Till I Do Us Part

Prologue

Six years ago
School Graduation Night

Anya

Fireworks bloom outside the dorm window, painting the walls in bursts of silver and gold, but their light can't touch the shadows gathering inside me.

My chest heaves against the pillow, each breath shallow and desperate, like I’m trying to outrun betrayal itself. Everyone else is at the party celebrating the last day of school, and I'm hiding under this bed, wishing I were dead.

His name burns at the back of my throat. Don't go there.

But the memory replays anyway: the soft curve of his smile, the warmth of his hand against mine, the moment our lips met. It felt tender. Real. Pure.

It was all a lie.

I should have known better. Instead, I let him humiliate me. I let him in. I tricked myself into seeing something in him that was never real. The betrayal feels sharp and acidic, burning through me like poison.

From under the bed, I spot the folder on my desk. In it, Zayed's handwriting sprawls across pages of poems he gave me, his soul supposedly laid bare.

If you could see yourself as I do

You would see the little things that make you- you

I close my eyes. All those hollow words. I slither out from under my bed, like a wounded animal seeking dark water.

All of it was part of the act, wasn't it? The poems. The rooftop talks. Even that kiss—just a perfectly timed checkmate in the game I never knew I was playing.

Spike the drink, light the sky, kiss the girl.

My fingers tremble as I grab the folder. Lies. Every word. Every verse.

I hurl it toward the wall with all my strength. The slap of its impact is sharper than I expected. Pages drift to the floor in slow motion, like something coming undone.

My skin prickles. I feel hollow, foreign in my own body. My lips still sting.

Zayed Khan, I never want to see you again.

_________________________________________________________

Zayed

The pavement is slick with summer rain. Streetlights blur into neon smudges. Her voice won't stop echoing in my head.

"Zayed, you're cheap and disgusting."

That's all I was to her? After all these years? One kiss, and suddenly I'm beneath her. She looked at me like she regretted touching me the second it was over.

My jaw locks, teeth grinding like they might shatter. My mind is stuck in a loop, reaching for logic, but there's nothing to hold onto. Just fragments. Her eyes wide with shock. Her words laced with revulsion.

The thud of bass from the party ahead calls to me. Maybe if I drink enough, I can forget the look on her face. I walk faster. Lights blur. My breath turns ragged.

Then a voice cuts through the night.

"Hey, buddy. So? Tell us what happened."

Varun.

He’s standing at the edge of the lawn, drink in hand, posture loose with that smug, performative casualness that always masked something meaner. His grin is too wide, his eyes too alert, scanning my face like he’s waiting to see it crumble. There’s a taunt in his tone, a mock-concern that makes every word sound like a dare.

My body reacts before my brain does.My fist flies.

Contact. Crack. Gasps ripple through the crowd.

I don't wait. I run past the drunk couples, past the stupid fairy lights, toward my room.

The fireworks I'd planned for tonight are going off without me—bursts of red and gold in the sky. I don't even look. I'm packing in a frenzy. Shirt. Notebook. I race to the terrace to get Asterix and Obelix.

"You, me, our two cats. We're like a little family."

Her voice from a different past echoes in my ear, my reality blurring for a few seconds.

No. I shake my head clear of those memories. I'm done. I've been trapped in this boarding school for too long. I scale the wall before I can change my mind.

I’m done with this place. I'm done with being told what to do.

I'm done with you, Anya Arora.

_____________________________________________________________

You came with a storm in your soul, but what will you say to the winds that roll?
These skies do not answer to your name
They'll carry something from you, all the same.

Chapter 1: Six Years Later
Manhattan, NY

Zayed

Once again, I wake up in a cold sweat to a room full of strangers.

Where the fuck am I?

I blink, my vision adjusting to the dim light, the lingering haze of alcohol and exhaustion pressing against my skull. My penthouse. Upper East Side. Manhattan. Home. For now. I sit up slowly, my fingers grazing the leather couch. A burnt cigarette mark meets my touch, a phantom of last night’s recklessness.

The floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city. Shimmering, alive, indifferent. I should get up. Move. Do something. A rush of unwanted memory floods my mind.

"Maybe you were born to make me suffer. Maybe that’s the only kind of love I deserve, Zayed."

My mother’s voice. Feather-light, yet crushing. The kind of wound that doesn’t bleed but never heals.

A gunshot in my ear. The phone dead.

I gasp, and the sound of my own breath is foreign. The dial tone echoes, looping in my skull, dragging behind it a trail of self-inflicted destruction. I drowned in whiskey and wagers, burning everything until I felt nothing.

I force my mind to focus. The nausea ebbs, but the unease lingers. A shape moves at the edge of my vision.

"Zayed, that was unacceptable.” Sam's voice is calm but there’s a warning in it. His eyes search me, sifting through the wreckage of the night. His hands press into the couch, closing the space between us.

Sam exhales. “Do you even remember the last thirty minutes?” He crouches, searching under the couch.

He straightens, holding something up. A knife. I'm looking at it, but it means nothing.

“The knife game, Zayed? Who the hell thought that was a good idea?” He shakes his head, muttering. “You could’ve lost a damn thumb.”

I stare back. Sam rubs his temples, sighing. “You’re reckless. Keep this up, and you’ll end up dead.”

The words should hit harder. They don’t. I get up and make my way to the balcony.

"I don't think you'll be doing anything stupid, at least not today," he says, following me, gives me a light pat. "I'm heading home. I'm going to let Liv know you're alive. She's an amazing girlfriend. Hold on to her."

I scoff. He's taken on this big-brother role I never asked for. It's annoying. It's also something I don't entirely hate.

His eyes adjust to the brightness. He glances at me, then at the skyline, a smirk playing at his lips.

"Damn, look at that view." After a beat, his gaze sharpens, smirk widening into a laugh. "Mafia boss? Secret billionaire?"

I laugh “Cult leader, not mafia boss” . My own laugh hits my ears somewhere between a joke and jab.

The answer? It’s been following me like a shadow my whole life. I was born out of wedlock into a dynasty that would sooner rewrite bloodlines than admit scandal. Raised amid the wealth and power of Indian royalty, I wore the crest, spoke the tongue, lived the legacy—yet never truly belonged.

My mother loves me, of that I'm certain, but in her world, love is a distant star: shiny but always out of reach.

Now I'm here, chasing a ghost. My father—a man whose name has been hidden from me my whole life. All I have from him is silence, handed down like an inheritance.

I take another drag, letting the smoke settle in my lungs. Then, without a word, I stub out my cigarette and step inside.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Anya

I sit cross-legged on the floor of my cramped New York studio, barricaded by towers of neglected laundry. Sweat trickles down my temples in the oppressive June heat, my skin sticky against the wooden floor. The broken AC rattles uselessly, circulating nothing but the stale scent of yesterday's cumin-laced takeout. Between my job at Brightstar Financials, my volunteer work, and tutoring my VP Charles’s daughter, I barely have a moment to myself.

Household chores? Collateral damage.

I lean back against the wall, closing my eyes. The silence stretches, but my thoughts refuse to quiet.

In India, life never felt this transactional. Laundry, groceries, and meals were never an afterthought, never a chore that competed with survival.

Every time I go back to India, I wonder if I should stay. If I should build a life there instead.

And yet, every time, I return.

New York pulls me back. I belong to both worlds and neither.
My phone buzzes.

Papa.

A small smile tugs at my lips. It’s like he knew I was thinking about home. I answer, and his warm, familiar voice fills the space.

"Isn’t it late in India? Why are you still awake?"

"It’s only twelve!" He chuckles, lighthearted as always. "Big meeting tomorrow, right? Best of luck! But… isn’t it Sunday?"

I glance at the clock and shove the rest of my laundry into a drawer.

"Did you take your medicine?" I ask, standing up.

