Adultery The Swamiji

[shailu4ever]

Part 2 – The Entrance
 

The first thing they noticed was the car.
 
A black Maybach S680, polished to an almost impossibly perfect mirror finish, glided to a halt at the foot of the red carpet. Its mere presence bent the air, stilling the surrounding noise, as though the city itself recognized the arrival of someone beyond ordinary notice.
 
The murmurs of the crowd fractured and evaporated into an electric tension that spread outward like a slow-motion shock-wave. The driver, a stoic figure in a sharply tailored dark sherwani, stepped out first. His eyes, sharp and vigilant, scanned the red carpet with the precision of a sentinel guarding an unspoken moment. Even the air seemed to hold its breath in reverence.
 
The rear door opened with deliberate, almost ritualistic slowness… a performance of precision, not hesitation.
 
First, one leg appeared… sculpted, fair skin with a golden undertone, stretching gracefully into a silver stiletto, sharp and gleaming beneath the floodlights, a weapon of beauty and strength in perfect harmony. 

Then came the gown… liquid emerald silk that cascaded down her frame in folds so fluid they seemed to be woven from the very essence of light. With each breath of the wind, the fabric shifted, as if the gown itself was alive, adapting to the very idea of Rhea Malhotra.
 
It clung to her body like a lover’s touch—caressing in places, molding to her in others, revealing the power of her figure without ever giving itself away. The neckline dipped just far enough to cause murmurs of scandal, yet the sharp, exact tailoring kept the design firmly within the realm of art. The thigh-high slit revealed fleeting glimpses of toned muscle, each step deliberate, each movement a masterstroke of grace, confidence, and quiet control.
 
And then she emerged fully, the world pausing as though it had forgotten how to move.
 
Rhea Malhotra was not just a woman. She was a force of nature, a living masterpiece. Her beauty didn’t merely exist in the symmetry of her features, it radiated from her with an authority that made her impossible to ignore. Her cheekbones, sculpted to perfection, caught the soft, golden glow of the chandeliers above, sharp yet delicate, like the edges of a work of art honed over a lifetime. 

Her jawline was strong, defined, and possessed a sharpness that added an almost regal quality to her face, the kind that commanded admiration and respect. But there was a warmth to it, softened by the natural curve of her chin, a chin that spoke of confidence, yet held the gentleness of a queen who had mastered both power and grace.
 
When she smiled, two small dimples appeared on either side of her lips, playful and disarming, an unexpected contrast to the intense beauty of her gaze. It was a smile that could soften the hardest hearts, a fleeting expression that made the crowd’s collective breath hitch, as though they had been granted a rare privilege.
 
Her eyes… the eyes of a goddess and a conqueror, held the kind of quiet dominance that could freeze time. Almond-shaped, lined with dark kohl, they appeared like pools of liquid night, impossible to define, yet magnetic. They shimmered with shades of amber and jade, hinting at depths few could fathom, commanding attention, allegiance, and offering danger in equal measure. Those who dared meet her gaze found themselves caught in an ocean of mystery, helpless to look away.
 
Her lips, painted a rich, dangerous ruby, were full and precise—no smile, no frown, just a quiet curve of knowing. They spoke a language of their own, as if every curve and edge held a promise of something dangerous, something beautiful. The kind of smile that made hearts race and breath stutter, without ever needing to move.
 
Her skin… flawless, radiant, carried an otherworldly glow. It wasn’t the work of makeup or artificial light; it was something innate, something impossible to define, like the very essence of life itself had chosen her to carry it. 

Her skin was fair, golden-yellow, luminous, glowing with the confidence of someone who had long ceased to wonder if she was beautiful—because she simply was. Every inch of her was a living canvas, a radiant reflection of vitality and strength.
 
And then there was her aura. It was not something that could be seen, but something that could be felt, like a heavy pulse in the air. Her presence was magnetic, overwhelming, a gravitational force that commanded everything around her to pause, to submit. 

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[shailu4ever]

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Each step she took was measured, graceful, and potent, as though the very earth beneath her feet was attuned to her every movement. 

