CHAPTER X DONT BREAK MY FAVOURITE TOYS
The marble floors of the Rajvanshi estate echoed again with the clatter of luggage wheels and polite chaos. Servants flitted back and forth with the fluid precision of a well-oiled clock. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and old money.
Ishaani was the first to hurtle down the grand staircase, hair tumbling around her face, socks nearly tripping her up. "Mummaaa!" She squealed, launching herself at her mother.
Ishaani's mother- Sneha Bose-Rajvanshi -forty-five, radiant, the second wife and beautiful in a way that made rumors swirl-stumbled, but her arms caught Ishaani. The scent of sandalwood and exhaustion from a long-haul flight enveloped them both.
"Oh, you'll crush my spine, baccha (my child)," her mother laughed, swatting Ishaani's shoulder. "What are you, a mountain gorilla now?" Mumma said, as she let her lithe hand caress the bumps and ridges of Ishaani's shoulder under the thin night shirt.
"Only if gorillas give the best hugs," Ishaani mumbled, face still buried in her mother's saree.
Her mother hummed, patting her back. "You only say 'missed you' when you want something sweet."
Ishaani grinned, peering up. "Maybe I missed you ....and your cooking. You'll never know."
"Ha, I know everything." She ruffled her daughter's hair. "You want almonds or pistachios this time?"
Ishaani's eyes widened. "Both! Please, both!"
Behind them, the heavy front door groaned open, and there he was-Mr. Rajvanshi, the man the house orbited around, whether willingly or not. He stepped inside, grey streaks standing out against sharply combed hair, his jaw as severe as his mood.
Raghav Rajvanshi-Industrial magnate | Founder Chairman of Rajvanshi Infrastructure Power Limited (RIPL)---- was the kind of man newspapers called "visionary" and the underworld called "untouchable.
" A self-made mogul in public eyes, he built his empire on steel, land, and silence.
Every contract signed under his name carved a little more control into the country's veins - highways, power grids, water plants - all roads, quite literally, lead back to him.
Also a Political consultant to state development boards, the man held his reins tighter than the bindings of his heart.
Behind closed doors, he's an architect of fear. A believer in hierarchy and "discipline," he measures worth by obedience and loyalty, not morality. His wealth buys him politicians, police loyalty, and the kind of invisibility that only comes from owning half the system.
He runs his empire like his family - with dominance dressed as duty. The world sees a philanthropist; his daughters see a tyrant who hides abuse under patriarchy and calls it tradition.
He paused just long enough to look Ishaani up and down. "Still hyperactive," he muttered, voice like ice in whisky. "She's twenty-three, not three."
Ishaani felt her smile flicker. "Good evening, Papa," she tried.
His attention had already shifted. He handed his jacket to a waiting servant and marched for the stairs, the click of his shoes echoing with disapproval. At the landing, he stopped, not looking back. "Dinner at eight. I do not want chaos."
Ishaani tried to laugh it off, but it crumpled into a weak exhale. She glanced at her mother, as if for reassurance, but she was already smoothing her saree, acting like nothing had happened.
Just then, Vedika breezed in, arms wide, power suit immaculate. "Beautiful people, look at you!"
She swept Ishaani and their mother into a fierce hug. "Mumma, did you miss me? Or did you just savor the peace?"
Amaya clicked up behind her, heels sharp as her smile. "Don't suffocate them, Vedika di! Mumma has just one spine and Ishaani needs her oxygen."
"Shush, mini Kardashian," Vedika teased, sticking out her tongue. "At least experience a hug before condemning it."
And then: Tara. Silent, poised at the hallway's edge. She stood apart, arms crossed lightly, hair flowing over her shoulder-a pillar of composed elegance.
"Welcome back, Aunty," Tara said, her voice low and velvet-smooth, every syllable measured. There was something in her gaze-warmth, distance, a glass wall only she could see through.
"Tara beta," Ishaani's mother replied, genuine warmth softening her features. "You're glowing as ever. I hope my jungle clan hasn't made you rethink friendship."
