If someone had asked me five years ago where I saw myself at twenty-seven, I would've said Paris, probably. Working in an elite design studio, wearing heels that hurt like betrayal, with champagne flutes in one hand and architectural sketches in the other. That version of me died a quiet death the day he left.
Now I wake up in Bombay, with my three-year-old daughter shaking me awake at seven-thirty sharp. "Mumma , I can't find my crown comb," Ziana announced, standing at the edge of my bed in her tiny unicorn pajamas. "I can't go to school like a peasant."
That's how my mornings begin. With declarations of royal emergencies and threats of peasantry. She has inherited none of my low-maintenance genes and all of his dramatic flair. A tiny tyrant with big brown eyes and more opinions than an Instagram comment section. I got up, hair a mess, eyeliner smudgeignity halfway to the laundry basket. My body moved on autopilot-one hand brushing Ziana's wild hair, the other brushing my teeth. I pulled on a soft cotton kurta set. My name is Vihaana Singh. I design luxurious spaces . I raise a child I never planned for. And I survive in a house that loves me loudly and unconditionally.
The kitchen smelled like cardamom, butter, and mild disapproval. My mother, Ratna Singh, was flipping parathas in her usual crisp cotton saree-simple, beige, and timeless like her . She barely looked up when I entered.
"You're late," she said, with the same calm she uses to talk about the weather or God. "I'm raising a royal," I replied, pouring myself tea. "She had a crown emergency." Maa laughed. Of course she will she is the reason my daughter is a tyrant royal of our house. Ziana climbed into her high chair with my help , banging a spoon like a warrior princess preparing for battle. My younger brother, Vedant, stumbled in next, his hoodie halfway on, one sock missing, mumbling about deadlines and dream projects.
"Your Grace", he greeted Ziana by doing a small curtsy , stealing a paratha off the tawa, "you look like a queen today."
"I am a queen," she declared with a proud ufff sound from her mouth. And then came Rahul bhaiya. Not by blood, but more my brother than biology could ever claim. He stood tall and quiet at the door, like a guardian spirit who just happened to be trained in five ways to kill a man. He stepped in, kissed Ziana's forehead, and was immediately ambushed by her tiny, all-consuming hug - the kind that wrapped around his neck and heart in one go. Then he turned to me, kissed my forehead like he always did, and did the same to Maa. Part of our morning ritual. Silent. Steady. Sacred. Vedant's voice floated in from behind us.
"Where's my kiss?" he asked, dramatically clutching his chest like a dying hero in a B-grade film. Rahul bhaiya didn't even look up and said "I don't give kisses to overgrown toddlers." Vedant gasped as if he'd just been disowned. "Wow. This is why I have emotional neglect issues," he huffed, flopping onto the couch like a Victorian widow. "Remind me to bring this up in my next therapy session." Then he turned to Ziana with mock tears. "At least you love me, right?" Ziana blinked. "Only when you bring chocolate."
And just like that, we fell back into the rhythm we knew - messy, loud, full of half-arguments and inside jokes. Our apartment in South Bombay might be all glass, marble, and designer taste, but what fills it is louder than luxury: Maa's soft chanting in the background, Vedant's half-finished animation projects scattered across the dining table, and Ziana's very real emergency over sparkly shoes. It's warm. Chaotic. Completely lived-in. Exactly how home is supposed to feel.
And yet, I often feel like a ghost floating through it all. After breakfast, I packed Ziana's lunch-tiny puri-sabzi, two chocolate biscuits, a post-it note with a cat doodle-and watched her bounce around the living room. Her world is safe. Sheltered. Loved. My mom and Vedant don't know who she really belongs to. They don't know about him. They don't know that 5 years ago , I met a man with a jawline like a weapon and a heart made of frost. A man who made me feel like I mattered. Like I was more than just smart. Like I was wanted. And then one day, with no warning, no goodbye, and no explanation, he disappeared. Not from the city. Not from the world. From me. I waited. I called. I begged the universe. Then I found out I was pregnant. That's when the real waiting began. Waiting for the sickness to pass. Waiting for the courage to tell someone. Waiting for the guilt to quiet. Waiting for my daughter to arrive. And when she did-under the blinding lights of a hospital room, alone, with my body on fire and my heart crumbling-I held her and knew I'd never be the same. She became my answer to the question I didn't get. So I lied. I told my family I'd had a one-night stand. That I didn't know who he was. And in an Indian household, that kind of lie is not just scandal - it's a social suicide. I was ready for everything shame. For screaming. For silence. For abandonment.
But none of that happened. One look at Ziana, and no one questioned a thing. That's the kind of magic my child carries. Maybe I'm biased but I don't care. But Rahul bhaiya? He didn't buy it for a second. He cornered me one evening when the rest of the house was asleep. Just stood there in the hallway with that terrifying calm of his and said, "Tell me the truth, Vihaana.". And I did. Because you don't lie to a man who's worn blood like cologne and survived the kind of world people only whisper about. That night changed everything. Rahul bhaiya - who we believed was just a reformed soul with a rough past - turned out to be deeply rooted in the underworld. Not just part of it, but the king of a kingdom built on ruins, blood, and bone. A world we were far too naïve to understand. His silence wasn't surrender. It was strategy. And once he knew the truth about Ziana's bloodline, everything shifted. Gone was the quiet life. Gone was the illusion of safety. The freedom he once gave us - college campuses, late-night outings, vacations without security - vanished overnight. Now? We don't step out without his men. Not even for groceries. Not even for school. And it's not paranoia. It's policy. We no longer live like civilians. We live like people tethered to a very dangerous man.
Because that's what we are now - the family of Rahul Singh, also known as Rahul Shetty, the only surviving heir of the dominant Shetty clan. And he's not willing to let the mistake of freedom cost us our lives. He knows - the moment that man's enemies find out what he lost... and what he unknowingly left behind... they'll stop at nothing to get their filthy hands on Ziana. On my daughter. So Rahul bhaiya became the wall. The shadow. The shield. And I ? I learned how to live behind it - whether I wanted to or not.
💬 Thank you for reading!
This is my very first time putting my heart into a story like this - and hitting publish feels both terrifying and thrilling. I hope Vihaana's chaos, Ziana's sass, and the shadows of a past she thought she buried... kept you hooked. If you liked this chapter, don't forget to drop your thoughts, votes, or even a little emoji 🖤 - they mean the world to me and help this story reach more readers!
🗓️ I'll be updating every week (with surprise updates in between if you guys engage like the storm I know you are 👀).
And yes - Zayden is coming. He never enters softly. Until then - Wear red. Protect your heart. And remember: Once the Pakhan marks what's his... he never lets go.
- Lyra_Morven
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