Her hands, delicate and yet strong, moved with such purpose that even the smallest gesture, an adjustment of her hair, the subtle lift of her chin, became something to remember.
 
In Rhea Malhotra, beauty was not a fleeting thing. It was a perpetual force, cinematic, omniscient, unforgettable. 

She was perfection redefined, existing in a space where ordinary mortals dared not dream. And yet, there she stood, alive, radiant, and untouchable, the kind of woman whose presence alone made time itself shiver.
 
The crowd responded as a single, living organism, each individual momentarily suspended by the sheer force of her presence. 

The first wave was awe, as the cameras snapped with a frantic intensity, trying, and failing, to capture the vastness of what they were seeing. Fans gasped, some even forgot to cheer, caught in the trance of her magnetism. 

The second wave was hunger, a desire so palpable it could be tasted, every journalist calculating their chances of a single word, every admirer wondering what it would feel like to be in the direct orbit of her gaze.
 
With deliberate elegance, she stepped onto the carpet, each footfall a soft echo against the velvet path beneath her. Her left hand rested casually on her hip, the diamond cuff around her wrist scattering flashes of light into the crowd, tiny explosions that were felt as much as seen. 

Her gown... emerald silk, flowed like a river of jewels, rippling with every movement, catching every flash of light and turning it into a halo around her. She paused, allowing the cameras to feast on her, her presence so magnetic that the moment became frozen in time.
 
She was no longer merely a woman in a beautiful gown. She was the very embodiment of power and grace, of beauty and danger, of the kind of authority that needed no words to be understood. A silent declaration that this moment, this night, belonged to her... and no one else.
 

The crowd, for all their whispers and murmurs, became a symphony of admiration, of awe. 

The host of CineGlam Tonight adjusted his tie, his throat suddenly dry, trying to ground himself in the moment, as though the very air itself had thickened with the weight of her arrival.
 
Her presence rearranged the space. Cameras, lights, and gazes pivoted toward her with a gravity so strong it felt physical. The crowd became a low hum of reverence, like a tide shifting around a solitary, unassailable force.
 
And then there was the elegant, impossible allure of her figure, most dangerously, her bust, exquisitely framed by the emerald gown. The fabric was cut with such precision that it accentuated her curves without vulgarity, offering only the suggestion of temptation. The delicate line of her cleavage glimmered beneath the floodlights, a subtle invitation that seemed both glamorous and untouchable at once.
 
It was a sight that left men struggling to lift their eyes from her cleavage to meet hers when she spoke. 

For every inch of restraint the gown commanded, her bust carried a magnetic pull of its own, a force that drew admiration, desire, and surrender in equal measure. Yet it was never crude. It was artistry, luxury, and power, all bound together in living form.
 
This was Rhea’s mastery: to allow a glimpse of glamour without ever diminishing her elegance. To be near her was to be reminded that beauty, when wielded with control, was not a gift, it was a weapon.
 


When the host announced her name...
 
“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice trembled despite rehearsed confidence, “the incomparable Rhea Malhotra!”
 
 
The applause rose in a thunderous wave, a wall of sound that surged through the ballroom and spilled into the streets beyond. Cameras flashed in a frenzy, their lights trying—and failing—to trap the essence of her in mere pixels. The crowd leaned forward as one, breath caught, hearts racing, as though the moment itself were too fragile to miss.
 
But Rhea, ever the enigma, was untouched by the chaos. She did not seek the cameras. Her eyes, cool and deliberate, searched through the sea of faces until they found something—or perhaps someone—nestled deep within the VIP section. The connection lasted barely a heartbeat, but it was enough.
 
Her lips curved into a smile so subtle, so unreadable, that it could have been a promise, or a challenge, or both. To some, it whispered invitation. To others, it declared war. Yet to all, it was undeniable proof that she was not merely present—she was in control.
 
Every inch of her... every movement, every glance, every carefully measured pause...  was a statement. A declaration that elegance and danger were not opposites but twins, intertwined within her like light and shadow. Her beauty was no longer something the world could admire from a distance. It was a force to obey, a power to surrender to.

