"You walked into the lion's den, sweetheart," he whispered, stepping closer. "And lions don't let go so easily."
He looked down at her leg, at her trembling hands, and the fear in her eyes.
"A beautiful young girl like you," he chuckled, "shouldn't...
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I wiped the last bit of soap suds off my hands, the smell of lemon detergent still clinging to my skin. My back ached a little from bending over the sink, and my legs screamed after sweeping every corner of the house. But I wasn't done-nope. I still had to cook something halfway edible and tackle the Mount Everest of laundry. I was the desi cindrella.
All the while, one thought kept me going: Just stick to the routine, Mishti. Just do what she expects. Maybe then she'll stop looking at you like you're some kind of parasite in her kingdom.
But as I stood there in my washed-out kurti, folding the last pair of Dad's socks, her voice echoed in my head like nails scratching a blackboard. "Why bother studying? What's the point? You'll end up in someone else's kitchen anyway. Might as well get good at it."
I blinked hard, trying not to cry. Not today, Mishti. No tears today.
Papa had tried to stand up for me. Tried.
"She wants to study, then why not?"
But she had snapped, "The money is for my Vihaan.I'm not throwing it away on a girl who brings no return!"
Like I was some kind of bad investment. Like I was a stock that failed.
"Your son's education?" Papa had retorted, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "He's been failing everything but lunch!"
The fight escalated like a storm hitting a rickety hut. Papa left. Again. And I was left standing there in the ruins, knowing no fee money was coming my way.
So I did what any desperate girl would do. I got a menial job.
But Fate-ugh, that annoying drama queen-had other plans.
But dreams don't shatter. They haunt.
I got myself a job. Nothing glamorous, just a side gig at a bar- The Velvet Smoke. Classy name, seedy vibes. I lied to Papa, said I was tutoring kids. But truth? I was serving mocktails to drunk uncles and watching heartbreaks unfold under dim lights and cheap cologne.
That's where I met him.
Sultanji. The man with a voice like velvet and eyes like murder.
The night was humid. My kurti stuck to my skin, and I had just finished breaking up a drunk couple who were fighting over the bill (spoiler alert: neither paid). I was cleaning a table near the VIP section when the air changed.
