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Chapter 1: The Ghosts of the Past

The Kapoor estate stood tall on the edge of Shimla's pine-scented hills, veiled in early morning mist. A relic of pre-partition glory, it was all elegant arches, carved teak, and walls that had seen too much. Outside, dew glistened like memories clinging to the earth—beautiful, cold, and impossible to hold.

But hundreds of miles south, the rain battered Mumbai's streets like a scorned lover—unrelenting, furious. Somewhere amidst the chaos of honking cars and shimmering waterlogged streets, Rohan Kapoor's black sedan cut through the blur. Inside, the man himself sat still—his sharp jawline taut, his hazel eyes fixed not on the road, but the storm outside and the one inside.

To the world, Rohan was a force of nature. Billionaire. Boardroom wolf. The kind of man whose smile made allies and enemies alike question their footing. But here, tonight, with the streetlamps casting lonely shadows across his face, he wasn't a businessman. He was a son. A boy whose world had shattered beneath the weight of betrayal.

The car idled at a red light. A brass peacock on his dashboard—a keepsake from his mother's old mandir—shimmered faintly. Its eyes stared at him like a challenge.

"Bloody weather," he muttered to no one, the wipers thumping rhythmically like a ticking clock.

He remembered it all: The laughter in the Kapoor bungalow, the scent of ghee-soaked parathas, his mother's bangles tinkling as she fed him kheer. Twelve years old, trusting, cradled by love. Then the Sharmas. Silk kurtas and serpent tongues. One false deal, one orchestrated collapse—and his father was gone, his mother a husk who followed soon after.

At sixteen, Rohan had stood at their graves, drenched to the bone, whispering a promise to the heavens: I'll destroy them. Every last one.

The signal turned green. He drove, phone buzzing.

Text from Vikram: Bhai, sure about this? Dadi's planning a menu already. She's threatening to wear her wedding saree again. Gulab jamuns are multiplying.

Rohan's lips twitched. "Tell Dadi to save her sweets for the wedding." The word was bitter on his tongue. Wedding.

His penthouse greeted him like a vault. Cold marble, silent halls, city lights sprawled across glass walls like a conquered kingdom. He poured himself whiskey—the kind older than the scandal that killed his father.

A photo sat on the desk. Snapped secretly. Aisha Sharma at a temple, sari glowing like fire against her dusky skin, smile unguarded, palms pressed in prayer.

Breakable.

The phone rang. Mr. Sharma's name flashed.

"Mr. Sharma," Rohan answered silkily.

"Rohan, beta! What a pleasure—"

"I'd like to meet," Rohan cut in smoothly. "It's about your daughter. I believe she'd make a fine Kapoor."

A beat of silence. Then greedy laughter. "Of course! Of course! Aisha will be thrilled! Our families, united—it's meant to be!"

"Yes," Rohan said, swirling his drink. "Fate has impeccable timing."

Back in Shimla, the mist still clung to the earth.

In the Kapoor estate, Dadi entered Rohan's study with chai. "You've been looking at that photo again."

He held the same photograph as always: his parents smiling, unaware they were about to be gutted by ambition and betrayal.

"Sometimes ghosts need to be invited, Dadi."

"Only fools invite pain."

"I remember how much Appa loved Holi," he murmured. "He threw colors even on the drivers. Said happiness doesn't care for bank accounts."

From the hallway, Chacha piped up, "And Amma's gujiyas nearly caused a stampede!"

Chachi followed with a flourish, her sequined saree blinding even at sunrise. "You mean your blood sugar stampede."

Roshni, their teenage daughter, scrolled her phone with a dramatic sigh. "You people are so nostalgic. It's giving Doordarshan trauma."

"Still obsessed with those Sharmas, are you?" Chachi sniffed.

Rohan's tone was dry. "Obsession implies affection. I prefer... precision."

"Sharma uncle called again!" Roshni chimed. "His daughter's kundli practically does cartwheels with yours."

"Aisha Sharma," Dadi whispered.

Chachi beamed. "She's polite, well-trained, and fair. Like a tube light, that girl."

"Great," Vikram added, entering with a banana. "Marry a torch. We'll never lose power again."

Rohan's eyes glinted. "I'll meet her."

Everyone paused.

"Are you serious?" Dadi asked.

He poured whisky into a glass. Morning sunlight hit the rim like a blade.

"For what I have in mind, I'll need fire in my veins."

He turned to the window once more. Outside, a peacock screamed.

And somewhere, Aisha Sharma twirled in front of a mirror, trying on bangles, dreaming of love.

She didn't know yet that her groom wasn't looking for a bride.

He was looking for justice.

And she was the battlefield.


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Janvi Bajaj

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Give my books a try Please I would be really grateful to you 🙏🙏🙏

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Janvi Bajaj

I would love if you guys give my story a try and give me insights.