Prologue

MUMBAI

24th July, 2022

Rain didn't fall that night.

It stayed.

Like the sky had paused mid-breath and forgotten how to let go.

Samaira Malhotra stood inside her art gallery, the glass walls turning the city outside into blurred light and broken reflections. Canvases lined the space around her unfinished, waiting, silent witnesses to a world she no longer had the patience to complete.

But her hands weren't on paint tonight.

They were on her phone. And they were shaking.

One message. That's all she had sent.

Come to the gallery. Now.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then,

Alright, Sam. I'm coming.

Sam.

That name used to soften everything inside her.

Tonight, it only made her feel more awake.

She didn't move from the window. Didn't sit. Didn't breathe properly. Just watched the rain distort the streetlights like they were melting.

Behind her, the art gallery stretched empty canvases half-finished, brushes dried with neglect, easels standing like witnesses at a trial no one else knew was happening. Her latest piece faced the wall. She'd turned it there three days ago.

She couldn't look at it anymore.

Couldn't look at the girl in the painting who had her face but not her memory.

Minutes passed.

Then the sound of the main door unlocking cut through the silence.

Slow. Familiar. Controlled.

Siddharth Shergill stepped inside like he always did like the world adjusted itself around him without permission.

Wet edges on his sleeves. Slightly disheveled hair. Still composed. Still him.

"Sam?" he called.

She didn't answer immediately. When she turned, her expression wasn't soft. It wasn't angry either. It was worse. Unstable calm.

He frowned slightly. "What happened? You sounded–"

"I saw something," she interrupted.The words came out flat. Not accusing. Not yet. Just fact. The kind of fact you can't unlearn.

That made him stop. Just for a second. Not fear. But attention.

That careful kind he only used when something was about to become serious.

Samaira stepped forward once. Slow. Deliberate. "I saw your brother, Ishaan." she said.

Something flickered behind his eyes. Small. Brief. A shutter closing before the camera could capture what was inside.

"I saw him hit a girl with his car," she continued, voice tightening despite herself. "

The silence that followed wasn't empty.

It was heavy. Weighted. Like the air before lightning charged and waiting for someone to make the mistake of standing too tall.

Siddharth's expression didn't change. That was the problem. It never changed when it should have.

"Sam," he said carefully, "I don't know what you think you–"

"Don't." Her voice cracked once, then hardened. "Don't stand there and pretend you don't know what I'm talking about."

His jaw tightened. Just once. Just enough.

"Ishaan was home all night," he said. "We had dinner together. You can ask anyone."

"I don't need to ask anyone." She took a step forward. Then another. Close enough now to see the rain still clinging to his eyelashes. Close enough to see the muscle ticking in his jaw. "I was there, Sid. I saw the car. I saw the girl fall. And I saw your brother drive away like she was nothing."

He exhaled slowly. Controlled. Practiced.

"You're wrong about what you saw."

The words landed like a slap.

Samaira stared at him.

For three years, she had loved this man. Had dated him. Had memorized the way he said her name when he was half-asleep. Had trusted him with things she'd never told anyone.

And now...

Now he was standing in her gallery, in her light, lying to her with the same voice he used to promise forever.

"Say that again," she whispered.

"Sam..."

"Say that again like you mean it."

He didn't.

That silence was louder than any confession.

She laughed once. No humor. Just disbelief cracking through her ribs. "You're actually standing here," she said, voice fraying at the edges, "in my space, after being my boyfriend for three years and you're just going to lie to my face like this?"

"It's not that simple, Samaira."

"Then make it simple!" Her voice broke open. "Tell me Ishaan didn't kill that girl. Tell me the news reports are lying. Tell me something that isn't this... this–"

She gestured at him. At his stillness. His control. His absence.

"Tell me you're still the man I fell in love with."

His mask cracked.

Just slightly. Just enough for her to see what was underneath.

"It's complicated..."

