Author's POV:

The slam of the car door echoed like a gunshot in the still night. Shakthi marched up the stairs to his home, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His fingers twitched involuntarily as flashes of the earlier encounter with Viyaan tormented him. That boy—no, that arrogant brat—had the audacity to pretend to be some virtuous artist in front of the whole world. But Shakthi had seen past the carefully crafted mask. Behind that calm, sweet smile was the same boy who carved a sculpture of his wife. His wife.