02-09-2025, 01:19 PM
Scene 13 – The Anonymous Note
Four weeks ago… before the lights, before the vanishing, before the city held its breath…
The vanity van was less a vehicle and more a sanctum, dressed in velvet dbangs and mirrored walls that reflected a dozen versions of the same goddess. The air was perfumed with rosewater, powder, and the faintest trace of sandalwood, an indulgent blend that seemed to follow Rhea wherever she went. Outside, the restless press of the world clamored at the tinted glass: the metallic frenzy of flashbulbs, the chanting of her name, the impatient thrum of a city that always wanted more.
But inside, there was silence. Or rather, a curated silence, the quiet one finds in cathedrals or palaces, a silence that reminded everyone this was not ordinary space. This was Rhea Malhotra’s world.
Seated before the mirror, she was a vision of composure. Her long hair spilled like black satin down her shoulders until the stylist’s deft fingers sculpted it into place, every strand pinned with reverence, not haste. Rhea did not rush beauty. She embodied it, effortlessly, as though time itself slowed in her presence.
Her reflection gazed back at her, luminous under the soft golden bulbs. Yet even that reflection seemed inadequate, unable to capture the full weight of her presence. Rhea was not simply beautiful; she was inevitable. A force. The kind of woman who redefined every room she entered.
Meera, her trusted assistant, swept into the van with the lightness of someone who had learned to orbit a star. In her hands she carried yet another bouquet, lilies wrapped in cream-colored paper that looked almost too delicate to touch. “Another one,” she said, her tone playful, though tinged with awe. “That makes eight today. The florists will soon be the richest.”
Rhea’s smile flickered across her lips, serene and amused. Her laughter was soft, the kind that lingered like music in the air. “One day, I will vanish beneath a mountain of petals,” she murmured, her voice velvet-smooth, each syllable deliberate, as though even jokes became poetry in her mouth.
She loosened the ribbon with graceful ease. The flowers parted, releasing their perfume, heavy, sweet, faintly intoxicating. And then, something unexpected slid free from their core: a small envelope, ivory-white, unmarked but for its sharp precision.
Unlike the clumsy scrawls of devoted fans or the gilded cards from sponsors, this envelope had restraint. Elegance. It seemed to belong not to the chaos of admirers, but to another realm entirely, as though it had been crafted for her alone.
Rhea’s long fingers unfolded it. Inside, the message was short.
"You don’t belong to them. You belong to me. Soon, everyone will know."
Four weeks ago… before the lights, before the vanishing, before the city held its breath…
The vanity van was less a vehicle and more a sanctum, dressed in velvet dbangs and mirrored walls that reflected a dozen versions of the same goddess. The air was perfumed with rosewater, powder, and the faintest trace of sandalwood, an indulgent blend that seemed to follow Rhea wherever she went. Outside, the restless press of the world clamored at the tinted glass: the metallic frenzy of flashbulbs, the chanting of her name, the impatient thrum of a city that always wanted more.
But inside, there was silence. Or rather, a curated silence, the quiet one finds in cathedrals or palaces, a silence that reminded everyone this was not ordinary space. This was Rhea Malhotra’s world.
Seated before the mirror, she was a vision of composure. Her long hair spilled like black satin down her shoulders until the stylist’s deft fingers sculpted it into place, every strand pinned with reverence, not haste. Rhea did not rush beauty. She embodied it, effortlessly, as though time itself slowed in her presence.
Her reflection gazed back at her, luminous under the soft golden bulbs. Yet even that reflection seemed inadequate, unable to capture the full weight of her presence. Rhea was not simply beautiful; she was inevitable. A force. The kind of woman who redefined every room she entered.
Meera, her trusted assistant, swept into the van with the lightness of someone who had learned to orbit a star. In her hands she carried yet another bouquet, lilies wrapped in cream-colored paper that looked almost too delicate to touch. “Another one,” she said, her tone playful, though tinged with awe. “That makes eight today. The florists will soon be the richest.”
Rhea’s smile flickered across her lips, serene and amused. Her laughter was soft, the kind that lingered like music in the air. “One day, I will vanish beneath a mountain of petals,” she murmured, her voice velvet-smooth, each syllable deliberate, as though even jokes became poetry in her mouth.
She loosened the ribbon with graceful ease. The flowers parted, releasing their perfume, heavy, sweet, faintly intoxicating. And then, something unexpected slid free from their core: a small envelope, ivory-white, unmarked but for its sharp precision.
Unlike the clumsy scrawls of devoted fans or the gilded cards from sponsors, this envelope had restraint. Elegance. It seemed to belong not to the chaos of admirers, but to another realm entirely, as though it had been crafted for her alone.
Rhea’s long fingers unfolded it. Inside, the message was short.
"You don’t belong to them. You belong to me. Soon, everyone will know."
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