Tara's smile was a barely-there thing. "Not yet. But there's always time."
"See?" Their mother turned, eyes on Ishaani. "Learn from Tara, hmm? Composed, mature... Never uses her shoes as weapons."
Ishaani felt the whole room tilt. "Not everyone considers shoes weapons, Mumma. Some of us have personalities."
Vedika elbowed her. "Ishu's elegance is just... more kinetic. Like modern art!"
Amaya grinned. "Or like a rollercoaster right as it leaves the rails."
Laughter bubbled between them, breaking the tension. Yet in the corner of her eye, Ishaani saw Tara's mouth twitch.
Ishaani cleared her throat. "Yes, Mumma. Next time I'll wear five-inch heels and discuss human rights."
Tara, ever subtle, murmured: "Heels are overrated. I gave up after two hours at last year's function."
Vedika finally looked up. "That's because you can destroy egos in sneakers."
That got a laugh from everyone-except Ishaani. She felt the laughter swim around her, not quite able to join. Tara's eyes found hers, heavy with something unspoken. For half a second, the whole house hushed. Memories pressed in-night air, marble cold, whispered words never meant for light.
Just then, a servant coughed in the corner. Plates and glasses jangled-a reminder that life moved on even when hearts did not.
As the evening slithered through the hilly, uneven escapades of the daylight, the clatter of plates and cutlery filled the Rajvanshi dining room.
The parents and their three daughters along with Tara Kapoor who was forced to stay as a prerequisite request from Vedika, for the Rajvanshi knew she wouldn't be able to survive her Daddy dearest without shoving a glass shard in her eye.
The evening news hummed through the marble hall like a quiet parasite. The Rajvanshi estate was bathed in amber lamplight, expensive stillness wrapped around every surface like plastic over fruit. Only the flicker of the television disturbed it - channel anchors' voices echoing the nation's rot.
"Another woman found dead near Ghaziabad... Police suspect links to a trafficking ring expanding through Delhi NCR..."
The line froze in the air, poisonous and sharp.
Mr. Raghav Rajvanshi, seated at the head of the dining table, tore through his chapati (Roti) with methodical precision. His cufflinks glinted with quiet authority; his expression, unreadable.
"Of course that happens," he muttered, voice calm but venom-soaked. "Girls these days-no shame, no restraint. If you leave sweets out in the open, flies will come. Nature's rule."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Tara's fork clattered against her plate. Vedika's spine went rigid, every muscle screaming to hold composure. Amaya froze mid-scroll. And Ishaani-she just stared at him, wide-eyed, her nails digging crescents into her palm beneath the table.
Tara looked up, her tone deceptively soft. "You're saying those girls invited it?"
Raghav raised an eyebrow. "I'm saying-when modesty dies, society follows."
"Or maybe when men stop treating women like property," Vedika said suddenly, her voice steady, but her hand trembled against her glass. "You talk like-like we're things to be guarded, not people to be respected."
Her father's eyes snapped up - glacial, cruel. "Watch your tone, Vedika."
"I'm watching it," she said, biting back fire. "Maybe you should watch what you glorify."
The table went cold.
Raghav's palm slammed against the mahogany, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "Enough! You forget who put you there, Vedika. Your law degree, your life-your name-all bought by my blood and my name. Don't act like your gender gives you the right to preach."
Ishaani's jaw tightened; she wanted to reach for her Vedika didi, but didn't. Not here.
Not in front of him. Her eyes followed the tightening of Tara's jaw and immediately let the realization dawn over her that the older woman was just as pissed, yet Ishaani condemned Tara for not letting her heart break through and speak out on that topic. A coward here too.
Vedika didn't flinch. She met his gaze head-on, fury burning like acid. "You didn't buy me, Papa. I earned everything you never believed I could."
A sharp inhale from Amaya. Ishaani's breath caught. Mrs. Rajvanshi turned away, the cowardice of habit dressed as silence.
Raghav leaned back, scoffing. "Ungrateful, like your dead-mother. This is what happens when women think they can have opinions."
The dead-mother. His first wife. Devika, Vedika and Amaya's mother.