"Don't." Her voice cut like a blade. "Don't you dare say 'complicated' to me."

He stepped forward. She didn't step back.

Their bodies were inches apart now. She could feel the rain drops still cold on his shirt, could smell his cologne mixed with the storm.

"Just calm down," he said low. And reached for her.

The moment his fingers closed around her arms... She should have pulled away.

She didn't. Instead, she leaned in. "You think I don't know what you did after?" she breathed.

"You buried it, Siddharth!... There are news reports calling it an accident. Saying it wasn't even him. So tell me, Sid what am I supposed to believe? My eyes or your silence?"

His grip tightened. Not hurting. Holding. Like she was something slipping through his fingers.

She let the silence stretch.

"You're not protecting your brother anymore, Sid," she whispered, her mouth inches from his jaw. "You're just protecting your name. Your family name."

His breath hitched. Just once.

His hands moved.

One slid to her waist. The other cupped the back of her neck. Rough. Possessive. Like he'd done it a thousand times before, except this time, there was something desperate underneath.

"Samaira," he said, her full name like it meant something more.

"Say it," she challenged. "Look me in the eye and tell me I'm wrong."

His jaw clenched. "You don't know the truth."

"THEN TELL ME."

The scream tore out of her. Raw. Ugly. The sound of someone who had been holding something heavy for too long and was finally dropping it.

He flinched.

Actually flinched.

And for one second one single, shattered second she saw him.

Not the Siddharth Shergill she knew. Not the man who made people sign their business deals with his single nod. Not the man who made women forget their own names at parties. Not the one who laughed like he had all the time in the world and drank like he had nothing to lose.

Neither of them moved.

Then... Samaira shook her head slightly, like she was trying to make sense of him again.

Like he was a painting she'd stared at for three years only to realize the colors were wrong.

"I thought you would listen to me," she said. "I thought you would stand with me, even if it was your family, even if it was complicated... Because I thought you valued lives not reputations."

"It's not" He started immediately.

Then she stepped back pulling back from his arms. Putting distance between them like it physically hurts to stay close.

And that... Made his words die.

"I understand now," she said finally.

His expression shifted. "Sam, what are you saying...?"

Her gaze held him for a long moment.

Then she exhaled. Tired now. Not dramatic.

Just done.

"This doesn't work anymore," she said. "Not when I'm standing in truth and you're standing in protection."

"That girl on the road didn't get justice, Sid. She got hit. And now she's dead. And you're standing here asking me to pretend I didn't see it. But I can't do such things. I can't be with you when you're trying to cover up reality."

His voice dropped. Dangerous low. "Samaira...?"

"No." Her voice cracked just slightly, but she didn't stop. "It's over, Sid."

That name landed differently now.

Not soft. Not familiar. Just painful.

For both of them.

Three years didn't disappear. They just stopped existing in the same direction.

He took a step forward. "Don't do this. Not like this."

But she was already shaking her head.

"Then how, Sid?" Tears burned her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. "How should I do it? With a note? A phone call? A text message? Hey, by the way, I'm breaking up with you because you're choosing your family reputation over a dead girl?"

"I'm not choosing anyone over–"

"You ARE." She shoved at his chest. He didn't move.

"I'm asking you to trust me."

"I can't."

The words hung between them.

Heavy. Final. Irreversible.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Something in his face broke. Just a shift. Just enough.

And then maybe because he knew he was losing her, maybe because he was furious, maybe because three years don't die quietly...

He closed the distance. His hand caught her wrist. Not hard. But not asking permission either.

"Let me go Sid," she said.

"No. I can't!"

He saw it. The second her resolve cracked. The second her eyes went glassy and her lips parted and her body leaned instead of pulled away.

And he moved.

His mouth crashed into hers.

He kissed her.

Not gentle. Not the kind of kiss that asks are you sure? The kind that says I'm not done with you yet.

