1. INTRODUCTION

HELLO MY DEAR READERS , THIS IS THE FIRST CHAPTER OF MY BOOK . HOPE YOU'LL LIKE IT.

Please do tell me how the chapter is .

Let's begin our journey together.

   𐙚  HAPPY READING   𐙚    

AUTHOR'S POV

Somewhere in the heart of Mumbai, a girl sat cross-legged before a massive canvas, brush in hand, colors splattered around her like a chaotic sunrise. The clock on the wall glowed 4 a.m. — her only witness.

She wore nothing but an oversized shirt, soaked through with vibrant stains, her hair wrestled into a messy bun that had long since given up. Headphones pulsed against her ears, filling her head with the voice of the one singer she swore she despised — and yet his melody was the only thing that ever untangled the noise in her mind. A smudge of emerald sat forgotten on her cheek, catching the lamp's glow, turning her into a piece of art herself — beautiful, untamed, wrecked in the most glorious way.

When the painting was finally done, she stretched, feeling her spine ease out of hours of stillness, her fingers tingling faintly like they were waking up from a dream she'd poured onto canvas. She reached for her phone. 8 a.m. Morning light was already spilling gently through the windows.

Her mansion wrapped around her in soft pastels and quiet luxury — not too vast, not too modest, just exquisitely, expensively *hers*. As a celebrated artist the world knew only by whispers and rumors, never a face, this house was the one place she never had to perform. Sunlight pooled through every room. Her studio lived on the ground floor; her bedroom rested one floor above, like her art and her rest had agreed to never crowd each other.

She climbed the stairs, showered, and emerged fresh, hair damp, skin still warm — and was halfway out the bathroom door when her phone lit up with a video call.

She sank into the velvet chair at her dressing table, tilted the screen so her face came through clear and unguarded, and answered.

A boy and a girl filled the frame, already buckled into a car mid-road trip.

"Hey, baby girl! When are you coming? We've already started the journey!" the girl squealed, practically bouncing in her seat.

Roshni, still towel-drying her hair, leaned into the screen. "There's still a month and a half left. Why are you leaving *this* early?"

"Come on, Roshni, people love Goa. There's so much to do there, and we need the photoshoot too. We want the wedding perfect, so we're going early to actually enjoy it. We don't get to visit Goa every day," the boy said.

"But I can't join you this soon," she said. "I'm swamped. I still need to finish thirteen paintings."

"Roshni, yaar, please — tum aisa kaise bol sakti ho? Tumhare bina kaise chalega? This isn't right, yaar. Please come now."

Roshni sighed, and something in her chest loosened despite herself. "Theek hai. I'll try my best. But it'll take at least eight days."

"Ahaaa! That's my girl. I love you, baby!"

"I love you too, babe," she shot back.

The boy groaned loudly from the driver's seat. "Why do you two still make me feel like a third wheel after all these years?" He slumped, sulking.

"Because you've always *been* that," they said in unison — and the laughter that followed was the kind that only comes from years of practice.

Davan Singh and Shreya Mathur. Her people. The two who'd stayed when everyone else had learned how to leave.

They talked a while longer before the call ended. The second the screen went dark, Roshni's thumb moved on its own — checking for messages. There were none. A bitter smile tugged at her mouth.

More than a month since she'd walked out of her father's house, and he hadn't once tried to find out if she was even alive.

"Of course. Businessman. Busyman." She said it to the empty room, like saying it out loud made it hurt less. "Anyway. Don't waste your thoughts on him. Focus on what actually matters, Roshni."

She stood, took a breath, and let the day swallow the thought whole.

Meanwhile, at Mumbai airport, Ivaan Randhawa's flight from Turkey touched down.

His voice had crossed borders his passport never needed to — India, Russia, half of Asia had all fallen for it at some point. It moved like a balm over old wounds, mended things faster than medicine ever could. Funny, then, that the man who healed millions of strangers had never once let anyone close enough to touch the parts of him that still ached.

Guards flanked him as he cut through a wall of screaming fans and cameras, and by the time he slid into the backseat of his car, his eyes were already closing. The drive home was quiet. He let himself rest.

The moment he stepped through the door, he was moving before he'd even thought about it — straight into his mother's arms, holding her like the last few weeks abroad had been a held breath he could finally let go of. She kissed every inch of his face she could reach, laughing and scolding him in the same breath, the way only mothers can.

To the world, he was the international heartthrob, one of the finest voices alive. To her, he was still the boy who used to cry every time they were apart.