 

That night, Rhea Malhotra was not just attending the awards.

 
She was the awards.

-- oOo --

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[Raj087]

Very well written.... you are right the opening scene is different from the movie Heroine...But i would imagine Reha Malhotra as Kareena Kapoor as she nailed it in that movie as a Heroine... however your plot does not have resemblance with any earlier movie or web series that is clear by the start...i would request you to update fast if possible...thanks again for all your efforts...

[shailu4ever]

Very well written.... you are right the opening scene is different from the movie Heroine...But i would imagine Reha Malhotra as Kareena Kapoor as she nailed it in that movie as a Heroine... however your plot does not have resemblance with any earlier movie or web series that is clear by the start...i would request you to update fast if possible...thanks again for all your efforts...

Hi Raj087


Thank you so much for your feedback! 

I’m glad to hear that you enjoyed the writing and the uniqueness of the plot.

I totally understand your point about Reha Malhotra being imagined as Kareena Kapoor, she definitely brought something special to Heroine and I can see how that connection is natural.


Yes, I am working on giving frequent updates, which might be smaller as it takes longer time to write longer updates.  I will try my best.  This being a weekend, my updates might be a bit slow.  Please be patient.

Your input really motivates me to keep pushing the narrative forward at a faster pace! 

Thanks again for taking the time to read and share your thoughts, it means a lot!

With warm regards

-- Shailu

[Saikarthik]

Superb excellent opening scene

[shailu4ever]

Superb excellent opening scene

Hi Saikarthik

Thank you so much for the awesome feedback! I’m thrilled to hear that you enjoyed the opening scene.

It really means a lot to know that it made an impact. 

I’m excited to share more and hope you continue to enjoy the rest of the story!

With warm regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Part 3 – A Walk to the Grand Podium
 
Inside the ballroom, the light softened, no longer the harsh white of flashbulbs, but a golden warmth that seemed to flatter every face. A spotlight fell on Rhea, yet she didn’t need it. 

The moment she stepped past the velvet ropes, the evening itself seemed to pivot around her. She moved toward The Grand Podium, each step measured, deliberate, radiating allure and glamour with effortless authority. 

Her gown, emerald silk, flowed like liquid jewels around her legs, catching the light with every movement, creating halos of shifting green and gold that made the cameras almost tremble.
 
The first to approach her was Rajiv Mehta, the oil tycoon, mid-sixties, a man whose empire stretched across continents. He straightened instinctively as she drew near. 

When she extended a graceful hand to him, he felt the warmth of her touch, the light pressure of a handshake that somehow carried both strength and subtle dominance.

Her perfume, a faint, intoxicating blend of oud and white gardenia, reached him first, drawing his attention upward to her face, where her eyes met his with an unspoken command: acknowledge, respect, but do not presume. 

His heart skipped, his pulse quickened, yet he maintained his composure, aware that she was not there to be impressed, only to exist. Her soft, deliberate laugh as he offered a polite compliment left a memory on him he would replay all night.
 
Next came a film director, known for his ambitious projects and past failures. His gaze followed her as she approached, captivated by the quiet magnetism of her presence. 

He noticed the delicate lift of her chin, the subtle sway of her gown, the imperceptible elegance in the turn of her wrist. When she spoke, her voice was low, warm, and melodic, enough to make him lean closer, catching every word as though it were a secret meant only for him. 

A gentle handshake, firm yet soft, sent a shiver through him; he had no words, only a sense that being near her was privilege, not right. By the time she moved on, he felt lighter, buoyed, as though a weight he hadn’t known he carried had been lifted by her mere presence.
 
Two politicians from rival parties exchanged subtle glances as they approached. Each instinctively straightened, adjusting ties, smoothing lapels, aware that she had arrived, and she alone set the tone. 

When she greeted them, her eyes flickered briefly between the two, a spark of recognition and polite interest. Her smile, slight but magnetic, left both wondering what thoughts might have passed in that single glance. 