The woman who couldn't even see the face of her youngest daughter before she died due to child birth.
The woman who did everything for the man she had the misfortune of referring to as Papa.
He was the sole reason for her mother's death and no one in the entirety of the world could suggest otherwise.
He wanted a son- someone to lead his business ventures, who would stay with him, think like him, perhaps become him- something not a daughter was capable of doing.
And the sudden rush of emotion as Vedika imagined her mother's grey eyes lulling her to sleep forged inside her mind, making her succumb to the embrace of silence.
Tara's voice -as she realized Vedika was deep in her mind to speak furthermore-- was low, deliberate, controlled-like a knife sheathed in silk. "Maybe you should be grateful that women still bother saving this country from men who think like you."
The room froze. Ishaani eyed her wide eyed, looking to and fro from Tara to her mother's husband. Holy Fuck, Tara Kapoor!
Raghav's gaze cut to her, slow and deadly. "And who are you to lecture me, Ms. Kapoor? You work for my daughter, not me."
Tara's smile didn't reach her eyes. "No, sir. WE work for truth. It's a dangerous occupation, I'll admit."
He opened his mouth-probably to spit something vile-but Vedika's phone buzzed, breaking the moment. A single message blinked on the screen, sender name glowing like a pulse in the dark: Cipher.
Arav 'Cipher' Menon; a freelancer hacker who operates under five aliases and zero morality clauses.
Once exposed a corporate embezzlement ring at seventeen just for "fun.
" He is Tara's off-the-grid contact - all sardonic charm.
He Became Tara's close acquaintance after realizing the sole purpose of her work.
And possibly, now her go-to whenever any cyber detonation was to be done.
Vedika caught Tara's eye. The same thought hit them both.
"Sit down," Raghav snapped.
But she didn't. She turned, spine straight, voice cool as frost. "I'd rather stand on my own than sit under your shadow."
The sound of her heels striking marble filled the vacuum he left behind. Tara followed without a word. Ishaani watching as she realized that her home life was more toxic than her love life.
____________
They reached Vedika's office upstairs - paper-strewn, half-lit, and alive with tension. Tara shut the door and turned to her, voice barely above a whisper.
"What did Cipher say?"
Vedika handed her the phone. "Military-grade encryption. He says he can see past it, but not through it. Whatever this is, someone's paying high to stay invisible."
Tara's brow furrowed. "If the firewall's that heavy, it's not petty corruption."
Vedika nodded slowly. "No. It's power laundering. Money. People."
Tara's heart clenched. "The trafficking."
Vedika exhaled. "Yes. But we can't prove it yet. And if he's right-whoever's behind it has government backing. Cipher's risking his neck."
Tara's phone buzzed again-Cipher's follow-up ping:
Tara's stomach dropped. "Vedika..."
Her voice trailed off.
They both knew what that name meant.
The Sahastra Initiative-the very NGO Tara and Vedika were working with to end trafficking.
A front. A fucking fa?ade.
Vedika stared at the phone like it might bite. "If that's true, we're walking into a minefield."
Tara's expression hardened. "Then we'll walk carefully. But we're not stopping."
---
Ishaani sat cross-legged on her mother's bed. She wore a faded cotton shirt, her hair cascading wildly, a dark river of curls that seemed to defy all attempts at taming.
Her mother, perched behind her with a comb, wrestled with the tangles that sprouted like weeds. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and memories, a comforting blend of home.
At the foot of the bed, Amaya sat cross-legged, her eyes sparkling as she dove into the latest wave of wedding gossip. "And then-get this-Devika di's old classmate tried to chat up the groom's cousin right in front of his wife. Full-on reality show, hand to heart."
Her mother erupted with laughter, the comb pausing mid-stroke. "You exaggerate more than your Rekha auntie," she quipped, her eyes dancing with mirth.
"I swear on Ishu's boxing gloves, Mumma!" Amaya exclaimed, raising her arms in mock protest, nearly tumbling off the bed.
"Don't swear on my gloves. That's disrespect," Ishaani groaned, but her voice held little weight against the infectious joy surrounding her.
