☆Clash of Souls: Reunited Book one of Twisted Souls series ☆( part-1)
This book is divided into two parts
And this one is part -1
𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈 𝐁𝐇𝐀𝐓 × 𝐕𝐘𝐀𝐀𝐍 𝐌𝐄𝐇𝐑𝐀
What if childhood friends, now bitter rivals, are forced into an arranged...
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Enjoy reading this chapter🎀.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆
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DRITI:
"Wear your seatbelt, Mrs. Mehra," he commanded, the edge in his voice as sharp as the tension that crackled between us.
I refused, folding my arms defiantly across my chest. "I won't. I'm fine like this," I shot back, my gaze fixed firmly on the world outside the window.
The city blurred by, a streak of colors and shapes that matched the tumultuous inside me. I could feel his anger radiating from the driver’s seat, palpable and suffocating. But honestly, what did he expect? I didn’t ask him to drag me away from my sanctuary—the studio that had been my refuge.
I’d been content, lost in a world of paint and canvas, when he had come barging in, breaking down the walls I had carefully constructed around my heart.
Now he was angry at me for… what? For not playing along with his demands? I should be the one fuming, not him. I let the silence stretch, wrapping myself in it like a shield.
My legs crossed tightly, arms still guarding my chest, I refused to let him see how much his moods affected me. I was the one who should be furious. Yet here I was, feeling the weight of his discontent pressing down on me. Just a moment longer.
I thought, keeping my eyes on the window. I wouldn’t let him win this round.
He unclipped his seatbelt with a sharp snap and turned toward me, frustration mingling with something deeper in his gaze—an intensity that made the air between us crackle.
“Driti Mehra,” he started, his voice low and careful, as if navigating a minefield. The weight of my name hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
“Stop calling me that,” I shot back, my tone sharper than I intended. The title felt like a cloak I wasn’t ready to wear, one that reminded me of the tangled mess of our marriage—a union that felt more like a prison than a partnership. Even after two months.
"Stop calling you what?" Vyaan’s voice holds a mix of confusion and frustration, his gaze narrowing as he tries to read my expression.
"Driti Mehra," I spit out, each word sharper than the last. My voice is colder than ice now, freezing the air between us, daring him to challenge me. There’s no warmth left in it—only the brittle, unyielding truth.