Papa laughs. "How did this turn back on me?" He exhales, then casually slips in the inevitable: "I’m just waiting for the day you get married and torture your husband instead."

I roll my eyes. This is classic Papa, dropping marriage into every conversation like it’s an Olympic sport.

I check the time. I need to leave soon. I’m meeting Pooja for lunch, and I refuse to be late—even if she inevitably will be.

“It’s not a meeting,” I clarify, slinging my purse over my shoulder. “I’m tutoring Sara Torquato’s sixteen-year-old son, Owen, for the summer and maybe helping her influencer daughter, Liv, with a few things on the side. My VP referred me.”

"Oh?" His voice is only half-focused. I can hear the faint rustling, his pill bottle. He’s fidgeting. He’s forgotten to take his medicine again.

I resist the urge to scold him.

"She’s on the board of Birch Hill," I explain, pulling a clean dress from the drawer. "It’s the top private equity firm. Once you’re in, you’re set for life. If I impress her, I’ll ask for a referral."

Papa exhales. "Beta, if only life were that simple."

A familiar ache presses against my ribs. I say nothing.

Papa is the kind of father every daughter dreams of . He is kind, encouraging, the one who makes you feel like you can conquer the world but he is also careless, impulsive, and hopelessly impractical. A man who gave his salary to his mother instead of securing a future for his daughter. A man who never owned a home, never built savings, never worried about what came next.

Ma used to whisper about unpaid hospital bills. She lived with cancer for two years but worried more about the money than her health. When she died, at age eleven, Papa sent me to boarding school, not because he wanted to but because he had no choice. He had to travel for work constantly; it’s not like he could quit. We had very little in our name.

That’s the difference between us. Papa talks about dreams and possibilities. I calculate mortgage rates, savings, and the number of years it will take me to buy him a house he can call his own.

Pooja’s calling.

I glance at the time. I was supposed to leave ten minutes ago. She’s always late. Eleven years of friendship, and I’ve learned not to complain. Still, I don’t like keeping anyone waiting.

"Papa, I have to go. Get some rest, okay?"

"Fine, fine," he says, exaggeratedly defeated. "Call me after your meeting, tutoring, whatever."

I smile, shaking my head.

As I hang up, I take a slow breath, letting my head fall back against the wall.

I don’t let myself wonder. Don’t let myself think about the life that might have been different if Ma were still here.

That’s not who I am. Not anymore.

__________________________________________

Zayed

"Take it off."

Liv's voice is a command, edged with anticipation. We've played this game before, but the surge of adrenaline still hits—sharp and electric.

Usually, this happens at my place, but thanks to some drunk idiot who thought it'd be fun to throw a firecracker down my kitchen sink, my apartment is now a construction zone. No living room, no privacy, no chance.

Liv's parents are out at lunch, and she's cleared the house—sent the help away, made sure her brother isn't lurking. Her Central Park home is a far better setting than my glass-walled apartment anyway. I hate looking out at skyscrapers. They feel like dystopian nightmares of steel and glass. Sometimes, I imagine jumping off one.

Zayed. Stay present.

She kisses me, her lips brushing mine as she whispers, "Do you love me?"

I hesitate. Not because I'm unsure, but because I don't even know what that question means.

The sex is good, that should be enough, right? She must mean something to me—this is the longest I've been with anyone. That has to count for something. But love? Love is foreign terrain.

I don't say any of this. I know it's not the answer she wants. Instead, I unbutton my shirt and leave the question hanging in the air.

She likes this part, that much I know. I grip her jaw, tilting her head up. "Your turn." My voice is lower, rougher. She smiles, tilting her chin in mock defiance letting me kiss her, slow and deep.

We've done this before—the dance, the teasing, the little rituals before we finally end up on the bed, the countertop, the sofa.

"By the way, I told Mom you're coming to the gala this year," Liv says, dragging her nails lightly down my chest. "Try not to wear those broody poet boots. We're not doing 'damaged artist' this season."

Where did this come from?