Her diamond cuff caught the light as she gestured, and a whisper of awe swept through them. Each felt a momentary dizziness, an intoxicating combination of respect, desire, and helpless admiration.

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[shailu4ever]

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Then came Dev Khanna, India’s most bankable leading man. His usual confidence faltered, just slightly, when their eyes met. 

She inclined her head, a small, unreadable smile tugging at her lips. When they exchanged a brief, elegant embrace, it was electric, not passion, not possession, but a mutual recognition of force and elegance. 

He felt younger, sharper, more alive in her presence. The cameras flashed, but their focus was irrelevant; the room around them seemed to pause, as if respecting the private orbit they briefly shared.
 
Rhea moved through the ballroom like gravity incarnate, every step a display of effortless glamour. The crowd responded as a single organism, their collective focus bending around her path. Each hand she shook was remembered, each brush of her sleeve lingered in memory. 

Men noticed the subtle curve of her figure, the gentle sway of her hips, the way her shoulders aligned with grace. Every gesture was fluid, intentional, magnetic, yet entirely natural. 

No one could anticipate her movement, and yet everyone felt included in the orbit of her presence.
 
A producer she passed caught the faint scent of her perfume as she leaned slightly to nod in greeting. His pulse raced, his fingers unconsciously straightening as he extended his hand. 

When their palms met, he felt her warmth, the controlled strength beneath the delicate exterior, and a shiver ran down his spine. 

He dared not speak too long, for a glance at her almond-shaped eyes, rimmed in kohl and flecked with amber, reminded him silently that she was untouchable, unbought, and sovereign.
 
As she walked toward The Grand Podium, whispers followed in her wake. Champagne glasses were topped off instinctively as she passed nearby tables. Laughter rose gently, sharpened by the aura she carried.

Gossip columnists and photographers jostled subtly for a glimpse, a word, a smile, yet no one could command her attention; it arrived naturally, on her terms. Her pace was leisurely, unhurried, yet utterly unstoppable, as if the very path to the podium had been carved for her, every step a quiet declaration of her allure, elegance, and magnetism.
 

 
Her face, a flawless vision of symmetry and radiance, drew every eye first, the high cheekbones, the sharp yet soft jawline, the almond-shaped eyes that seemed to see everything at once. Just below, her bust, subtly and perfectly accentuated by the emerald silk of her gown, hinted at curves that were impossible to ignore, yet revealed with exquisite restraint. 

Men found themselves caught in a silent, electric struggle, torn between the irresistible pull of her gaze and the tantalizing allure of her figure. No one could fully command their attention; it was a battle of wills in which she never wavered. Rhea moved with effortless grace, allure, and glamour, a force so complete that it commanded respect without ever demanding it.
 
By the time the host prepared to begin the ceremony, Rhea had already exchanged polite, warm, private words with three major producers, one top politician, two industrialists, and the city’s most influential gossip columnist. 

No favors were asked; no attention was demanded. She existed, and the world bent itself to her orbit.

 
From the shadows of the balcony above

A figure watched her. Not moving. Not smiling. 

Simply… waiting.
 

-- oOo --

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[shailu4ever]

Part 4 – The Grand Podium
 
The ceremony, as it often did, had slipped behind schedule—a small inconvenience in a night where egos and accolades were measured in awards and zeros. But no one seemed to mind as the host’s voice rang out, piercing the murmurs of the crowd.
 
"To present the Lifetime Achievement Award... the dazzling, the fearless, the one and only... Rhea Malhotra!"
 

A swell of applause rose as if on cue, a tidal wave that carried her from the wings. 

The spotlight cut through the dimness, finding her in the emerald silk of her gown, and for an instant, she was a green flame burning against a sea of shadows. Heads turned in unison, cameras snapping, eager to capture the image of her that the world had come to expect.
 
She did not hurry. Each step towards the Grand Podium was a masterstroke of grace, measured and deliberate, yet so effortlessly commanding that the air seemed to bend around her. 

The click of her heels echoed through the silence, sharp and precise, like the ticking of an unseen clock, one that everyone had forgotten until now, but could not ignore.
 
