Till I Do Us Part: Zayed & Anya
Prologue
Six years ago
School Graduation Party Night
Anya
The fireworks explode outside, illuminating the darkness of my dorm room, but inside me, everything is crumbling. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I bury my face in the pillow, muffling my heartbreak. A sharp, stabbing pain lances through my chest—like a fist tightening around my ribcage, squeezing every ounce of air from my lungs.
Why did he do this? How could he?
My mind loops like a film reel stuck on repeat—his eyes on mine, the warmth in his voice, the way his lips felt against mine. Were all of those just illusions? A cruel joke?
I clutch the pillow tighter. I should have fought back. I should have walked away with dignity. But I didn’t. I let him win.
Why did he do this to me? How could he?
My mind spirals, looping through the past like a film reel stuck on repeat. The way he looked at me, the warmth in his voice, the way his lips had felt against mine—were all of those just illusions? A cruel joke?
My chest tightens, my breath comes out ragged. I should have fought back. Instead, I let him humiliate me. I let him win.
The bile rises in my throat. My fingers clench the pillow, nails digging into the fabric as if holding on to something solid will stop the sinking feeling in my chest. I was a fool. A goddamn fool. I let him in, saw something in him that wasn’t even real. My stomach twists. The betrayal is a physical thing—sharp, acidic, burning through me.
My fingers tremble as I crawl out from under the bed, like a wet reptile, my body feeling as if it’s moving through water—heavy, slow, suffocating. I spot it. The folder. The one that holds every word he ever wrote, every piece of poetry he poured onto paper. It was his soul laid bare, and I had cherished every page.
Not anymore.
The folder sits there, mocking me. Every page, every line, every carefully written word—lies. My fingers tighten around the edges. Then— I hurl it across the room. The slap of paper against the wall is sharp, too sharp, pages scattering like broken promises. My chest rises and falls. But the pressure doesn’t ease. Nothing does.
Zayed Khan, I hope you die.
*******
Zayed
The world tilts under my feet. The streetlights blur into streaks, my breath coming in short, furious bursts. I keep walking—fast, hard, anywhere but here. But I can’t outrun the sound of her voice. It claws at the inside of my skull, sharp, relentless.
"You're cheap and disgusting, Zayed. You're a lowlife. Your mind's always in the gutter."
I can't unhear this. What is this!
My jaw is tight, my teeth feel like they might shatter. Her words keep looping in my head, relentless. A pressure cooker with no release. The streets blur as I walk faster, as if I can outrun the suffocation. What the fuck did I even do? I rack my brain, but nothing makes sense. Maybe I messed up—but not enough to deserve this. The weight of it presses against my skull. I need a distraction. Something to drown this out. The music thumping from the party ahead pulls me in, a temporary escape.
Her derogatory malicious words ring in my ear once again. I trusted her. Opened up. And she threw it all back in my face. Just like that. My anger rises. It devours me from the inside out. My skin feels hot and cold at the same time.
“Hey buddy. So. Tell us?” Varun makes his way to me. Varun’s voice is the final spark. The heat bursts outward, uncontrollable, unstoppable. My knuckles connect with his face before I even register throwing the punch. The satisfying crack of impact barely reaches my ears before the gasps and murmurs follow.
Eyes widen. People step back.
I don’t stay to watch. I can’t.
I turn and bolt, my vision tunneling, my heart hammering as I make my way back to my dorm. The fireworks I had planned to set off ignite in the distance, a riot of color against the dark sky. I barely see them.
I don’t even look back as I grab my backpack, shoving in whatever I can.
I feel sick. I’m going to throw up.
This is my last night!
I repeat it to myself and head towards the school wall. I’m done with school; I’m done with being told what to do.
I’m done with Anya Arora.
*****************************
Chapter 1: Six Years Later
Present Day
Zayed
Once again, I wake up in a cold sweat.
The penthouse is silent. The taste of last night—stale whiskey and regret—clings to my tongue. The city hums beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, shimmering and indifferent.
My fingers graze the leather couch. A burnt cigarette mark meets my touch—a ghost of last night’s recklessness. I exhale, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes. I need a shower. A distraction. Something to—
No.
I need to find him.
He’s here. Somewhere in this city. My father.
I have no name, no address, nothing but a scavenged whisper of information stolen from Sania’s secretary. My aunt would never forgive me if she knew what I was doing. She’d have me escorted back to India before I could blink, stripped of my freedom, locked away in the gilded prison of our name.
I have to find him before she finds out.
"Faithless. Monster Mix. Released in 1995. Popular in Germany."
I shake my head, trying to force the thought out. It slithers in, cold, useless trivia—facts, easier to process than emotion. Facts don’t haunt. Facts don’t remind me I am alone.
When did I pass out?
My stomach lurches as the room tilts. My vision stutters, flickering between shadow and light, past and present. And then—like a knife between the ribs—the memory hits.
A voice, soft but laced with something unbearable.
"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. A wound that doesn’t bleed but never heals. A gunshot in my ear.
The phone—dead.
I see the night looping behind it a trail of self-inflicted destruction. The countless texts to unknown faces. The forget-me-not drinks, one after another, burning away thought, blurring time. The reckless wagers—money thrown into a void; games played just to lose. The easily won bets, meaningless, hollow victories that mock me in the end.
This place—this cycle—is familiar. Too familiar.
The world is spinning, but I force my mind to focus. I have a purpose. I need to find him. He is here. He exists.
But the unease remains, thick in my chest. The party is over, the guests have left. And I am still here.
Still searching.
