Cold Billionaire

The grand hall was bathed in the golden glow of countless crystal chandeliers, their light cascading over intricately carved wooden pillars and luxurious velvet drapes that framed vast panoramic windows. Ornate floral arrangements lined the marble floor, filling the air with the heavy scent of jasmine and gardenia. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation, a symphony of hushed whispers and the shuffling of finely dressed guests creating an almost palpable tension. At the center of this opulent setting stood a meticulously decorated altar, shimmering with delicate strands of fairy lights intertwined with vibrant marigold garlands and fresh rose petals scattered across the polished mahogany floor. The priest, clad in pristine white robes embroidered with golden thread, held a sacred tome in his hands. His voice echoed solemnly through the vast chamber as he prepared to bind two lives together. The groom, a tall man with a commanding presence, stood at the altar’s side. His tailored midnight-blue sherwani gleamed in the chandelier light, its intricate silver embroidery tracing the fabric like delicate vines. His face was a mask of calm determination, but his deep-set eyes betrayed a flicker of nervous excitement. His jet-black hair fell neatly, framing a strong jawline that was set with quiet resolve. Opposite him was the bride, Anaya Maheshwari—an enigmatic beauty who seemed almost ethereal in her traditional crimson lehenga. The richly embroidered silk fabric hugged her slender form, the gold zari work glinting as she shifted slightly. Layers of dainty bangles adorned her wrists, and an elegant maang tikka rested perfectly on her forehead, drawing attention to her expressive hazel eyes that were both fierce and fearful beneath her delicate veil. Her raven hair was pinned meticulously, and her lips, painted a subtle rose, trembled faintly with restrained emotion. Around them, the guests—draped in their finest festive attire of shimmering saris, tailored kurta pajamas, and embroidered sherwanis—watched intently. The air buzzed with curiosity and unease. Whispers swirled through the crowd like a restless breeze. The priest raised his hand solemnly and asked the first question, his tone unwavering, “Do you accept Anaya Maheshwari as your would-be wife? Will you grant her all her rightful honours and stand by her through all trials until death parts you?” Without hesitation, the groom’s voice rang out, steady and resolute: “I do.” Anaya’s heart thundered in her chest as the priest turned toward her. “And do you accept this man, your would-be husband? Will you give him your trust, your love, and your loyalty? Will you remain by his side through all of life’s seasons, until death parts you?” Her breath caught, lips parted to speak—when an abrupt, chilling shout ripped through the solemnity. “No. She doesn’t.” The hall plunged instantly into darkness, the lights extinguishing as if snuffed out by a ghostly hand. A collective gasp rose from the crowd, panic stirring beneath the shadows. The hushed murmurs turned into frightened whispers and frantic murmuring. Seconds stretched like hours in the enveloping blackness. Then, the lights flickered back to life. The altar was empty. Anaya had vanished. The bride was nowhere to be seen. A sudden uproar erupted. Voices clamored over each other, thick with confusion and suspicion. “Where is the bride?” a man’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and accusatory. “Did she run away?” another speculated nervously, eyes darting around. A woman whispered to her neighbour, “I heard she was never happy with this marriage. She might have planned this all along.” Lies and half-truths spilled freely among the guests, like poison in a well. The symphony of chatter grew louder, a rising storm of gossip and judgment. Among the crowd, four figures stood apart, their faces unreadable as they watched the chaos unfold. Their dark eyes glimmered with knowing amusement, their lips curling into faint, almost cruel smirks. Yet, if anyone had looked closely, they would have seen a flicker of sharp irritation in those smiles, directed at those who spread rumors without truth. They exchanged glances, silently acknowledging that these wild accusations missed the mark entirely. One was a tall man dressed in sleek black attire, his jaw clenched beneath dark stubble. Beside him, a woman wore a deep emerald saree, her posture regal but tense, eyes narrowing as she surveyed the crowd. The others, a younger man and woman, clad in rich jewel-toned garments, appeared equally composed yet alert—ready for what might follow this explosive interruption. The room was charged with electricity, the delicate balance of celebration shattered by an unexpected rebellion. The groom’s face hardened as he scanned the empty space where Anaya had been moments before. His measured calm slipped, replaced by raw shock and a rising fury. “Who would do such a thing?” he demanded, voice echoing. Voices rose again in argument, the once orderly gathering now chaotic. Yet amidst the storm of speculation, those four mysterious figures exchanged a knowing look. They had witnessed the truth behind the bride’s vanishing act—though none of the guests had a clue about what had truly transpired in the stolen minutes of darkness. The prologue closed on this tableau of confusion and tension—leaving the unanswered question hanging in the air like a stormcloud ready to burst: What drove Anaya to flee her wedding, and what consequences would that choice bring in its wake?