Her fingers pause. "Zayed," she says again, softer. "I'm serious. People talk. We have an image to keep."

The room suddenly feels too bright, too open. I feel like I’m living out a scene from a movie, a moment from someone else's life.

Then—

A sound nearby.

It’s notLiv.

My head snaps up at the flicker of movement by the doorway.

And then I see her.

Anya.

I forget how to breathe.

She's frozen, but her dark eyes lock onto mine, and in that instant, something inside me fractures.

Shock. Anger. Hate.

It's all there, written in the hard lines of her face, in the way her fingers dig into her arms like she's holding herself back. My throat goes dry.

Everything around me disappears and for a moment, it’s just her. Just us.

Then, her expression shifts. Cold. Blank.

Like I don't exist.

Like she wishes I never had.

The moment stretches unbearably, a second dragging on for eternity.

Liv gasps, scrambling for her dress, her voice slicing through the silence like a razor. "Owen! What the hell are you doing here?"

I barely hear her because I can't stop looking at Anya. Her hair is longer now, her body different—sharper in some places, softer in others. But her eyes?

Her eyes haven't changed. They still burn. Still see too much. And right now, they're looking right through me.

She still hates me. Her expression is a blade, cutting through the years like they were nothing. I want to say something, anything, but my mind is blank.

Why is she here?

"I thought you were at the library," Liv snaps. "I told you to get out of here"

"I'm not sitting in some gross library," Owen shoots back.

"Oh my God, you're so spoiled!"

My hands fumble for my jeans at the foot of the counter. My shirt is still missing. I fight the urge to look at Anya.

Fuck it.

I exhale sharply, cutting through Owen's scolding. "Hey, buddy. Relax. She's your older sister."

Then, turning to Anya, I extend my hand, firm and professional.

"Zayed."

I say it like it's nothing, like we're strangers.

I don't know why I do it. Maybe I thought I'd never see her again. Maybe I wanted to pretend we were nothing, that six years was enough to erase us.

Her face is blank, but her voice is ice.

"I know who you are."

Of course she does.

I feel stupid for this whole act. I should've handled this differently. But I'm in too deep now.

Liv eyes us both. "Wait a minute," her brows knit together.

Anya's lips part. For a second, I think she's going to say my name.

I don't let her.

I clap my hands together, my voice far too loud.

"Yes! Lawrence. Anya Arora! What a small world!"

Why the hell did I just sing that? Cool down, Zayed.

Anya looks at me like I'm a cockroach that crawled out from under a rock. She's still the same. Still so self-righteous.

Zayed, it's been six years. Let it go.

Anger bubbles up, unexpected and unwelcome. Maybe I'm glad I chose this path. Maybe I'd rather forget she exists.

"You two know each other?" Liv's curious and I know exactly why. She’s not the insecure type, she’s bright, gorgeous and she knows it. But she’s never met anyone from my past, and just my luck it's Anya.

Anya stays silent, so Liv turns to me. I shrug. Stick to the narrative. Play dumb. "She's the tutor Mom hired," Owen mutters, unimpressed. Then he snorts, adding, "Dude, maybe put on a shirt."

I finally spot my navy polo and yank it over my head, but the absurdity of it all is starting to sink in. Anya Arora, here, now, walking in on me with my girlfriend. The whole thing is so bizarre, so ridiculous, I almost laugh.

"I don't care about that," Liv says, her voice suddenly playful. "How do you know Zayed?"

I study Anya's face as she carefully schools her expression. She's always been good at that.

"We went to the same boarding school in India," she says flatly. "Everyone knew him there."

Liv's eyes widen, excitement lighting up her face. "Someone from your past." She moves closer, resting a hand on my arm. "Mr. Khan. I might finally learn something about you."

She turns back to Anya, eyes gleaming. "Were you two friends?"

The moment hangs in the air between us but Anya doesn't hesitate.

"No."

The word lands like a slap. Whatever amusement I had a second ago? Gone.