18-12-2025, 09:33 PM
Chapter 1 – Preparing a Surprise
Prem gripped the steering wheel of his white Swift, the Chennai morning sun glinting off the hood as he headed toward the city outskirts. The AC hummed softly, but his mind was louder — buzzing with excitement, nerves, a little disbelief.
Nine years ago he never imagined owning a car, let alone starting his own IT outsourcing company. Yet here he was, driving to sign the final papers with a major IT firm — the deal that would officially launch his venture.
Nine years of grinding nights, overtime shifts, quiet sacrifices. All of it leading to today, their ninth anniversary.
He pinched his thigh hard. “Ouch,” he muttered, grinning. Not a dream.
His phone rang. Nivi’s name flashed on the screen, her photo with Aara lighting it up — both smiling, Nivi’s long hair loose, her fair skin glowing, that gentle ripeness of motherhood making her even more beautiful in his eyes.
“Where are you?” she asked, voice warm, a little playful.
“Important work, da. Client meeting.”
“How long?”
“Maybe two hours.”
“Okay, good,” she said quickly.
He laughed. “Good? What’s so good about it?”
“onnum illainga (Nothing dear)… ,” she teased. Then after a pause she said
“I’m going to the tailor — need to stitch a couple of blouses.”
“Go ahead, Nivi . I’ll be home by noon.”
“Okay.”
He cut the call and glanced at her photo again.
Nivi had only grown more stunning with time. Nearly a decade of motherhood had added that irresistible softness — fuller breasts, rounded hips, the way her sarees now dbangd over curves that turned heads without her noticing. He felt a rush of gratitude.
If not for her quiet strength, her blind trust when they had nothing, he would have crumbled long back. When he was empty-handed, jobless, disowned, she had held his hand with a baby on the way and said, “We’ll make it.”
Today was the day he’d prove it to her.
The surprise: the office key to his new company, his new title as CEO. He’d quit the trading job three months ago, working in secret with help from his old boss. Nivi still thought he was heading to the same office every morning.
Tonight, at the small party hall he’d booked for their anniversary, he’d hand her the key and watch her face.
He smiled at the thought as the massive glass gates of the IT park came into view. His dreams were finally stepping into the next level.
Inside the air-conditioned CFO’s office, Prem straightened his shirt, heart racing with hope.
“Hi sir, I’m Prem — from the new outsourcing venture.”
The man behind the desk looked up. Sharp features, expensive watch. He froze for a second, then leaned back with a slow, almost amused smile.
“Prem? You?”
Prem’s stomach dropped.
“Aaravind… is it really you?”
Twelve years vanished in an instant.
College. Aaravind — the smooth, chocolate-boy type who had been Nivi’s “bestie” by default, because their families were old friends.
To Nivi he was just a harmless friend.
To Aaravind, she was something to claim.
He’d spread quiet rumors — that Nivi was clingy, that things had “happened” between them. Nothing overt, just enough poison to make people whisper. Prem had seethed silently. He and Nivi hadn’t even spoken much then, but every time their eyes met across the canteen or classroom, something electric passed — a mutual, unspoken knowing. They were already in love, even if no words had been said.
Aaravind had always been the opposite of Prem in everything — sports, looks, confidence. Not just in love, even in sports they were enemies.
During one inter-department cricket match, he decided to force the issue.
Prem remembered it like a scar.
Aaravind had boasted to his teammates that after the match he’d take Nivi into the indoor sports room (being decorated for the post-match ceremony) and “try his luck.” He was ready to face consequences later. One senior, Mark, overheard. Mark was Aaravind’s closest friend despite being senior. He sent a group text: “Go watch the indoor room after the match. Love scene coming soon.”
The match went on. Nivi sat in the stands. Prem batted with his senior at the other end. Suddenly, a few opposition players drifted off the field toward the indoor block. Mark shouted something in Tamil — “Oru than poi video edu… ellarum paakalam.”(One guy go record it, let everyone see)
Aaravind had vanished. Nivi too.
Prem’s blood ran cold. He scored a fifty, scanned the crowd — no Nivi.
On the next ball he deliberately got out, stumped. Before anyone noticed, he sprinted off the field.
He was searching for her and finally found one guy from the opposite team recording something, so he realized it could be Nivi and Aaravind. He sensed the issue and reached the indoor room just in time.
Through the half-open door he saw Aaravind pinning Nivi against a table, her hands pushing at his chest, voice shaking with anger and fear. Prem didn’t think. He burst in, one solid punch sent Aaravind reeling. They grappled. Prem grabbed a loose iron rod from the decorations — it caught Aaravind across the forehead as he fell, tearing skin, blood running instantly.
Nivi stood frozen, dress dishevelled, eyes wide. He grabbed her out and consoled her. “Forget this…”
almost 20 minutes passed..
This was the first time they both spoke.
Prem: You panicked? Im here for you dont panic...
She said, “I’m not panicked… especially when you are with me…”
He moved…
She asked, “How did you find me? You were playing so well… how did you know I might be in trouble?”
Prem didn’t say much. “Come back to this room tonight, after the function,” he told her, breathing hard. “You’ll find answers.”
That evening, after the ceremony, everyone left. Nivi searched the corner where he’d thrown his jersey. Beneath it was a small hidden box. Inside — a love letter from Prem, shaky handwriting confessing everything.
She smiled, eyes wet. “You too love me?”
He stepped out from the shadows. “Yes, my love.”
They proposed right there, surrounded by leftover streamers and empty chairs.
Thanks to the man who tried to ruin everything, they found each other.
Twelve years later.
The same Aaravind sat across the desk — older, sharper, successful. And on his forehead, faint but unmistakable, the scar Prem had left that day.
