𝔸 ʳᵒᵐᵃⁿᶜᵉ, ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ᵈᵉˢⁱʳᵉ ʷᵉᵃʳˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜˡᵒᵃᵏ ᵒᶠ ᵐʸˢᵗᵉʳʸ, ᵃⁿᵈ ᵖᵃˢˢⁱᵒⁿ ᵗʰʳⁱᵛᵉˢ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵃʳᵗ ᵒᶠ ˢᵉᶜʳᵉᵗˢ.
𝕍𝕚𝕓𝕙𝕒𝕧 ℝ𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕣𝕖
the formidable entrepreneur, is 30 years old. This age places him at a juncture where his past and future converge, shaping h...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
“I told you once. I don’t want to eat...” My voice trembled, but I forced the words out, laced with bitterness.
“I AM NOT GOING TO EAT!” I yelled, shoving the plate away. The servant recoiled, eyes wide, but said nothing. Silence hung heavy, broken only by the soft clatter of food spilling onto the floor.
I sank onto the rough, sun-scorched balcony floor, legs drawn to my chest.
From here, only the wild tangle of bushes and jagged, sandy rocks were visible—harsh and unyielding, just like this place. The sun beat down, burning my skin, but I welcomed the sting.
At least it reminded me I was still alive.
Four days. Four endless days of refusing food, surviving on water alone.
My body felt weak—tremors danced through my limbs, and hunger gnawed at me relentlessly.
My stomach twisted, but the pain was a bitter comfort. Better to endure this slow, agonizing death than to let him consume me, body and soul.
I collapsed back onto the stone floor, eyes fluttering closed.
The heat seeped into my bones, blurring the edges of my thoughts. Maybe I could burn away here—let the sun scorch me to dust.
It seemed kinder than the life he wanted to carve out of me.
After that day, he didn’t come to see me. I was relieved. I even hoped he’d never come—to find me dead if it came to that.
Then, footsteps.
I glanced up, vision blurred. Someone’s feet stood inches away.
I forced myself upright, pressing my back against the cold metal of the balcony grill.
He crouched down, eyes locking onto mine.
But why did he look...concerned? Anger flickered in his gaze, but was that fear too? Fear for me?
I stayed silent, waiting.
He exhaled deeply, frustration etched into every line of his face.
My hair hung loose, strands sticking to my sweaty skin, but his expression remained hard.
“Do you really think starving yourself will make you happy?” he asked, voice dripping with disdain.
I smirked. “It makes me happy. At least I can choose something for myself.”
His jaw clenched, anger coiled beneath the surface.
“I told you, I don’t care about your family,” he growled. “But...you care about them, don’t you?”
My eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
He leaned closer. “Consider this, a warning. If you don’t eat today, one of my family members—what’s his name, Shubham? Stays in a hostel for college, right? He’s there now.”
