The night air outside the Chandravanshi estate was sharp and electric. Tanishk drove like a man possessed—no destination, no thought. Just motion. Just speed.

The streets blurred past until he reached the old part of the city—the place he always returned to when the world became too tight around his throat.

The brothel stood quietly, its red windows glowing like dying embers. No name, no signs. Only those who knew, knew.

He pushed the heavy door open.

Inside, velvet curtains trembled in the wind he brought with him. The scent of jasmine and something deeper—smoke, regret—hung in the air. Women in silk and sequins turned their eyes away as he passed. They had seen this look in men before. But never like this.

He reached the lounge. Without a word, he upturned a table, sending glasses shattering to the floor. He swept his arm across the bar counter, flinging bottles against the wall. Glass rained like cruel confetti.

Not a sound was made.

From the stairwell, the owner, a woman in her sixties draped in an old Banarasi shawl, appeared. She watched calmly, her expression unreadable.

She didn’t stop him.

She wouldn’t. She knew who he was—Tanishk Chandravanshi. Power born in silence, refined in fire.

When the destruction was done, he stood in the middle of the wreckage, chest heaving.

Not a single person moved to intervene.

He turned, still shaking, and left without a word.

He found her ,Shree lived in a modest flat above the brothel

She opened the door before he knocked. 

He walked in, eyes wild, fists clenched.

On the vanity table sat a small silver box. Shree reached for it instinctively, as if it would anchor her.

He grabbed it first.

The kajal tin flew across the room, hitting the wall with a sharp clang and splattering in a dark smear.

Shree gasped, backing away. “ ji—please…”

He knocked over the stool. His hands ran through his hair, fists pulling at the roots. The room seemed too small for his rage, too fragile for his silence.

“You will not wear it..!,” he muttered.

“J-Ji, it’s just kajal. It’s not—”

“DON’T!” he shouted. “Don’t pretend it’s nothing.”

Shree stumbled back, terrified now. She pressed herself into the corner, knees pulled up, arms around herself. Her eyes never left him. She is scared of his behaviour.

For a long while, he just stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the broken box.

Then—finally—his shoulders dropped.

The storm passed.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, hands shaking.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. “I just… I can’t.”

Shree stayed quiet, her body curled tight. But she nodded. She understood more than she let on.

And so they stayed like that.

A broken man, and the girl who didn’t run.

Kashish sat cross-legged on the old terrace, her knees pulled tightly to her chest. The dusk sky, an endless canvas of amber and indigo, stared back at her as if it too carried memories too heavy to forget. A soft breeze played with the edge of her dupatta, and her face was streaked with fresh tears—silent, warm trails that held echoes of laughter long gone.

She wasn't crying because of one thing. It was everything. The silence. The weight. The remembering.

Childhood had never felt this distant before.

And yet, in that stillness, a voice from years ago echoed clearly in her mind, alive with breath and sunshine.

“Kashish…!!! Wait, I’m coming!”

That boyish shout—full of urgency, full of joy. Tanishk. Always late, always running. She could see it now: him sprinting across the narrow lane behind their old house, the oversized rubber ball tucked under one arm, hair disheveled from the wind.

She had turned then, half-exasperated, half-laughing.

“Uff, Tanishk! Come fast or we’ll lose!”

They were playing Pitthu—the neighborhood kids’ favorite evening ritual. The crumbling street in front of their building was their battleground. Flat stones were stacked in the center like ancient ruins. One team would knock it down with the ball; the other would race to rebuild it before getting hit. Glory lived in every round.

Kashish had her job. She was the blocker. The shield.

“Kashish! Block Yash Bhai!”

Tanishk’s voice had cut through the chaos. He was laughing, his eyes wild with mischief and competition.

She remembered it vividly—Yash, older and faster, had almost rebuilt the stack before she threw herself in front of him. He skidded to a halt, startled by her boldness. She wasn’t big, but she was stubborn.

From the corner of her eye, she had seen Tarini—quiet, efficient, already rearranging the toppled stones. Her hands moved like she was born for this game, eyes scanning for every piece.

Victory that day had been chaotic, sweaty, sweet.

Now, it all seemed like another lifetime.

The sound of the city returned around her: a distant honk, a dog barking two streets over, the creak of a swing from someone else's rooftop.

Kashish wiped at her cheeks roughly, as if scolding herself for the softness.

But those days—they were buried deep inside her, and tonight, they had clawed their way back to the surface.

The city skyline blinked below like a thousand stars had fallen and decided to live in glass towers. Tanishk stood with his back to the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand, and a glass with melting ice in the other.

He wasn’t drunk. Not fully. Not yet.

But he was getting there.

The room was silent except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the occasional clink of glass against his ring. The lights were off—he liked it that way. He didn’t need light to remember. He didn’t want to see his reflection.

He took another swig from the glass.

Memories weren’t soft for him anymore. They burned like the drink in his throat. Jagged, ruthless, soaked in everything that should have stayed innocent.

He leaned against the cold glass wall, eyes sweeping the horizon, but seeing something far older—dusty lanes, sunburnt faces, that goddamn Pitthu game. Kashish. Always Kashish. Messy braid, scraped knees, that maddening spark in her eyes when she blocked someone twice her size.

He let out a breath, something between a laugh and a scoff.

“Why did you did that?” he mumbled to the glass.

He tilted the bottle again. The alcohol didn’t help anymore—not really—but it dulled the edges. That was enough.

He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes, letting the silence crawl back in. He had built this place—this penthouse, this life—with glass and steel and silence. A fortress of success. But memories didn’t respect walls. They slipped in under the door, through the cracks in the floorboards.

And tonight, they had come for him again.

He thought of her tears. He didn’t know she was crying tonight, on some terrace miles away, under the same sky. But somehow, a part of him felt it.

The whiskey was warm now. He drank it anyway.

Outside, the city moved on. But inside Tanishk’s penthouse, time had folded in on itself—collapsing into the laughter of childhood, the ache of regret, and the bitter taste of everything left unsaid.

Sneak peek- Chapter 10

“Oye... look at that,” one of the girls sneered, eyes narrowing as she stepped closer.

Another one snickered behind her. “So... Mr. Chandravanshi..!was a bit too passionate last night, wasn’t he?”

Shree looked up slowly, her brows tightening.

“Tanishk Chandravanshi himself,” the first one went on with mock drama. “What did you do to catch him, Shree? Whisper poetry in his ear? Or massage his back with your warm hands ? or just sit pretty like you always do?”