As she reached the podium, she accepted the microphone with a soft smile, a smile so magnetic it drew the front row in closer, their collective breath held, waiting for her next word.
 
"Good evening," she began, her voice low, velvety—laced with warmth, but undercut by the steel of someone who knew her worth.

"It's a strange thing, standing here… about to hand an award to someone whose work I grew up watching… while wondering if I've grown up at all."
 
The crowd chuckled softly, hanging on her every word. She paused, letting the laughter settle, before continuing.
 
_"But isn’t that what life is, after all? A beautiful, endless journey of becoming, and unbecoming? We spend our days chasing dreams, only to find that the path we thought we were following leads us to a version of ourselves we never quite imagined. And that’s the magic of this industry, isn’t it? The way it allows us to reinvent, to rise, and to be reborn again and again."_
 
Her eyes flickered toward the wings, just a brief moment, a subtle shift in focus. The caution was hidden beneath the calm of her words, but she sensed it, the possibility of disruption that lingered in the air.
 
"Tonight, we honor a legend," she said, her gaze returning to the audience.

_"A person whose art has shaped the very fabric of our lives, whose work has inspired generations. But let us not forget that every great artist is also a dreamer, and every dreamer is simply a reflection of the world they see. It is the dreamers who remind us that anything is possible, that even the impossible can be touched by the right hands."_
 
A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. Rhea had already mastered the art of knowing just how much of herself to reveal, and how much to keep veiled in mystery.

Her speech was short, perfectly balanced, equal parts tribute, humor, and charm. She recounted a story about the first time she’d met the award recipient, a misdelivered bouquet of roses, a harried assistant, and a half-drunk producer, all tumbling into one unforgettable moment. The crowd responded with laughter and applause, hanging on every word.
 
And then, came the handover, the golden statuette gleaming under the harsh lights, reflecting the world’s attention as she passed it into the hands of the veteran actor. 

Their palms brushed, the briefest of contacts, but enough to send a jolt of electricity through the room.

The photographers surged forward, their lenses like hungry mouths, snapping incessantly as if each moment might be the last.

 
And then, it happened.

-- oOo --

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[Saikarthik]

Nicely going what happened next swamiji intro

[readersp]

Your wordplay is simply awesome!!!

[shailu4ever]

Part 5 – The Vanishing
 
The auditorium was alive with applause, thunderous, relentless, echoing off the velvet-dbangd walls. Cameras clicked in rapid succession, their flashes painting the stage in bursts of white fire. The host shook hands, admirers crowded closer, and all around the podium there was a swirl of celebration.
 
At the center of it stood Rhea Malhotra, poised and radiant, the emerald silk of her gown catching every shimmer of light. She turned slightly, her diamond cuff flashing like a beacon, as though preparing to retreat gracefully from The Grand Podium.
 
Instead, she hesitated.

She took three deliberate steps, slow, unhurried, each one echoing faintly against the polished stage floor. Her gaze lifted for a moment, as if she were listening for something beyond the applause.
 
And then it happened.
 
The stage lights flickered. A ripple of unease swept the hall.
In the very next instant, the entire podium was swallowed in total blackness.
 
A gasp tore through the crowd. Someone stifled a scream. For that single breathless heartbeat, the hall seemed to vanish into void—no stage, no stars, no Rhea. Only the sound of a thousand heartbeats and the faint shudder of cameras misfiring into nothingness.
 
Then... lights came back.
 
The glare returned almost blinding, pouring back over the stage. Every eye snapped forward. The podium was visible again. The host was there. The veteran actor was there. The crowd pressed forward, confused but relieved
 
Except her.
 
Rhea was gone.
 
One moment she had been framed perfectly in the cameras’ lenses, emerald silk gleaming like liquid fire beneath the spotlight.
The next... emptiness.
 
No stumble, no graceful slip into the wings. No curtain to vanish behind.

One moment she was the center of the universe.

The next, she was nothing at all.
 
The applause faltered, dying into an unnatural stillness. The host’s smile froze, wavering at the edges, while the veteran actor turned his head sharply, his frown deepening, searching for her.
 