_______________________________________________________________________
Anya
The June heat presses in, thick and relentless. My broken AC hums uselessly, another item on my endless to-do list. I sit cross-legged on my apartment floor, sorting laundry that’s been piling up for weeks. My work at Brightstar Financials, volunteering at progress New York, tutoring my VP Charl’s daughter —everything takes priority over household chores. I hate chores.
I pull out my last clean t-shirt and sigh.
In India, I never had to think about things like this. No cleaning. No groceries. No eating cold sandwiches and drinking semi-hot coffee because I was too busy to cook a proper meal.
I’m not even a coffee person. I miss chai. Back in India, chai was the first thing I smelled in the morning. A bubbling pot, cardamom drifting through the air, Papa humming in the background. Here? I drink coffee I don’t even like. Too bitter. Too rushed. But who has time to brew chai?
I refuse to drink that chai-tea nonsense. No. I’m a Authentic -Dhaba- chai girl, now a forced convert who asks coffee shops to make my coffee extra hot just to feel something close to home. Every time I visit India; I wonder if I should move back permanently.
And every time, I stop myself.
I like the predictability of life here, the endless possibilities New York offers. The city’s energy is addictive—its crowded streets, the collision of cultures, the way it makes you believe that anything is within reach. It’s the perfect place for a finance professional.
Still, I know the truth. I’ll always feel like I belong to both worlds—and never fully to either. When I’m here, I miss India. When I’m in India, I miss this.
Papa calling.
It’s like he sensed I was missing him. For thirteen years, it’s just been him and me. Cancer took Ma when I was eleven. That same year, he sent me to boarding school. Despite the distance, we’ve always been close. I smile and pick up “Best of luck for your meeting tomorrow” he says
"It’s not a meeting," I clarify, grabbing my purse. "I’m tutoring Sara Torquate’s son for the summer"
"Why is this important?" he asks absentmindedly.
I sigh, searching through my pile of clothes for something clean and unwrinkled, I’ve told him this before "She’s on Birch Hill’s board. Getting in there? That’s a career-maker. Half of Blackstone’s executives started there. If I can make a good impression, I might just get a referral. And that? That changes everything.”
I finally find a dress that doesn’t need ironing. "They don’t even interview people without a referral. If I do well tutoring her son, I’ll ask her for one. Get into Birch Hill and —you’re set for life."
There’s a pause. Then, Papa exhales. "Beta, if only life were that simple."
I don’t reply. Papa is gentle, open, tender-hearted—the kind of father every daughter deserves. The kind who believes in you, supports your dreams, cheers you on but he’s worked the same job his entire life, made a series of bad investments, and given most of his salary to my grandmother. We don’t even own a house. That’s the difference between us.
Papa doesn’t plan. He trusts life to figure itself out. I can’t afford that luxury. I need to think ahead. Secure our future. Make sure we never feel the weight of uncertainty. Because he won’t. That’s not who he is. But it’s who I have to be.
I’ve known since I was a child—it’s on me to take care of us. I need to make enough money for both of us. I need to plan for our future, because he won’t. That’s not who he is.
I want to buy him a house, somewhere he can finally call his own. I want a future where no medical bill stops us from getting the best care. A future where we can walk into any store and pick up whatever we want—without checking the price tag first.
Pooja calling.
I sigh, checking the time. I was supposed to leave ten minutes ago.
"Papa, I have to go. I’m meeting Pooja for lunch. Go to bed now, okay?"
"Fine, fine," he says with exaggerated defeat. "Call me after your meeting—tutoring—whatever."
I smile as I hang up. And then, just for a moment, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I don’t let myself miss Ma or wonder about an alternate life - would things be different- if she was alive.
That’s not who I am. Not anymore.
*****
Zayed
“Take it off.” Liv’s voice is a command, and though we’ve played this game before, the surge of adrenaline is still there, 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 at lunch, and she’s cleared the house—sent the help away, made sure her brother isn’t lurking. From the second she texted, I was already half-hard, ready. Her Central Park home is a far better setting than my all-glass apartment anyway. I hate skyscrapers, feel like a dystopian nightmare of glass and steel —I keep having visions of jumping off one day - get back.
She kisses me, then whispers against my lips, “Do you love me?”
I hesitate. Not because I’m unsure of how I feel 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 territory.
I’ve had sex with strangers, the kind that leaves no imprint, no residue of meaning. It’s a different kind of high—purely physical, fleeting. But this? This is different. This is knowing someone’s body like a song, memorizing every shift, every sound. When there’s something beneath it, something real, your soul gets a piece of it too.
But 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. Her gaze follows my movements, her fingers sliding into my waistband, tugging me forward until my back is against the wide refrigerator.
It’s my turn now. 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. Today, she’s set her sights on the dining table. The room is too bright. Too open. The moment feels surreal, too cinematic, like something that belongs to 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. Her eyes lock onto mine, and the world tilts.
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 dries. The room disappears. It’s just her. Just us.
And 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. The air between us is charged, suffocating, full of something raw and unspoken.
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—more defined, all sharp edges softened. 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. But I can’t focus. The dots on the marble floor seem to blur and shift.
Why is she here? How?
“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 focus on fastening my belt, forcing myself to breathe evenly.
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 years 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, suspicious now.
“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, 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. Still judging me with those same condescending eyes.
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.
Maybe I want nothing to do with her.
“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.
This is statistically impossible. The whole thing is so bizarre, so ridiculous, I almost laugh. Anya, however, is still stiff as a board, face pale.
Liv doesn’t let it go.
“I don’t care about that,” she says, 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.
Then—
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.
********************
