#Book 1 of HIS Series
Started On : August 2024
Completed On : [ONGOING]
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"When scars run deep, can love heal?
Meet two broken souls, hiding their agony behind masked smiles.
She has suffered unimaginable pain at the hands of someone she trusted.
...
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I was walking back home, a cloth bag full of groceries swinging gently by my side, when a strange wave of uneasiness settled over me—thick and suffocating like humidity before a storm.
Instinctively, I paused, my eyes scanning the street. People passed by—some talking on phones, others busy in their own worlds. Yet something felt... off.
And then I saw him.
A man, probably in his mid-30s, standing across the road, belly protruding under his faded shirt, eyes locked on me with an expression that made my skin crawl. He didn't even try to hide it—his gaze travelled shamelessly from head to toe, lingering for far too long. His face curled into a half-smirk that made me want to gag.
He had the look of someone married—a cheap gold ring glinting on his finger—and yet there he was, eyeing a girl young enough to be his niece.
Disgust rose like bile in my throat.
Seriously? I thought. This is the type of man who probably preaches sanskaar at home and ogles at girls in public. Shameless.
Before I even realized, the word escaped my lips like reflex.
"Tharki."
A single word. Quiet, but firm enough to carry across the few feet between us.
He clearly heard it.
Because within seconds, his expression twisted, and from his end came a loud, vulgar retort.
"Tera baap hoga tharki... samjhi?"
(Your father must be a pervert... understood?)
I froze.
Not out of fear.
But out of sheer disbelief.
He really dragged my father into this? For what? To defend his sick behavior?
My hands balled into fists. My nails dug into my palms. I could feel the rage simmering, slowly reaching boiling point. But I took a deep breath. No. I wouldn't create a scene in the middle of the street. I was better than that. But I wouldn't back down either.
I turned toward him, meeting his disgusting gaze head-on.
"First of all," I began, voice cold and sharp like a knife's edge, "my father is a man who respects women. He doesn't stare at them like a dog eyeing meat. That alone proves that you're a certified, disgusting pervert."
His eyes narrowed. His smirk vanished.
"And secondly," I continued, voice louder now, "does your wife know how you behave when she's not around? Should I call her? Or better yet, call the police? Let's see how brave you are when someone actually holds you accountable."
