BOOK ONE OF THE SUGAR AND SWEET SERIES
Vanya Sharma hated marriages. Growing up seeing troubled and failed marriages carved a bitter spot in her heart, especially when one of them belonged to her parents. While escaping the shadows of her past, she...
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D R A V Y A
Sunlight filters through the curtains like nature's way of mocking my terrible life choices. The golden rays slap my face with the subtlety of a Delhi auntie asking about my marriage plans. My head throbs—a deep, relentless beat, like a third-rate Bollywood item number that refuses to end.
I groan, clutching my temples, silently cursing shaitan ki chhati aulaad aka Kavya Arora. She always drags me into her chaos like I'm some helpless background character in the tragicomedy of her life. And I? Main bhi kya gadha hoon. No backbone. Always nodding along to her disastrous demands like some human bobblehead.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ignore the pounding in my skull. Maybe if I just go back to sleep, I can pretend last night never happened. Yes. Sleep is the answer. I reach out blindly, patting the bed beside me to find my phone—probably buried under a pillow or something.
But instead of cool sheets or the hard edge of my phone my hand brushes against something.
Soft. Silky. Strand-like.
I freeze. My entire body locks up like Windows 98 crashing after opening too many tabs. "Yeh kya hai?" I whisper, my voice a horrified croak.
Slowly—like in those horror movies where the protagonist should run but doesn't—I turn my head.
There's a girl.
A real girl.
Sleeping peacefully beside me, her bare body mostly covered with the comforter.
My brain short-circuits. Hey Bhagwan!
I scramble back so fast I forget the concept of "edges," tumble off the bed, and land with a spectacular thud that rattles my soul.
"AAARGH!"
The pain shoots up my spine, but even that is overshadowed by the existential horror crawling up my throat. I glance down, my horror only rising.
No.
No, no, no, no, NO.
I'm in my birthday suit.
COMPLETELY. NAKED.
The scream bubbling in my chest comes out as a choked gasp. I snatch the bedsheet like it's the last shred of my dignity—and it is. My mind is racing faster than my heart, which is thumping like it's auditioning for a drumline.
Flashbacks. Think, Dravya, think! But there's nothing. Just blurry flashes—laughing, noise, drinks. Kavya's fault. Obviously.
The girl stirs.
OH GOD NO.
Her eyes flutter open lazily, unaware of the full-blown panic attack happening two feet away from her. I sit there, frozen on the floor, clutching the sheet like it owes me rent, praying she goes back to sleep. Or that I die. Either option works.