Prem gripped the steering wheel of his white Swift, the Chennai morning sun glinting off the hood as he headed toward the city outskirts. The AC hummed softly, but his mind was louder — buzzing with excitement, nerves, a little disbelief.
Nine years ago he never imagined owning a car, let alone starting his own IT outsourcing company. Yet here he was, driving to sign the final papers with a major IT firm — the deal that would officially launch his venture.
Nine years of grinding nights, overtime shifts, quiet sacrifices. All of it leading to today, their ninth anniversary.
He pinched his thigh hard. “Ouch,” he muttered, grinning. Not a dream.
His phone rang. Nivi’s name flashed on the screen, her photo with Aara lighting it up — both smiling, Nivi’s long hair loose, her fair skin glowing, that gentle ripeness of motherhood making her even more beautiful in his eyes.
“Where are you?” she asked, voice warm, a little playful.
“Important work, da. Client meeting.”
“How long?”
“Maybe two hours.”
“Okay, good,” she said quickly.
He laughed. “Good? What’s so good about it?”
“onnum illainga (Nothing dear)… ,” she teased. Then after a pause she said
“I’m going to the tailor — need to stitch a couple of blouses.”
“Go ahead, Nivi . I’ll be home by noon.”
“Okay.”
He cut the call and glanced at her photo again.
Nivi had only grown more stunning with time. Nearly a decade of motherhood had added that irresistible softness — fuller breasts, rounded hips, the way her sarees now dbangd over curves that turned heads without her noticing. He felt a rush of gratitude.
If not for her quiet strength, her blind trust when they had nothing, he would have crumbled long back. When he was empty-handed, jobless, disowned, she had held his hand with a baby on the way and said, “We’ll make it.”
Today was the day he’d prove it to her.
The surprise: the office key to his new company, his new title as CEO. He’d quit the trading job three months ago, working in secret with help from his old boss. Nivi still thought he was heading to the same office every morning.
Tonight, at the small party hall he’d booked for their anniversary, he’d hand her the key and watch her face.
He smiled at the thought as the massive glass gates of the IT park came into view. His dreams were finally stepping into the next level.
Inside the air-conditioned CFO’s office, Prem straightened his shirt, heart racing with hope.
“Hi sir, I’m Prem — from the new outsourcing venture.”
The man behind the desk looked up. Sharp features, expensive watch. He froze for a second, then leaned back with a slow, almost amused smile.
“Prem? You?”
Prem’s stomach dropped.
“Aaravind… is it really you?”
Twelve years vanished in an instant.
College. Aaravind — the smooth, chocolate-boy type who had been Nivi’s “bestie” by default, because their families were old friends.
To Nivi he was just a harmless friend.
To Aaravind, she was something to claim.
He’d spread quiet rumors — that Nivi was clingy, that things had “happened” between them. Nothing overt, just enough poison to make people whisper. Prem had seethed silently. He and Nivi hadn’t even spoken much then, but every time their eyes met across the canteen or classroom, something electric passed — a mutual, unspoken knowing. They were already in love, even if no words had been said.
Aaravind had always been the opposite of Prem in everything — sports, looks, confidence. Not just in love, even in sports they were enemies.
During one inter-department cricket match, he decided to force the issue.
Prem remembered it like a scar.
Aaravind had boasted to his teammates that after the match he’d take Nivi into the indoor sports room (being decorated for the post-match ceremony) and “try his luck.” He was ready to face consequences later. One senior, Mark, overheard. Mark was Aaravind’s closest friend despite being senior. He sent a group text: “Go watch the indoor room after the match. Love scene coming soon.”
The match went on. Nivi sat in the stands. Prem batted with his senior at the other end. Suddenly, a few opposition players drifted off the field toward the indoor block. Mark shouted something in Tamil — “Oru than poi video edu… ellarum paakalam.”(One guy go record it, let everyone see)
Aaravind had vanished. Nivi too.
Prem’s blood ran cold. He scored a fifty, scanned the crowd — no Nivi.
On the next ball he deliberately got out, stumped. Before anyone noticed, he sprinted off the field.
He was searching for her and finally found one guy from the opposite team recording something, so he realized it could be Nivi and Aaravind. He sensed the issue and reached the indoor room just in time.
Through the half-open door he saw Aaravind pinning Nivi against a table, her hands pushing at his chest, voice shaking with anger and fear. Prem didn’t think. He burst in, one solid punch sent Aaravind reeling. They grappled. Prem grabbed a loose iron rod from the decorations — it caught Aaravind across the forehead as he fell, tearing skin, blood running instantly.
Nivi stood frozen, dress dishevelled, eyes wide. He grabbed her out and consoled her. “Forget this…”
almost 20 minutes passed..
This was the first time they both spoke.
Prem: You panicked? Im here for you dont panic...
She said, “I’m not panicked… especially when you are with me…”
He moved…
She asked, “How did you find me? You were playing so well… how did you know I might be in trouble?”
Prem didn’t say much. “Come back to this room tonight, after the function,” he told her, breathing hard. “You’ll find answers.”
That evening, after the ceremony, everyone left. Nivi searched the corner where he’d thrown his jersey. Beneath it was a small hidden box. Inside — a love letter from Prem, shaky handwriting confessing everything.
She smiled, eyes wet. “You too love me?”
He stepped out from the shadows. “Yes, my love.”
They proposed right there, surrounded by leftover streamers and empty chairs.
Thanks to the man who tried to ruin everything, they found each other.
Twelve years later.
The same Aaravind sat across the desk — older, sharper, successful. And on his forehead, faint but unmistakable, the scar Prem had left that day.
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