Devansh Roy is a 29-year-old, cold-hearted businessman whose activities extend beyond the white-collar world into something far scarier. He has a past he's never shared, which has left his soul hollow. He cares for his siblings and grandparents-but does he love them? According to him, there's no such thing as love.
The truth? There was someone who once made him feel. Thirteen years ago, a girl entered his life like a chirping bird-his "Birdie." She stood by him when no one else did, the clingy, nerdy girl he secretly admired for her sweetness and shy nature. She turned his last two years at boarding school in Kasol, far from home, into a lifetime memory. But destiny had other plans-and so did Dev.
Devashika is now the proud owner of a small pottery business, a dream she fought hard to build. Raised in a family of lawyers, it was always assumed she would follow the same path. No offense to her family, but her heart was never in the courtroom. She loves Chandigarh-the familiarity of it, the roots it holds-but her dreams pointed her somewhere different, toward creating art that breathes life into clay. With each piece she crafts, she blends old traditions with a modern touch.
She's come far, though she lost a lot along the way, including the boy she once fell in love with in school. She doesn't know where he is or what he looks like now. But there's a lot more she doesn't know-a secret he hid during their two years together.
Her best friend brings her life-changing news: a company named "Ecoluxe" is seeking art pieces for its new hotels, creating opportunities for local businesses.
But someone lurks in the shadows, set to disrupt their lives. Devansh's only option now is to keep his Birdie under his wing-whether by force or by love. Yet he must keep his identity hidden from her.
THE SINGHANIA SAGA
Book-1
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"You're acting like a boy chasing after a fantasy. This isn't love. When she leaves you-because, trust me, she will-you'll come crawling back here." she snapped.
This isn't love.
Yeah, no shit, it isn't.
Love was a lie. An elaborate, messy lie people told themselves to justify their selfishness. A convenient excuse for abandoning logic and reason, for making mistakes they had no right to make.
I'd spent my whole life watching it destroy people. My father loved my mother, or so he claimed, but all it ever brought them was pain. Screaming matching in the dead of the night. Shattered glasses on the marble floors. I'd grown up wading through the wreckage of their so-called love, and I'd sworn, I'd never let myself fall victim to it.
And I hadn't. Not really.
Because this wasn't love.
It couldn't be.
Love--if existed--was fragile. It could break. It could end. People fell out of it.
What I felt was unwavering. Unbreakable. It wasn't something I could lose or fall out of. It wasn't a fleeting moment or an illusion I'd be able to discard when things got too difficult. It was part of me, as much as my skin, my bones, my blood. It was something that would never fade.
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