A single voice whispered through the hushed auditorium, fragile, uncertain, almost childlike:

“She’s gone…”
 
The words shivered through the audience like a ripple through still water. For one charged instant, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
 
The cameras kept firing anyway, desperate

Their flashes snapping against empty space where Rhea Malhotra had stood just seconds before.

.

[shailu4ever]

Nicely going what happened next swamiji intro

Hi Saikarthik


Thank you! I’m glad you’re enjoying it so far. 

Swamiji’s introduction will come a little later, but before that, an unexpected twist awaits. 

For now, she will mysteriously vanish, setting the stage for what’s to come.

Please stay tuned, the next update will reveal more!

With warm regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Part 6 – The Return
 
The silence stretched, heavy, unyielding. No one moved. No one even dared breathe. The host’s hand twitched at his side, the veteran actor’s eyes still locked on the vacant space where Rhea had been.
 
And then…
 
Darkness.
 
The stage lights cut out again. This time the entire auditorium gasped as one, the sound rising like a single voice of fear. Phones slipped from hands, chairs scbangd against marble, someone shrieked. The stage dissolved into nothingness once more—an endless void in the middle of all that expectation.
 
A second.
Two.
Three.
 
When the lights roared back to life, the crowd erupted into chaos.
 
She was back.

 
Rhea Malhotra stood at the Grand Podium once more.



As if she had never left.
 
But something was different. In her hands, catching every hungry flash of light, was the golden statuette. She held it effortlessly, the gleam of its polished surface almost surreal against her emerald gown.
 
For a moment, the audience could not comprehend what they were seeing. A few gasped audibly. A woman in the front row pressed her hand to her mouth. 

Flashes fired in a frenzy, photographers clawing for angles. Applause erupted, not polite, not restrained, but wild, desperate, the roar of people needing to believe in something impossible.
 
It felt like magic.
 
Rhea smiled, that signature smile that no magazine had ever managed to capture fully, half mystery, half fire. She stepped forward, raising the statuette with both hands as though it had simply materialized there, gifted to her from some unseen hand.
 
Her voice, when it came, was steady, resonant, and commanding:
 
“They say cinema is about illusion. That it makes us see what isn’t there… and forget what is. But tonight—tonight we are not watching an illusion. We are witnessing a truth. A truth written in light, in time, in legacy.”
 
She let her words linger, her gaze sweeping the audience. The silence that followed was absolute—no cough, no whisper, no movement.
 
“Legends never fade,” she continued, her voice deepening, almost reverent.

“They shine across decades, across lives, across every soul that dared to dream. And tonight, we honor one such legend. A man whose brilliance shaped the way we see stories, and the way we see ourselves.”
 
The audience broke into thunderous applause, standing now, swept up in her rhythm, her presence. The cameras clicked in furious succession, desperate to capture the magic of the moment.
 
She turned gracefully, extending the award to the veteran actor. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, as though afraid that if he touched it, it too might vanish. Then, with visible trembling, he accepted it.
 
Their palms brushed. She smiled once more, dazzling, immortal.

“Sir,” she said softly but clearly, “this belongs to you.”
 
The applause swelled into something euphoric, a frenzy of wonder. People cheered, cried, clapped until their hands stung. For one luminous instant, the impossible felt not only possible, but real.
 
And then...
 
The lights cut out again.
 
The crowd was silent, not sure what comes next. A wave of silence spread across the crowd. The hall was completely silent, raw and chilling, the magic now curdling into dread.
 
In the dark, a voice rang out, shaking, panicked, unmistakably human.
 
“I didn’t do that! I swear... I didn’t touch the board!”

It was one of the stage technicians, his voice carrying from the wings.

“The lights… they turned off on their own!”
 

The words fell into the silence like ice water.
 

-- oOo --

.

[shailu4ever]

Part 7 – The Final Vanish
 

When the lights finally surged back, the auditorium seemed to inhale as one. The glare was almost blinding after the suffocating blackness, and for a few seconds no one could process what they were seeing.
 