His other hand slid into her hair, tilting her head back, and for one horrible, beautiful second her body answered.

Her fingers curled into his jacket. Her mouth parted under his.

The rain outside blurred into nothing.

There was only him. Only the taste of him. Only the way he kissed her like she was the only thing he didn't want to lose.

His hand moved from her waist down to her hip, gripping like he was claiming something he'd already lost.

And she let herself want him for a minute. Or maybe two.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling. He tasted like rain and whiskey and the kind of mistake you see coming and walking into anyway.

Then reality cracked through.

She tore her mouth away.

Breathless. Lips swollen. Chest heaving against his.

He didn't let go.

His forehead pressed to hers. His breath ragged. His hands still on her hips, still holding.

"Don't," he said, voice broken and rough. "Don't say that."

"You're standing here in front of me," he said, his thumb pressing into her hip bone, "and telling me three years meant nothing?"

"It meant everything," she said quietly. "That's the problem."

He let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, but there was nothing funny in it.

"You remember Paris?" he asked. His voice dropped lower. Intimate. Weaponized. "You remember the night you couldn't sleep, and I walked you through the streets at 3 a.m. You remember I carried you back to the hotel after that?"

Her throat tightened. "Sid..."

"You remember what you said to me that night?" He wasn't asking. He was reminding. "You said, 'I've never felt this comfortable with anyone..' "

She closed her eyes.

His grip on her hips tightened. Just slightly. Just enough.

"You remember your mother's funeral?" he continued, relentlessly now. "Who held you when you couldn't stand? Who didn't say a single word, just stayed? Four days, Sam. I didn't leave your side for four fvcking days."

"Stop," she whispered.

"Why?" His jaw clenched. "Because you don't want to remember who we actually are? Because it's easier to walk out if you pretend I'm just the villain in your story?"

She opened her eyes. They were wet. But they were hard. "You're not the villain, Sid. You're just not the man I thought you were."

He shook his head slowly. His thumb traced her jaw. Almost tender. Almost cruel. "You think walking out like this works out?" he said quietly. "You think there's a version of you that exists without me?"

"I'm about to find out." She said.

Then... She looked at him. Really looked.

And realised he was standing there like a man who had already lost her and was pretending he hadn't.

"Sid. Just let me go."

He didn't. His hands stayed on her hips.

His jaw was set. His eyes dark, desperate, furious held hers like he was daring her to mean it.

So she said the only thing that would. "If you don't let me go right now... the last feeling I ever have for you won't be love or hate. It'll be disgust."

Something inside him snapped.

Immediately.

Like her words had burned him.

Not because she threatened him.

Because disgust was worse.

Disgust meant she'd look back at every kiss, every touch, every moment they spent together and feel sick.

His hands fell. And he didn't reach for her again.

The absence of his touch was colder than the rain outside.

Samaira straightened. Fixed nothing.

Let him see what he'd done: the red marks on her wrists, the mess of her lipstick, the tears she wasn't trying to hide anymore.

"It's over," she said again. Not loud. Not soft. Final.

She walked to the door.

"SAM." His voice cracked. Shattered. The kind of sound he'd never let anyone else hear.

She paused with her hand on the handle. Didn't turn.

"Don't follow me," she said quietly. "Don't call me. Don't send your driver. Don't send apologies or explanations." A breath.

"Just... be the man you chose to be instead of the one I thought you were."

"Goodbye, Siddharth."

He just stood there Siddharth Shergill, the man who had never lost anything in his life watching the one thing he couldn't buy, couldn't charm, couldn't control, slip through his fingers.

She opened the door. The rain roared.

And she walked into it without looking back.

And the door closed between them.

Permanently.

_______________________________________________

This book contains mature scenes and mature language, read at your own risk.

The updates will be given every week.

Please don't leave without voting and commenting because your interaction is the only thing that keeps me motivated to write things more effectively.

And yeah, this is just the Prologue so don't judge the characters too early...