[SCENE — 1]
"When will you get married?" Meher asks, her tone light — the kind of casual that always carries a trap inside it.
The shift is instant.
Her expression doesn't just turn serious — it closes. Like a door that was never really open to begin with.
The warmth drains from her face so completely, so efficiently, that Meher's smile dies before it even knows why.
"No, Never."
Two words. No explanation. The kind of final that doesn't leave room for negotiation.
But Meher — to her credit, or her misfortune — has never known when to stop.
"You mean I'll never get to see my best friend's married life?" she asks, genuine confusion folding across her face.
"And why would you want to see my married life?" she shoots back, one brow lifting — not a question, a verdict.
"Why not?" Meher's grin turns sly, the particular cunning of someone who knows exactly which buttons exist and has decided to press every single one. "I want to spoil my best friend's kids too—"
But she doesn't finish.
The syringe moves before the sentence does.
It doesn't appear dramatically — there's no flourish, no warning. One moment Meher is grinning. The next, cold metal is resting against the side of her neck — not pressing, not yet — just there. Present. Patient. The way a threat is most effective when it doesn't need to announce itself.
Meher goes completely still.
The smile is gone. Her lower lip does something involuntary. Her eyes squeeze shut — not out of pain but out of the very specific terror of not knowing what comes next.
"Hey — what are you doing?!" Her voice comes out smaller than she intends. "Why are you threatening me with your medical equipment?! You're not supposed to use those to hurt anyone, okay?!"
She leans in slowly.
The syringe doesn't move. Neither does her expression.
She brings her lips close to Meher's ear — close enough that when she speaks, it doesn't sound so much as sensation.
"Not anyone..." A pause, perfectly timed. "...just my innocent best friend."
A dangerous wink.
One smooth step back.
And then she simply watches — unhurried, almost fond — as Meher opens her eyes and finds her standing there with a smirk that has absolutely no business being that calm.
"Look at me." Her voice is easy now, the threat folded away as effortlessly as it had appeared. "You know me too well. Don't mess with me next time, okay?"
Meher exhales like she's been underwater.
"Sali, b*tch! You scared me, yaar!" she manages, one hand pressed flat to her own chest as if physically checking that her heart is still in the right place.
The smirk softens — barely. Just enough.
Then her gaze drifts.
Away from Meher. Away from the room. Out toward the window, where the sky sits grey and completely indifferent to the two of them.
"You know me, Meher." Her voice has changed — the sharpness still there, but underneath it now, something older. Something she doesn't look at directly. "I don't believe in love. That day will never come when I fall for anyone. There's no such thing as love in this selfish and cunning world."
Meher watches her face the way she always does when she says things like this — searching for the crack, the one place where the armour isn't quite flush against the skin.
She finds nothing. She never does.
"And what if you do fall for someone?" Meher asks quietly.
Something moves across her face.
There — and then gone. So fast it could almost be imagined.
Then the smile comes. Slow. Deliberate. The kind that lives only on the lips and never quite makes it to the eyes — because it was never meant to.
"I won't fall for anyone, baby." Her voice is almost gentle — the way a blade is almost harmless when it isn't moving yet. "I'll get obsessed — the kind of madness no one has ever felt. I'll break every boundary to make him mine..."
A beat.
"...whether he wants it or not." The words settle into the room like something that has always been true — quiet, certain, a little terrifying.
Meher says nothing.
Outside, the sky doesn't move.
And she keeps looking at it — that slow, unreadable smile still resting on her lips, like she is already some
where else entirely. Like she is thinking about something the rest of the world hasn't caught up to yet.
[Scene — 2]
The bedroom is warm — the kind of warm that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the decades of love pressed into its walls.
Her eyes find him the moment he steps through the door.
They always do.
"Ansh," she says. Just his name. Soft. The way only she says it — like it belongs to her, because it does.
He crosses the room and sits beside her. Takes her hand in both of his — careful, the way he is careful with very few things in this world.
"Theek ho jaogi aap," he says. Firm. The way he says everything — like reality has no choice but to comply.
(you will be fine)
Her smile doesn't waver.
"Main jaanti hoon." She reaches up and cups his face — unhurried, certain, the gesture of someone who has been doing this since he was small enough to carry. "Par meri ek last wish hai."
( I know )( But I have one last wish.)
His jaw tightens. Almost imperceptibly.
"Ansh — apni Dadi maa ki ek last wish poori karoge?"
