"Playfully Ruined: Played by him, Ruined by her"
✦ A thrilling tale of ❖ obsession, ✹ dignity, ✦ dark romance, and ⟡ untold mysteries.
✧ Ambhreen Dashwant, a wealthy businessman, lives for control and manipulation.
✧ Indrani, a bold AI engineer, shi...
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The weekend had slipped by like sand through my fingers — a blur of family gatherings, school assignments, and unexpected chaos. Yesterday, my brother had the brilliant idea of a car race. And let me tell you — it was fire. Pure, reckless fire. That’s how my day flew: mornings crammed with revision, evenings echoing with laughter, and nights tangled in teasing and games with my brothers.
Today, though? Today was different.
Dad was home.
Finally, finally, after what felt like forever, I got to spend an entire day with him. Godji really does listen sometimes. But honestly, after all that bickering, gossiping, laughing, and playing, I was drained. Exhausted, in fact.
Now, lying sprawled across my bed, tangled in my blanket like a lazy burrito, I scrolled aimlessly through my phone — that is, until a notification lit up the screen. A message from Bakshi Sir. Great. A homework reminder. Just what I needed.
Homework? Already? I literally joined two days ago!
I groaned and tossed my phone somewhere onto the bed with a dramatic flair only I could master. Reluctantly, I reached for my English classwork and homework copies, hoping they’d magically complete themselves.
Of course not. The homework was based entirely on last class.
And last class? I was mentally absent — lost in observing someone else entirely.
Ambhreen.
His name crept into my thoughts like a whisper, and just like that, my mind drifted — again — into memories of him. My chin found its resting place on my palm, elbows planted against the mattress, legs swinging lazily like a daydreaming child.
His face. That stillness. That aloof, unreadable calm.
I shook myself, frustrated. “Get a grip, Indrani,” I muttered, dragging my thoughts away from his piercing, shadowed presence. With a sigh, I picked up my phone and texted the only person I could think of.
Me: “Neha, do you have the notes from Bakshi Sir’s class?”
A moment later, my screen lit up with her reply.
Neha: “Sorry, Indu! I don’t have them. But maybe ask that coldy— I mean, Ambhreen. He’s always super neat with his notes.”
Ask Ambhreen? Me?
The idea felt…awkward. I barely knew him. And despite his silent aura, or maybe because of it, reaching out to him made me weirdly nervous. But then again… I wouldn’t need to ask if I hadn’t spent the entire class distracted because of him.
Ugh. The irony.
But no — that wasn’t fair. “You can’t blame someone else for your own lack of focus,” I told myself. “And what’s so wrong in asking for help? You’re tuition mates, not strangers in a parallel universe.”
