The illegitimate daughter of a powerful businessman, she was sent to live with her six half-brothers after her father's sudden death.
The boys were born from privilege, pride, and perfectly manicured bloodlines. No one welcomed her. No one cared.
De...
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I hadn't even realised I'd been holding my breath until I heard his voice—low, slightly rough around the edges, but lined with something I couldn't name.
"Maheer? What happened? Come inside."
His concern surprised me. Not that I hadn't seen glimpses of humanity behind his granite expression before, but this... this felt different.
I stepped in on the dying rush of adrenaline, my heart hammering in my ears, though now—I didn't even know if I wanted to ask for his help anymore. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should just leave.
But this isn't about me. This isn't about bruised pride or the jagged past stretched between us like a torn map.
This is about lives. Innocent girls who don't even know they're standing at the edge of a cliff.
And maybe—just maybe—he could help. Or maybe not.
I stood there awkwardly, unsure of where to look, unsure of how to start, when Atharyu's voice interrupted my spiraling thoughts again.
"Sit, Maheer," he said gently, motioning toward the couch. His tone had no command in it—just... invitation.
I sat. Stiffly. Like my spine was made of glass.
The next moment, a glass of water appeared in front of me.
"Here," he said simply. No fuss.
I took it. Just a sip. Just enough to let the burn in my throat fade.
He sat on the armrest of a nearby chair, watching me with an expression that was frustratingly unreadable.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "Are you not feeling well? Should I call a doctor?"
His words tumbled quickly, one over the other, a rare crack in his usual polished detachment.
Before I could stop him, he was already pulling out his phone. "Wait, let me—"
"No!" My voice came out more forceful than I intended. I sucked in a breath and tried again, calmer this time. "I'm fine. It's not that. It's something else."
He looked at me then—not with suspicion or irritation—but with... patience.
"Okay," he said simply. "Then let me make you some coffee. We'll talk."
I gave him a quick nod, mostly to buy time. Time to gather myself. Time to make sense of the thousand tangled things inside my chest.
When he returned, he handed me a cup carefully wrapped in a folded handkerchief.
"So it doesn't burn your hand," he murmured, placing it gently in mine.
Something tightened in my chest. A flicker of warmth.
He settled into the seat across from mine, not too close, not too far. Just enough to make it feel... safe.