(Ansh – Will you fulfill one last wish of your grandmother?)
He doesn't answer immediately.
And in that silence — something happens that no one in the room sees.
A fraction of a second. Maybe less.
His eyes lose their focus — not much, not visibly — just enough. A door opening somewhere deep inside before he can stop it. A face. A moment. Something warm that he had deliberately, carefully, walked away from.
'She deserves better than what I am.' The thought closes the door before it finishes opening.
His gaze sharpens again.
Across the room — beside Dadi's bed — A Doctor stands reviewing notes, white coat, unhurried. His eyes move there. Just once. Just for a second — barely even that — before returning.
"Kya chahiye aapko?" he asks quietly.
(What do you want)
"Apne Ansh ki dulhan dekhni hai mujhe." Her thumb moves to the corner of his eye — where nothing has fallen, but something has gathered. She wipes it away before it can. "Mere jaane se pehle." The word jaane lands somewhere between his ribs.
(I want to see my Ansh's bride.)(Before I leave.)
He doesn't flinch. He never does.
He lowers his head into her lap — slowly, without a word — the way he has since he was a boy. The way he only ever does here, in this room, with her.
Her fingers move through his hair. Slow. Steady.
"Theek hai." His voice is low. Almost inaudible. "Shaadi kar lunga, Dadi maa."
(Okay. I will get married, Grandma.)
"Par promise karo — medicines time pe logi. Aur mujhe aapka khayal rakhne dogi." Her chest rises — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.
(But promise me – take your medicines on time. And I'll have to take care of you.)
Something softer than both.
"Thank you, Ansh." Barely a whisper now. "Itni badi khushi di hai tune aaj mujhe."
(You have given me so much happiness today.)
A pause.
Then — because she has always known how to find light in the heaviest rooms — "Ab dekh — kisi ko bhi nahi lagega ki main bimaar hoon... ya mera ek pair kabar mein hai."
She laughs. Soft. Delighted. Entirely herself.
(Now look—no one will think I'm sick... or that I have one foot in the grave.)
And he laughs too — small, quiet, real. The sound of someone choosing, just for this moment, to let the pain wait outside.
His eyes close. Her fingers don't stop.
And in the warm jasmine-scented quiet — the most feared man in the city simply breathes.
[Scene —3]
"Are you out of your damn mind, Aayansh?!" His hand comes down on the desk — sharp, frustrated — the particular energy of someone who has been holding this in for days and has finally run out of patience for holding.
"You don't even know her! At least meet her once — she's going to be your wife! You'll spend your whole fucking life with her!"
The man behind the desk doesn't look up immediately.
He finishes what he is reading. Set it aside. Then — slowly, with the particular calm of someone who has already decided how this conversation ends — he looks up.
"I don't care — who she is." Three words. Quiet. The kind of quiet that has teeth.
Sarthak opens his mouth — And doesn't get the chance to use it.
The movement is fast — not rushed, never rushed — just decisive. Fingers close around his collar. The wall meets his back before he fully registers that he is moving.
Aayansh's grip doesn't tighten further — it doesn't need to. The point has already been made.
"I'll never accept her as someone I love." His voice is low. Controlled. The kind of control that is far more dangerous than shouting. "I'm fulfilling Dadi maa's wish. That's all this is."
"Aayansh—"
"Don't." The single word lands like a door slamming.
"Don't mess with my personal life." His grip shifts — just slightly — lifting. "I handle my own decisions. I don't need guidance. Are we clear?"
Sarthak says nothing. Wisely.
"Get out."
He releases him — not violently, just finally — and steps back.
Sarthak stumbles, one hand catching the edge of the desk, coughing — gathering both his breath and what remains of his dignity.
Aayansh stands still.
Chest rising. Falling. The only visible evidence that anything happened at all.
Ten seconds pass.
Then — without a word, without looking at him — he moves to the bar cart. Pour a glass of water. Turns.
Hold it out.
Sarthak stares at it. Then at him. Then back at it — the way one stares at something that shouldn't exist but clearly does.
He takes it. Drink it in one go. Falls back onto the couch and closes his eyes.
The cabin settles into silence.
Outside, the city continues — unbothered, unaware.
"Main aaj shaam milta hoon usse."
(I'll meet her this evening.)
Sarthak's eyes open abruptly but he doesn't move for exactly one second — processing — and then he is across the room.
The hug lands with the full force of someone who is half laughing, half crying, and entirely undignified about both.