"This is peace," he murmured, eyes shut, forehead against hers. "I missed you so, so much, my beautiful mom."

"I missed you too, beta," Ridhima said, pulling him in again before letting him go.

He kissed her forehead, then her cheek. "My lovely mom."

They'd barely sat down when a voice came barreling through the front door.

"Ivaan yaar, you're back! I missed you so much!"

Sahil — his cousin, his oldest partner in chaos — crashed into a hug first, Raj close behind him, quieter, steadier, the kind of friend whose presence alone said everything he wasn't loud enough to say out loud.

"Welcome home, bro," Raj said, clapping him on the back.

They settled into the living room, Ivaan's head finding his mother's lap out of pure habit, and for a while they just talked — nothing, everything, the kind of aimless conversation that only works between people who've known each other since before they had anything to prove.

Then Raj sat up. "Guys, I actually came to tell you something. Shreya's wedding — it's in a month and a half, in Goa. They already left today. She wants us there tomorrow, no excuses. Be ready."

"Why so early?" Ivaan asked.

"Because the couple wants it that way," Sahil said, deadpan, "and none of us are in a position to argue."

"I don't think I can be free that long, I—"

"Why can't you?" His mother's voice cut clean through his protest. "You can, and you will. Call your PA and clear your schedule for two months, or I swear I'll come after you with my slippers."

"Okay, lady boss, okay." He was already dialing. "I'll do it right now."

His PA hesitated on the other end — a two-month gap was unheard of — but he knew better than to argue with *the* Ivaan Randhawa's mother's orders relayed secondhand. He agreed.

Ivaan hung up and looked at her. "There. Happy now?"

She only smiled, fingers threading gently through his hair while he stayed exactly where he was, head in her lap, in no hurry to move.

"Alright, it's settled — we leave tomorrow," Sahil said, standing. "Start packing."

"We should get going too," Raj added, rising. "Need to pack ourselves."

"Bye, mama's boy," Sahil teased on his way out.

"Get lost," Ivaan called back, grinning.

"Take care," his mother said softly as they left.

Once it was just the two of them, Ivaan glanced over. "Let's pack everything today — if we need anything else we can grab it while shopping."

She shook her head. "I'm not coming tomorrow. There's an event I can't miss. I'll join after twenty days, maybe."

"Mom, you're the one who *forced* me to go, and now you're bailing?" He was full-on sulking now.

"I'll come the moment I'm free," she promised.

"Fine. No one wins against you anyway." He pulled her into a tight hug, arms around her waist, and for a moment neither of them said anything else.

Past sunset, Roshni lay in her living room, staring at nothing, when her phone rang.

She looked at the screen. Her father. Calling for the first time in two months.

She let it ring out. Answering felt like it would only drag her lower. But when it rang again, something made her pick up.

His voice hit before she could even say hello — loud, sharp, already accusing. "Where on earth have you been? Don't you know today is your parents' anniversary?"

"Hello to you too, dear father." Her voice was flat, almost bored. "Bohat jaldi yaad aagya aapko ki koi beti bhi hai aap ki, jisay aap ne ghar se nikaal diya tha shayad."

"Shut up. You didn't come to the party on purpose, didn't you? What were you trying to prove? Was humiliating me the whole point?"

"Did you forget what you told me two months ago?" she said, calm in a way that was somehow worse than shouting. "Let me remind you — *you* were the one who called me a burden. *You* told me to get out of your house and never set foot in your precious mansion again. I'm just respecting your words."

"I'm asking you one last time. Why didn't you come?"

"Because I refused to be a prop in your perfect little family performance." Her voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "And if you actually call yourself my father — tell me, how does two months pass without you once trying to find me? You didn't even check if I was alive. And now you want me at your party. To play happy family for your guests."

"Don't waste my time. Get here. Now. Otherwise—"

"Do I look like I care?"

"Fine. Then go to hell."

"That's still better than your place, Mr. Mehra."

She hung up before he could answer.

The silence that followed rang louder than anything he'd said. Her vision blurred, but she refused to wipe the tears away — refusing them felt like the last piece of dignity she had left.

She hated this. Hated that some part of her still cried for people who wouldn't blink if she disappeared tomorrow.

The room felt too quiet. Too empty. Too much like her whole life lately.

She curled into the sofa, and somewhere between the anger and the exhaustion, sleep finally pulled her under.

Let me know what you loved about this chapter and what mistake I did. Let's work together.

Love you all my babies.

Lets meet in the next chapter.