Siya stomped her foot in frustration. "Mom, why are you silent? Say something! You know I have a crush on Sharvik Singhania. How could you all do this to me? How could you arrange his marriage with that unsophisticated girl? Mom, I'm telling you—if I don't marry Sharvik Singhania, I will take my own life!"
Mrs. Mehta sighed, trying to reason with her daughter. "Siya, listen to me. Sharvik Singhania is 27, and you are just sixteen. He is eleven years older than you. It's for the best that you're not marrying him. By the time you come of age, he would already be an old man."
Siya clenched her jaw, her voice defiant. "Mom, I don't care about the age gap. He is Sharvik Singhania—the most powerful man in the world. Do you even understand what it means to be his wife? Dad's problems would vanish overnight. Our family would ascend to the ranks of the elite. Isn't that what you want?"
Mrs. Mehta hesitated. In truth, she wanted all of it. Had Siya been the one chosen for Sharvik instead of Surbhi, she would have been overjoyed.
Siya was, after all, her mirror image, and Mrs. Mehta adored her. Eleven years was a trivial difference when weighed against Sharvik Singhania's wealth, influence, and prestige—things both she and Siya valued above all else.
Taking a deep breath, she said, "Siya, I understand. I know you care about our family, but the Singhanias have chosen Surbhi. She is Anand Singhania's preference. We cannot interfere. If we try anything reckless, the Singhanias will ruin us. You must understand that."
Tears welled in Siya's eyes. From the moment she had seen Sharvik Singhania's photograph in a magazine, she had been infatuated with him. And now, he was to marry her elder sister.
Seeing her daughter's distress, Mrs. Mehta pulled her into an embrace. Just then, the faint sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the room.
Both turned towards the staircase, where a slender, graceful figure descended slowly.
Hatred flickered in Siya's eyes, her expression darkening. Clenching her teeth, she glared at her elder sister, Surbhi, who was dressed in a crisp Delhi Public School uniform.
A staircase that usually took a minute to descend took Surbhi a full five minutes.
When she finally reached the bottom, she lifted her downcast lashes, revealing admiral-green eyes tinged with red, as if she hadn't slept all night.
Mrs. Mehta's voice was sharp. "Surbhi, what happened to your eyes? Why are they so red? Did you stay up all night again?"
Surbhi responded with a single word—"Yes."
Siya smirked, her tone mocking. "Mom, seriously? What kind of question is that? Surbhi Di finally got her first smartphone. Of course, she spent the whole night using it instead of sleeping."
Mrs. Mehta's anger flared even more at Siya's remark.
She knew all too well that Siya was belittling Surbhi, yet instead of reprimanding her, Mrs. Mehta turned her ire towards Surbhi instead.
Siya watched with quiet amusement as her sister stood there, unmoved, like a lifeless doll.
It was as if she heard every word but was unaffected by them.
Surbhi stood there lazily, eyes lowered. A backpack hung carelessly off one shoulder, while her school uniform jacket draped over the other. Despite her delicate features, there was an air of rebellion about her, a quiet defiance that set her apart.
After scolding Surbhi to her satisfaction, Mrs. Mehta left for the kitchen.
Siya, too, turned to head toward her room to get ready for school. But before she could take a step, Surbhi extended her foot in her path, stopping her.
Siya spun around, furious. "How dare you?"
Surbhi remained silent. Instead, she reached into her backpack, pulled out a long, thin rope, and held it out to Siya.
Siya's brows furrowed. "What is this?"
Surbhi's voice was calm. "For when you decide to take your own life."
Siya's face burned with anger. But instead of responding, she turned on her heels, tears streaming down her face, and rushed straight to her father, Sanjeev Mehta's study, where he was immersed in his office work.
Surbhi stepped out of the house with slow, measured strides. Her beautiful face remained devoid of expression, as if untouched by emotion.
Mehta Nivas was not far from Delhi Public School—just a ten-minute drive or a leisurely twenty-five-minute walk.
Despite Mr. Sanjeev's offer of a car, Surbhi had politely declined. She preferred walking.
Moving at her usual unhurried pace, she made her way toward school. Along the route, she stopped at a pharmacy where an elderly chemist sat, his golden-framed glasses resting low on his nose.
The moment he saw Surbhi, he frowned. "I gave you sleeping pills just yesterday. Why do your eyes still look so red? Didn't you take them?"
Surbhi didn't bother answering. Instead, she said flatly, "I need more."
The old man narrowed his eyes.
"More? I gave you ten yesterday. Have you already finished them?"
"Yes. I need a hundred this time."
His expression hardened. "What? You took ten pills in one day? Listen, sleeping pills aren't candies that you can consume at will. They are a controlled drug. If you keep taking them like this, you'll develop an addiction. It's dangerous."
He was trying to reason with her, but Surbhi remained indifferent.
She pulled out her phone, typed a message, and turned the screen toward him.
The old chemist squinted at the text—it was from the pharmacy owner.