"Saale ch*tiye! Bsdk! Tere liye mujhe apni tervi karwani padti kya???, bkl!!!"
A sound escapes him — quiet, brief, real.
(Do I have to get my thirteenth day done for you???)
His hand comes up and pats Sarthak's back. Once. Twice.
And for just a moment — in the quiet of his cabin, with the city small and distant below — the sovereign of the Dark Realm simply smiles at his best friend 's selfishness.
[Scene — 4]
The cup in front of her went cold an hour ago.
She hasn't touched it since.
Her eyes stay fixed on the entrance — not hopefully anymore, just out of habit. The particular stubbornness of someone who has decided to wait and refuses to let the waiting mean anything.
Her phone buzzes.
"Toh call kar, dumbo! Kis ka intezaar kar rahi hai?" Her best friend 's voice crackles through — bright, teasing, entirely unbothered — followed immediately by the click of a hung-up call.
(Call him, Dumbo! What are you waiting for?)
"Badtameez," she exhales — equal parts fond and irritated — and stares at the screen for a moment.
( ill mannered)
Then she dials.
One ring. Two. Three. Click.
A voice fills the line.
Deep. Unhurried. The kind of voice that doesn't need volume to fill a room — or, apparently, to make her breath catch without permission.
She hates that it does that.
"H-hello..." The stammer is small. Barely there. She clears it immediately. "I've been waiting for you."
"Oh. You." Two words. Calm. Distant. The particular distance of someone who has already decided where this conversation is going before it begins.
Something tightens in her chest. She ignores it. "Actually, something urgent came up." A pause — not uncomfortable for him, clearly.
"Listen. I need to be honest with you."
She sits very still.
"I'm only doing this marriage because of my Dadi maa."
The coffee shop noise continues around her — cups clinking, low conversations, the hiss of the coffee machine. She hears none of it.
"I already have feelings for someone else." Her jaw tightens. Just slightly. Just enough.
"But she deserves better."
Something moves across her face — there, and then gone. The particular stillness of someone who has just heard something that hit somewhere specific and has decided, in real time, not to let it show.
So that's what you think.
"So please — don't expect anything from me in this relationship. You won't get love. Only respect and responsibility. We'll maintain appearances if needed but—" another pause "—honestly, this marriage will only be a burden for you."
The cup in front of her sits cold and untouched.
Outside, a cloud moves across the sun.
"If you want to cancel — go ahead. I won't stop you. It's your choice."
The line goes dead before she can find a single word.
She sits with the phone in her hand — screen blank, café noise suddenly too present, the chair beneath her suddenly too small for everything sitting in her chest right now.
Hurt. Yes. Anger. Also yes.
And underneath both — something that feels dangerously like a decision forming. Quiet. Certain. The kind that doesn't announce itself.
Her jaw sets.
Her eyes — cold, dry, unreadable — drop to the dead screen one more time.
Then she sets the phone face-down on the table.
Pick up the cold cup.
Take a sip — unbothered, unhurried — like a woman who has already decided that this conversation changed absolutely nothing.
And absolutely everything.
[Scene — 5]
Later — in the brief quiet of a corridor, away from the noise — he hears her before he sees her.
Her voice is barely above breath. Like she is pouring something out that has been sitting too heavy for too long.
"Vo kahnde zeher vekh ke pita, te ki pita..."
He stills.
"Ishq soch ke kitta, te ki kitta..."
"Dil de ke, dil len ki aas rakhi ve buliya..."
Her voice doesn't waver. It doesn't break. It just — carries — the particular weight of someone who is not crying but has found the only other way to let something out.
"Pyaar vich lalach naal kitta, te ki kitta."
Silence.
He stays where he is for one long moment — jaw tight, eyes forward, the words settling into him whether he wants them to or not.
Then he walks away. But says nothing.
And pretends — the way he pretends everything — that he hears absolutely nothing at all.
[Scene — 6]
She is reading — what she is reading — with the same expression she probably uses when reviewing brain scans.
'This cannot be real ' He thinks
He leans slightly — just enough to confirm what he already knows he is seeing — and yes. Yes it is exactly what he thinks it is.
How???
He reaches over and takes the phone from her hands in one smooth motion.
She gasps — sharp, indignant — "Ye kya—"
(What th—)
He is already reading. Standing now, putting distance between them, scrolling with the focused attention of someone conducting a very serious investigation.
The more he reads, the more something pulls at the corner of his mouth.
