits gave us a wide berth, their smiles strained. We'd lowered our voices, but the animosity was a physical forcefield.
"Ten minutes," I hissed. "Go malfunction."
She glared, then turned on her heel, the movement a little too sharp. She took two steps toward where Aunt Meera was holding court, then stumbled dramatically, catching herself on the edge of a dessert table with a gasp that was just a hair too loud.
"Oh, no!" she exclaimed, looking down at the nonexistent stain on her hem. "Auntie! This champagne splash… the silk is so delicate!"
I had to look away. It was a terrible performance. Overacted, full of melodrama. And Aunt Meera, from the glance I stole, was watching her with an expression of profound amusement, not concern.
My turn. I pulled out my phone, took a deep breath, and dialed my own number. Putting it to my ear, I let my face fall into lines of grave concern. "What? When?" I said, my voice low but carrying. "How bad is the data loss?" I paced a few steps, running a hand through my hair—the picture of a young executive under siege. "No, don't touch anything. I'm on my way. I'll be there in twenty."
I made a show of sighing, pinching the bridge of my nose, then went to find Aunt Meera. Divya was already there, pouting.
"—just a tiny spot, but I have to change, the backup dress is upstairs, it'll just be a minute—"
"Aunt Meera," I interrupted, layering my voice with contrite urgency. "I am so sorry. A critical issue at the office. A server failure. I have to go."
Aunt Meera looked from Divya's faux-distress to my faux-professional panic. Her eyes, sharp as cut glass, saw everything. She took a slow sip of her champagne.
"How fascinating," she said, her voice dry. "A dual emergency. One sartorial, one… silicon." She paused, letting the weight of her disbelief settle on us. "And Amit? Will he be escorting you upstairs, Divya? Or driving you to your server fire, Rajesh?"
Divya froze. I stiffened.
"He's… not feeling well," Divya blurted. "Texted me. A stomach thing. Didn't want to ruin the party."
"He asked me to convey his deepest apologies," I added smoothly, the lies coming easier under pressure. "He's resting."
Aunt Meera's gaze was a physical thing. It felt like she was peeling back our skulls and reading the frantic, terrified script scrolling behind our eyes. The silence stretched. The party swirled around us, a vortex of laughter and clinking glasses.
"If you two are quite finished plotting the downfall of my party, there's a tradition that needs upholding."
We froze. Aunt Meera stood there, a small, formidable silhouette in a raw silk sari. She held two champagne flutes, offering them without really offering. Her eyes, the same sharp grey as Divya's but layered with decades more wisdom, held no room for argument.
"Auntie, I'm not really—" Divya started.
"Rajesh, your parents may fund this soirée, but my house, my rules," she continued, talking right over her. She handed me a glass. "The first dance. The debutante and her escort. It's non-negotiable."
Divya's face paled beneath her artful makeup. "Amit's not here."
"Precisely," Aunt Meera said, her gaze unwavering. "And the show must go on. The Sharma's, the Malhotra's, our family… reputations are fragile things, jaanu. A hundred people are here. They've seen the photos. They expect a dance. If you two disappear now, the whispers start. 'Something's wrong.' 'The Sharma boy stood her up.' 'Family trouble.' I will not have that. For you, for Amit, or for this family."
It was a masterstroke. She wasn't appealing to our sense of duty; she was cornering us with the one thing we both, in our own ways, cared about: protecting Amit's name, and Divya's.
"One dance," Aunt Meera said, her voice softening a fraction. "One song. Smile. Make it convincing. Then, if you must… attend to your 'wardrobe malfunctions' and 'board meetings.'" She looked directly at me. "Understood?"
There was a secret message in her eyes. I know you're lying. I know something's wrong. Do this first, then go.
I gave a tight, single nod. "Understood."
Divya looked like she wanted to shatter her champagne flute on the marble floor. Instead, she took a gulp, handed the empty glass back to her aunt, and muttered, "Fine. Let's get this over with."
Aunt Meera nodded to the quartet. The gentle background music faded. A new, deliberate tune began—a waltz. Slow. Traditional. Agonizing.
The crowd's attention, which had been a diffuse thing, sharpened and focused on us. A spotlight, real or metaphorical, hit. We were center stage.
"Try not to step on my feet," Divya murmured as I took her hand. Her skin was cold.