The veteran actor stood there alone. His hands clutched the golden statuette as though it were an anchor keeping him from collapsing. His smile had vanished, replaced by an expression of bewilderment that twisted slowly into fear.
 
But Rhea…

Rhea Malhotra was gone.
 
Not just missing, not merely hidden.

Gone.
 
The Grand Podium stood empty, a gleaming island of polished wood bathed in cruel white light. No trace of her emerald gown, no shadow lingering behind the podium, no flutter of fabric in retreat. Only absence. A hole carved into reality where she had stood just moments before.
 
A low murmur rippled through the audience, rising into frantic whispers. Some insisted it was an elaborate trick. Others swore they saw her dissolve, flicker, disintegrate into the darkness. A woman sobbed uncontrollably in the back rows. Someone shouted, “Check the wings!” and a handful of security guards rushed toward the stage.
 
But there was nothing.
 
The cameras, relentless and pitiless, kept flashing. One captured only the veteran actor’s trembling hand holding the award aloft. Another caught the podium, stark and empty, the microphone tilted ever so slightly, as if she had left mid-sentence. 

And then, one final frame: a shimmering pool of emerald silk lying at the base of the podium, as though her gown had collapsed without her. The image froze in time, eerie and inexplicable.
 
Gasps turned to panic. People stood, some trying to push toward the exits, others craning their necks to see the stage. The hall swelled with chaotic noise—questions, demands, frightened voices tangled with desperate speculation.
 
Above it all, the veteran actor’s voice broke through, hoarse and trembling:
“She was right here… right here beside me.”
 
Stagehands clambered across the floorboards, running their palms over the polished surface, searching for trapdoors or mechanisms. But the wood was flawless, unbroken, seamless. One young stagehand bent low, eyes widening as he whispered:
“There’s… there’s an indentation.”
 
He traced it with his fingertips—so faint it could have been an illusion. A shallow impression, like the memory of a footprint pressed into the stage itself.
 
The hum returned.
That same mechanical vibration, subtle but undeniable, thrumming beneath the Grand Podium. Louder now, more deliberate, like a hidden heartbeat pulsing in the floor. Those standing closest felt it in their shoes, rattling faintly through the soles.
 
“It’s still going,” someone muttered, pale with dread.
 
Security barked orders, sealing the exits, locking the vast hall into a prison of confusion. The crowd swelled with unease, their movements restless, their voices overlapping in a rising tide of disbelief.
 
By the time order was restored, the truth was undeniable:
Rhea Malhotra had vanished in full view of thousands, under lights and cameras, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
 
She was not merely absent.
She was erased.
 
Somewhere in the balcony shadows, the saffron-robed figure leaned forward. His eyes gleamed, fixed on the empty podium, and his lips curved into the faintest smile.
 
A smile of recognition.
A smile of satisfaction.
 
As though this was the moment he had been waiting for all along.
 
The hall remained frozen in silence, the weight of absence pressing heavier than any sound. Even the air felt different, thinner, colder, hollow.
And then, at the very back of the auditorium, a child’s voice broke the stillness with a trembling whisper:
“She’s not coming back.”
 
The words hung in the air like smoke, impossible to dismiss, chilling everyone who heard them.
 
Someone whispered, almost too softly to be heard:

“She didn’t leave. She was taken.”
 

The saffron-robed figure’s smile deepened.

And high above, in the rafters where no one thought to look, a single spotlight bulb gave a final sharp crack, and went dark.

-- oOo --

.

[Zoz34]

Awasome

[Sher@khaan]

Good story

[readersp]

Wow!!! What suspense!!!

[shailu4ever]

Your wordplay is simply awesome!!!

Hi readersp

Thank you so much! I’m really glad you enjoyed it. 

It means a lot to hear that. 

Your encouragement keeps me inspired to play even more with words!

With best regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Awasome

Hi Zoz34

I truly appreciate your complimenting feedback. 

I’m delighted you enjoyed the story

Your feedback keeps me motivated and continue writing.

Warm regards

-- Shailu