He looks up. Then the phone screen and again at her.
Her face is still serious — now directed at him instead of the screen — brows slightly furrowed, waiting for an explanation, entirely unaware of how thoroughly she has just destroyed his composure.
He looks at her.
Really looks — that steady, unreadable gaze moving across her face, finding nothing there that matches what was on that screen.
Not a trace. Not a hint.
That she was reading this. I mean this.
With that face.
Holy shitttt.
He is going to say something but Stop immediately, let's do some fun like something clicks in his mind.
The smirk doesn't appear on his face — it stays just beneath the surface, invisible, carefully managed.
"Mujhe laga tha tum lesbian ho," he says.
Evenly. Casually. The way one states a simple observation about the weather.
But the effect is immediate.
Her eyes go wide — the first genuinely unguarded thing her face has done since he walked in. She stares at him for exactly two seconds — processing — and then moves closer, closing the distance between them with the particular energy of someone who has decided this expression is going to crack if she gets close enough.
"What the hell — how could you even think that?!" But he looks at her.
Steady. Unreadable. The smirk buried so deep it exists only in the slight tension at the corner of his mouth — the one place he cannot fully control.
She is close now — close enough that she would notice, if she were paying attention to anything other than making his face betray itself.
"Nhi ho ky???" He asks innocently, hiding his cruel intentions from her.
(You aren't???)
[Scene — 7]
He leaves the room without a word.
She watches him go — arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Why does he need to come that close to me," she whispers, eyes still on the door.
A scoff. Hands settling on her hips.
"He should just—" The thought finishes itself.
She stills.
"—fuck me without touching me."
A beat of complete silence. Her hand meets her face.
She stands there — palm pressed flat against her forehead — staring at nothing, taking a quiet inventory of what just happened inside her head.
Then, drifting — low, almost thoughtful — "There should be a way for men to just — do that — at a distance. Didn't it???"
The words settle in the empty room.
Her face falls.Slowly. Completely.
The face of a woman who had a plan — no effect, completely manageable, casual — and has just realised, in real time, that the plan was wrong.
He had simply walked toward her.
That was all.
And that had been enough for her to lose , lose something she didn't know she had.
[Scene — 8]
" Tumhari himmat bhi kaise hui." Her voice comes out loud — louder than she intended, louder than she has been in a long time — raw at the edges in a way she cannot smooth over fast enough.
("How did you even dare.")
"Meri life ka faisla lene ki — wo bhi meri izzat ke bagair."
(Making a decision about my life — and that too without my respect.)
He turns.
Not slowly. Not dramatically. Just — immediately. His head snaps toward her with the particular sharpness of someone who was not expecting that specific thing to be said in that specific tone.
He looks at her. Really looks — the way he does when he is reading something, calculating something, deciding something.
"Maine tumhari life ka nahi," he says, his voice dropping to that register that lives just below calm — quiet, precise, the kind that doesn't need volume to land, "apni life ka faisla liya tha."
(I had made a decision about my life, not yours)
She stares at him.
The words sit between them — and she hears them, she understands them — but understanding and accepting are two entirely different rooms and right now she cannot find the door between them.
Because what she feels is not confusion.
What she feels is betrayal — the specific, devastating kind that comes not from a stranger but from someone who knew. Who knew, and said nothing. Who felt something, and chose silence. Who walked into this marriage with his eyes open while she —
"Aahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh " The scream comes from somewhere she didn't know and still had that much in it.
It tears out of her — not pretty, not controlled — just out. Raw and total and completely beyond managing. The sound of something that has been pressed down too long finally finds the one crack it needs.
Her hands shake. Her chest heaves.
Her eyes — dry, always dry — burn with something that has nowhere to go.
She wants to break something. She wants to feel light. She wants to cry — God, she wants to — but her body has forgotten that particular release and so instead everything just stays, building and building with nowhere to go.
She hates him.
She has told herself that since the beginning — I hate this man — and she has believed it, she has needed to believe it.
But hate, real hate, doesn't feel like this.
It doesn't feel like something is being taken from you.
It doesn't feel like loss.
The silence after the scream is worse than the scream itself.
_____________________
✨ AUTHOR'S NOTE ✨
"Hey Sinners😈(Ruhanshis🫶🏻) " if you are here for read my novel then main tumhara tahe dil se welcome krti hu .💐
Thank you so much iss book ko ek chance dene ke liye.🫶🥹😭
Chapter me milte h 💕🥹🥳...
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