"Please, as if anyone dares to touch them. You treat those gloves better than any boyfriend," Amaya teased, and Ishaani rolled her eyes.
"Oh, definitely," she drawled, "Romance is fleeting. Winning streaks are eternal."
Amaya burst into laughter, flopping backward onto a pillow. "Date a boxer, they said. Sure, if you like hospital bills."
"Sit still, shona," her mother chided, tugging at Ishaani's hair gently. "You keep squirming, these tangles will finish me."
"You threaten that every time, but here you are," Ishaani shot back, settling against her mother's knees, lulling into a moment of peace-a fleeting sanctuary from the outside world.
"Maybe I should let you walk around like a lost sheep," her mother responded, pinching her ear affectionately. It was a gesture of love wrapped in teasing familiarity.
Laughter faded, replaced by a blanket of warmth that came with the comfort of family. It was an atmosphere woven tightly, yet suddenly her mother's voice punctured the stillness, quiet yet sharp. "Your bruises haven't faded yet."
The comb froze in her mother's hand. Warm fingers traced along Ishaani's forearm, where purple blooms peeked from under her sleeve.
Amaya's laughter vanished, her expression shifting to concern. "Bruises? Ishu, what the hell?"
"It's fine. Just... fight stuff. I'm fine." Ishaani was quick to dismiss, but the weight of her words hung heavy in the air.
Vedika appeared in the doorway just in time to catch the tail end of it. "She fought like a lunatic last week. Even Tara yelled at her from the sidelines-like she has a death wish."
Tara's name slithered through the conversation, and the room became instantly cold, a gust of icy regret pulling at the edges of their laughter.
Ishaani schooled her expression, but inside, her pulse quickened. "Tara gets dramatic if someone chips a nail."
Vedika smirked, "She only yells when she cares, you know."
Their mother clicked her tongue, her disapproval tangible. "Well, someone needs to drill sense into this thick skull. Too many bruises, shona-no good man will love you if you keep this up."
The silence that followed landed heavily, like a stone sinking into a still pond.
Amaya broke it first, "Pfft, men are overrated. Scars look cooler anyway. Trust me, women will-"
Vedika's eyes widened, mouthing a silent warning, but it was too late.
Amaya grinned, relishing the mischief. "-Women will dig the scars."
Ishaani jolted, her gaze sharp. "Okay, that's enough-"
Her mother squinted, confusion flickering before realization struck. Her lips thinned as she snapped, "Amaya, don't start. I don't want her becoming one of... them." The words fell from her lips like a bitter pill, heavy with disdain.
A silence enveloped them, thick and suffocating. Even the television seemed to quiet, sensing the tension.
Vedika diverted her gaze to her phone, her expression suddenly very interested in the screen.
Amaya's smirk faded into unease, while Ishaani stared ahead, her jaw clenched tight.
Thoughts threatened to claw their way out, but she forced them down, inhaling the familiar scent of sandalwood and the weight of unspoken words.
Her mother resumed humming as if she hadn't just struck a blow that ricocheted through Ishaani's chest, a reminder of all she fought against and for.
Rising abruptly, Ishaani stood, braid half-finished, voice rough with restrained emotion. "I'll go call Nayonica. She promised to help with my practical readings."
Vedika's eyes followed her, apology evident, but unspoken. "Don't stay up too late, Ishu," she called after her.
"Yeah." Ishaani's voice was a vague echo, devoid of warmth, as she stepped out, the weight of her family's expectations pressing against her shoulders.
As she walked down the corridor, her stride stiffened with purpose. Her eyes caught the tantalizing glimpse of the study door ajar, and through it, she could see Tara, half-lit by lamplight, immersed in herpaperwork, head bent in soft concentration.
For a heartbeat, Ishaani paused, caught between the urge to flee and the desire to sink into the familiarity of Tara's presence. Their eyes met, a silent exchange sparking between them-questions lingering in the air, unresolved and heavy with the promise of emotions unspoken.
