Prologue
Six years ago
School Graduation Party Night
Anya
Fireworks bloom through the dorm window, painting the walls in bursts of silver and gold, but the light can’t touch the shadows gathering inside me. My chest heaves against the pillow, breath shallow, as if each gasp is trying to outrun the betrayal.
His name burns on the back of my throat.
No. Don’t go there.
The memory replays anyway: the soft curve of his smile, the warmth of his hand against mine, the moment our lips met. It had felt like something tender. Real and Pure.
It was all a lie. I should’ve fought back. Instead, I let him humiliate me. I let him win.
I let him in. I saw something in him that wasn’t even real. The betrayal is a physical thing—sharp, acidic, burning through me.
The folder catches my eye from under the bed—Zayed's handwriting, pages upon pages of poems he gave me. His soul laid bare.
I pick it up, fingers trembling. Lies. Every word. Every verse.
The slap of it hitting the wall is louder than I expect. Pages scatter like glass. Like trust, turned brittle and broken.
My skin prickles. My body is foreign, hollowed out. My lips sting.
Zayed Khan, I hope you die.
_______________________________
Zayed
The pavement is slick with summer rain. Streetlights streak into neon smudges. Her voice won’t stop.
"Zayed You’re cheap and disgusting."
I taste copper. My jaw locks. My teeth feel like they might shatter. My mind loops, reaching for logic, but there’s nothing to hold on to. Just fragments. Her eyes wide. Her words laced with revulsion.
What did I even do?
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: “Hey, buddy. So? Tell us?”
Varun.
My fist flies before my brain catches up. Contact. Crack. Gasps ripple.
I don’t wait. I run. Past the drunk couples. Past the stupid fairy lights. Toward my room. My escape.
The fireworks I’d planned for the night go off without me—bursts of red and gold in the sky. I don’t even look.
I’m packing in a hurry. Shirt. Notebook. I run to the terrace to get Astrix and Obelix.
“You, me our two cats. We are like a little family”
Her voice from a different past comes crawling into my ear- it’s all burry for a few seconds. What is this!
No. I’m Done.
I run. I scale the school wall before I can change my mind.
I’m done with Lawrence.
I’m done with 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
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.
Instead, I sit, staring at the girl swaying to music in the corner of the room. Her movements are fluid, almost hypnotic, but something in them shifts—hesitation, a delay in rhythm. 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. A ragged rasp that doesn’t belong to me. 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.
This place—this cycle—is familiar. Too familiar.
I force my mind to focus. The nausea ebbs, but the unease lingers, thick in my chest. A shape moves at the edge of my vision.
Sameer.
“Zayed, that was unacceptable.”
Calm voice. Steady. But there’s a warning in it. A verdict.
His eyes search me, sifting through the wreckage of the night. His hands press into the couch, closing the space between us.
Sameer’s leg brushes mine. Get away Dude.
The words don’t leave my mouth, but the feeling is visceral. I swallow it down. Hold still.
Sameer 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. Sameer 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, hand him the lighter, and make my way to the balcony.
Sameer follows me out, shielding his eyes from the sun.
“I don’t think you’ll be doing anything stupid—at least not today,” he says, giving me a light pat. “I’m heading home.”
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.” Then, after a beat—his gaze sharpens. “What does your dad do? What’s the big secret?” His smirk widens into a laugh. “Mafia Boss? Secret Billionaire? Is he Dawood Ibrahim ?”
The laugh lands somewhere between a joke and a jab.
How do you answer a question that should never be asked?
I was born out of wedlock into a dynasty that would sooner rewrite bloodlines than admit a 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 our world, love is a distant continent: admired, unreachable, and always just out of time.
Now I live in New York, chasing a ghost.
My father. A man without a name. Without a history. Only silence, handed down like inheritance.
I say nothing. Just take another drag of my cigarette, let the smoke settle in my lungs. Then, without a word, I stub it out in the ashtray 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—a ghost of home in this foreign space. 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, grabbing my purse. "I’m tutoring Sara Torquate’s son for the summer. Charles 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. Getting in is like getting into IIT—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 was that simple."
A familiar ache presses against my ribs.
I say nothing.
Papa is the kind of father every daughter dreams of—kind, encouraging, the one who makes you feel like you can conquer the world. 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 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 all-glass apartment anyway. I hate skyscrapers. They feel like dystopian nightmares of steel and glass—sometimes, I imagine jumping off one.
Zayed. Get back.
She kisses me, her lips brushing against 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.
She likes this part. I grip her jaw, tilt her head up. "Your turn." My voice is lower, rougher. She smiles, tilting her chin in mock defiance before I 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.
She stops me midway “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. Is this stuff always on her mind!
Her fingers pause. “Zayed,” she says again, softer. “I’m serious. People talk. We have an image to keep.”
What is she talking about! I’m just going to kiss her.
The room is too bright. Too open. The moment feels surreal, too cinematic—like something that belongs in someone else’s life.
Then—
A sound.
Not from Liv.
From nearby.
My head snaps up. A flicker of movement. A shadow by the doorway.
I forget how to breathe.
And then I see her.
Anya.
She’s frozen.
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. The room disappears.
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 thick—a second dragging into eternity.
Liv gasps, scrambling for her dress, 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 filled with nothing but hate.
It slams into me like a gut punch.
She still hates me.
Her expression is a blade, cutting through the years like they were nothing. Like I am nothing. I want to say something. Anything. But my throat is dry, and my mind is blank.
Anya blinks, her body rigid—like she’s about to scream. Or run.
I’m sweaty, breath unsteady, scrambling for my clothes. The dots on the marble floor seem to blur and shift.
Why is she here?
"I thought you were at the library," Liv snaps. "I told you to do that."
"I’m not sitting in some gross library," Owen shoots back.
"Oh my God, you’re so spoiled!"
They’re arguing now. But I don’t care.
My hands fumble for my jeans at the foot of the fridge. 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 say it like it’s nothing, like we’re strangers.
"Zayed."
I extend my hand—firm, professional. Detached.
I don’t know why I do it. I don’t know what I’m thinking. Maybe I thought I’d never see her again. Maybe I wanted to pretend we were nothing—that six year was enough to erase everything.
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, suspicion creeping into her features.
"Wait a minute—" Her brows knit together.
Anya’s lip’s 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 the fuck down, Zayed.
Anya looks at me like I’m a cockroach that crawled out from under a rock. She’s still the same. Still 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 sharp gaze darts between us.
Anya stays silent, so Liv turns to me. I shrug. Stick to the narrative. Play dumb. I don’t care.
"She’s the tutor Mom hired," Owen mutters, unimpressed. Then he snorts, adding, "Dude, maybe put on a shirt."
I yank my navy polo over my head, but the absurdity of it all is starting to sink in.
Anya Arora, here, now—walking in on me screwing 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?"
Okay. Let’s see how this plays out. 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 stretches, hanging on a thread. Anya doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t blink.
"No."
The word lands like a slap.
Flat. Unapologetic.
Something tightens in my chest.
Whatever amusement I had a second ago? Gone.
