Dr Meera Saravana has been on the run for the last ten years due to a fatal misunderstanding. She ends up in New York, hoping that maybe this time everything will work out. But that's turning out to be impossible the more she gets involved with the...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I stare down at the phone.
I know I should be focusing on work but I just can't. Each time I pick up the phone to dial Meera's number, I stop and put the phone back down.
It's been months. I doubt she would even pick up if I called.
It's a vicious cycle....and I'm too much of a coward to face my feelings. Maybe it's a distraction. Or maybe I'm just making excuses.
Deep down I know that the distance between us is necessary.
I don't know if we'll have any sort of future once this war ends but I can hold onto a small sliver of hope that keeps me going.
This past week has been nothing but funeral after funeral. Between the fighting on the streets and the constant announcements of deaths—I'm in the centre of a maelstrom that threatened to wreak everything in its path. Even now, I want to seek Meera out and just keep her close to me. She is my safe harbour. I'm being pathetic, betting my emotional stability on her but I can't help it. Meera has become important to me and if I have to attend her funeral because of my mistake, I'd never forgive myself. She had become my light at the end of the tunnel that I was desperately running towards.
I was supposed to be listening to the eulogy instead of thinking about her.
Anya nudged me gently with her elbow, her expensive shades hiding her sharp eyes. I could feel her glare through the polarized lenses. I just gave her a blank look and slipped my phone back into my pocket.
"Pay attention," she hissed underneath her breath, staring forward. "Who's going to believe a CEO who's distracted at his board members' funeral?"
Today Anya was wearing black. I was used to wearing grey and black suits but seeing her dressed like that was strange. She was always in pinks, reds, and oranges—bright and eye-catching. The dark colour contrasted starkly with her platinum hair. She looked like a queen on a chessboard, plotting her next move. Anya had always hated funerals, they reminded her of her husband. I didn't attend my brother in laws funeral, I just heard the news from Anya that he died and he was buried in his family's cemetery in Edinburgh. It was sudden, like a flash of lighting and Anya had come to New York not so long after that.
That was five years ago.
I stared at the casket in front of me. One of the board members had been taken out three days ago, found dead in his study and several important documents missing from his study.
Hector Turin—the now dead board member. I had known him in passing, mostly watching him whenever made his reports to me or when I needed feedback about one of our subsidiaries. He was part of my fathers' board, carefully advising him on key investments and keeping a wary eye on me. I had spared him when my father died—not because I cared for him, but because he was too useful. Now he was dead...all because he said no to Zoya. He was dead because of me.