"Try not to lead," I shot back, placing my other hand on the small of her back. The silk was slippery, the warmth of her body beneath it a shocking contrast.
We began to move.
It was stiff. Awkward. A clinical exercise in step-counting. We were the furthest thing from two people in sync.
"He should be here," she whispered, her smile plastered on for the watching crowd.
"I know."
"This is his place."
"I know."
The music swelled. We turned. Her dress flared. For a second, she wasn't my enemy or Amit's girlfriend; she was just a girl in a beautiful dress, spinning under lights, looking lost.
"Where is he, Rajesh?" The question was a bare, broken thing. The first real thing she'd said to me all night.
The façade cracked. Just for me. I saw the terror beneath.
My grip on her hand tightened instinctively. "I don't know." My own mask slipped. The CEO vanished. "But we'll find him. After this. We'll turn this city upside down."
She searched my face, looking for the lie, the patronizing reassurance. She found none. Just the same raw, gut-churning fear that was eating me alive.
Something shifted. The fight bled out of our posture. The dance wasn't a performance for the crowd anymore; it became a private, desperate conversation in motion.
We stopped counting steps. We just moved. My leading became less forceful, more responsive. Her following became less resistant. We weren't good, but we were… together. In this awful, shared vigil.
"He talked about this dance for weeks," I said quietly, the words leaving me before I could stop them. "Made me practice with him. He was terrified of embarrassing you."
A small, choked sound escaped her. "He's an idiot. I wouldn't have cared if he stepped on my feet all night."
"I know. I told him that. He didn't believe me."
"He never believes you. He thinks you're always teasing."
"I am always teasing."
A ghost of a real smile touched her lips. Gone in a second. "What if something really bad happened?"
"Then we'll handle it." The words felt hollow, but I poured every ounce of conviction I had left into them. "Together. Like it or not."
She didn't argue. She just nodded, her eyes too bright. We completed another turn. The song was winding down. The end was in sight.
For those last thirty seconds, we didn't speak. We didn't need to. The frantic, silent chant was a drumbeat between our linked hands, in the space of our synchronized breath:
Where are you where are you where are you where are you Amit please please please—
The final note hung in the air. We stopped. The polite applause of the crowd washed over us like lukewarm water.
We broke apart as if burned.
The connection severed, the moment gone. We were back to being Rajesh and Divya. Frenemies. Partners in a crisis, but still enemies.
"Satisfied?" Divya hissed at Aunt Meera, who had materialized beside us.
"Beautifully done," Aunt Meera said, her eyes suspiciously bright. She leaned in, kissed Divya's cheek, and then did the unthinkable—she reached out and squeezed my arm. "Go," she whispered, so only we could hear. "Find our boy."
That was all the permission we needed.
Divya didn't fake a migraine. She just turned and walked, fast and purposeful, towards the grand staircase, not looking back. I pulled out my phone, put it to my ear, and started talking loudly about a server farm in Gurgaon being on fire, striding towards the main door.
Our separate exits. Our staggered departure. Useless now. The plan had been pre-empted by a waltz.
I didn't wait for the valet. I jogged to my car, the cool night air a slap after the stifling ballroom. I'd just opened the driver's door when the passenger side flew open.
Divya slid in, breathless. She'd shed her glittering heels. She was barefoot, the expensive pashmina from earlier now draped over her head and shoulders like a hooded cloak. In the dim light, she looked like an avenging spirit.
"I climbed down the damn bougainvillea trellis," she panted, buckling her seatbelt. "Let's go."
I didn't ask questions. I started the car. The engine's purr was a vow.
We didn't speak as we sped down the driveway. The facade was gone. The party was gone. All that was left was the dark road ahead and the gnawing, shared terror that had only deepened in the space of a three-minute dance.
I glanced over. She was staring straight ahead, her phone glowing in her lap. She was pulling up a map, her fingers trembling.
"First," she said, her voice all business, all brittle control. "His usual route from the Metro. Every chai stall, every bookstore he gets lost in."
"Agreed."
"Then his flat."
"Already texted the watchman. He hasn't seen him since morning."
She flinched but plowed on. "Then… we drive."
"Then we drive," I echoed.
The city lights streamed past the windows, painting her determined, terrified face in streaks of gold and shadow. The enemy in my passenger seat. The only other person on the planet who understood that the world had just gone terribly, irreversibly off-axis.
The dance was over. The search was on.