The moment he finished reading, his jaw tightened. Not only was this girl illegally obtaining sleeping pills without a prescription, but now she was using the owner's authority to pressure him.
Annoyed, he packed a hundred pills and handed them over. Surbhi took the packet but didn't leave immediately. Instead, she emptied its contents onto the counter and, one by one, began counting them.
Irritated, the old man turned his gaze away, his displeasure evident.
Once she was satisfied, Surbhi returned the pills to the packet and walked out. She didn't pay, and the chemist didn't ask.
Watching her retreating figure, he muttered under his breath, "Rude girl. If I have to attend your death anniversary next year, I won't. You're too stubborn for your own good."
Surbhi didn't respond.
After walking for about ten minutes, she suddenly stopped. The street was deserted.
Her tired eyes settled on an old car parked across the road, its indicator light blinking intermittently.
She observed it in silence for a few moments before crossing the street and stepping inside.
From the outside, the car appeared outdated and unremarkable, but the interior was nothing short of opulent—more extravagant than even a seven-star hotel.
The driver's impeccably tailored suit alone was worth enough to buy a luxury car.
Surbhi set her backpack on her lap, rolled up her sleeve, and extended her arm toward the man seated beside her—a distinguished figure in a deep maroon suit.
He opened a sleek, high-end suitcase, revealing an array of medical instruments.
Retrieving a syringe, he carefully injected it into her arm. "Your blood is invaluable. But with every test, I notice subtle changes in your DNA structure. That's why I need a sample every month. This isn't intentional—I know how vital your blood is to you."
Surbhi remained silent, her gaze drifting toward a small kitten playing by the roadside.
The man continued his examination, checking her vitals, while she remained lost in thought, her eyes fixed on the carefree movements of the little creature.
As he packed away his equipment, he remarked, "Your sugar levels are stable, but your blood pressure is slightly elevated. The Mehta family doesn't seem to suit you, does it?"
For the first time, Surbhi turned to look at him. He was strikingly handsome, likely in his late twenties.
Adjusting her sleeve, she asked, "Steven, how is he? When will he wake up?"
Steven's expression remained neutral. "His condition is stable, but I can't predict when he'll regain consciousness."
Surbhi didn't press further.
She reached for the car door, preparing to leave, when Steven's voice dropped to a quiet murmur. "Are you really going to marry Sharvik Singhania?"
"No." Her response was simple, final.
Without another word, she shut the door behind her and walked away.
Mumbai,
Outside the city's most exclusive resort, a throng of journalists had gathered.
Today marked the grandest business exhibition of the year, featuring legendary businessmen and high-profile politicians from across the nation and beyond.
Priceless cars arrived one after another at the venue, their occupants the subjects of eager photographers, as desperate to capture their images as devotees are to glimpse their deity.
Just a minute before the exhibition was set to begin, the unmistakable roar of helicopters echoed across the area. It was as though a king himself had summoned a procession of drums and cymbals for his grand entrance.
The journalists quickly instructed their cameramen, ensuring they were prepared to capture the arrival of the VIP from every possible angle.
Within moments, three sleek, ink-black helicopters descended and landed in the designated area.
From two of the helicopters, an army of bodyguards disembarked, swiftly securing the perimeter and forcing the cameras to lower, blocking all attempts to capture their images.
After an extensive twenty-minute security check, the door of the third helicopter opened.
A tall figure stepped out, adjusting his overcoat as he landed in polished leather shoes. His presence exuded a charisma so profound it was almost tangible.
As his feet touched the ground, he surveyed the surroundings with an intense gaze, his dark eyes seemingly able to command the world with a mere glance.
Even the most daring journalists, accustomed to speaking their minds without hesitation, now faltered under his unspoken power.
The man shifted his gaze, hands slipping into his pockets as he moved forward with deliberate elegance. Each step he took radiated sophistication.
Surrounding him were heavily armed guards, not merely shielding him, but rather serving as a protective barrier from the chilling intensity of his gaze.
Upon entering the venue, the man removed his overcoat, handing it to his assistant. But before the assistant, Kapil, could take it, a beautiful woman stepped forward and took the coat from him.
The man cast a brief glance at her—dressed in a classic black gown, the eyes of everyone around were fixed on him, yet none dared to approach.
In a voice as delicate as silk, the woman spoke, "Sharvik Bhai, you have no idea what has transpired here while you were abroad. Grandpa has arranged your marriage."
Sharvik, unruffled, showed no surprise. His grandfather had often insisted on such matters. However, there was one thing Sharvik was eager to learn—why had his younger sister, Rim, come from Delhi to deliver this news?
Rim continued, "I know you likely don't find anything unusual about this, but there's more to it. Grandpa has chosen a girl for you—she's a senior in high school, just seventeen years old. And her family background… well, it's nothing extraordinary."
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
What will happen next?
How will Sharvik react?
Who is Steven?
Why does Surbhi's blood structure change with every test?
What is Surbhi's truth?
Whose awakening is Surbhi referring to?
To know…
To be continued...