But she didn't have the words. Instead, she tore her gaze away, pressed her lips into a thin line, and continued down the corridor, leaving behind sandalwood and the weight of unvoiced feelings that refused to dissipate.
Tonight, she would call Nayonica. She needed to talk to someone who understood that love was not a thing to be ashamed of, nor was it a privilege reserved for those who lived in glass houses. It was a journey, complicated yet beautiful, waiting on the other side of her bruises and scars.
It was half past nine when Nayonica's phone buzzed-a single, urgent ring that sent a shiver up her spine. A message from Ishaani, terse and stripped of pretense:
"Can you come?"
No punctuation. No emojis. Just raw need. That was all Nayonica required.
Without responding, she grabbed her car keys, slipped into her jacket, and dashed out the door, adrenaline surging through her veins like she was in a high-stakes race.
The city of Delhi greeted her like a storm, as she raced toward the Rajvanshi estate, a place that always felt like a movie set, drenched in golden hues and echoes of silent sorrow.
When she arrived, the mansion loomed before her, sprawling and serene under the cloak of night.
Ishaani appeared at the gates before Nayonica even had a chance to honk, her eyes a stormy red-not puffy, just exhausted.
In an instant, Nayonica was out of the car and enveloping Ishaani in an embrace that spoke volumes more than words ever could.
It was an embrace that felt like possession, like a fierce promise to keep the world at bay for just a moment longer.
"Everything okay, beta?" A smooth, polite voice interrupted the intimacy-a voice that belonged to Mrs. Rajvanshi, standing poised at the door with her cup of chamomile tea, balancing propriety and concern with practiced ease.
Nayonica turned, immediately donning the mask of the dutiful daughter, a role she played well. "Good evening, Aunty. I'm so sorry for the late visit. Ishi called-she needed some help with her assignment, and I didn't want her stressing over it tonight."
Mrs. Rajvanshi's expression softened just a fraction, a moment of genuine appreciation piercing the armor of her usual maternal scrutiny.
"You're such a good girl, Nayonica. Unlike some people who only bring chaos into my evenings.
" Her glance fell sharply on Ishaani, a knife cloaked in motherly concern.
Ishaani ducked her head, the silence pregnant with unspoken words.
Before the air could grow heavy with awkwardness, a familiar voice sliced through-the crispness of Tara's presence palpable even before her silhouette emerged from the corridor, jacket thrown over her arm and irritation barely concealed.
"Oh-you're here," she stated, careful yet demanding, her gaze sharpening as it settled on Nayonica's hand anchored firmly at Ishaani's back. The atmosphere shifted; a tension thick enough to cut.
"Yes," Nayonica replied, inching just slightly closer to Ishaani, her posture casual but radiating a fierce protectiveness. "She called me. Needed someone to... hold her together, I suppose."
Tara's expression shifted, jealousy flickering through her features, but Nayonica met her stare with a calm confidence that felt almost like winning a battle in a war she fought alone.
Vedika stood silently beside Tara, darting glances between them, her instincts alert to the charged emotions simmering beneath their carefully crafted civility.
"Let's go, Tara," Vedika urged gently, sensing the storm brewing as she tugged her friend away.
But as they turned, Nayonica leaned closer to Ishaani, her voice a soft, seductive whisper meant for Tara's ears alone: "C'mon, princess. Let's go upstairs."
The word "princess" hung in the air, potent as thunder crashing under a delicate fa?ade.
Ascending the staircase, Ishaani remained quiet, each step weighed down by unspoken burdens, while Nayonica walked with a self-assured grin that could charm the devil himself.
Halfway up, she casually tossed out, "Hey, call the twins too, hmm?
They'll murder me if they find out I came without them. "
Ishaani nodded slightly, pulling her phone from her pocket as they reached the bedroom door.
Ishaani's cries echoed through the air, raw and ragged, a symphony of grief that wrapped around the walls and burrowed deep into Nayonica's heart.
It wasn't the delicate kind of sobbing; it was the bruising, broken type that made it feel as though every molecule of the house was straining to listen. Nayonica held Ishaani close, her arm a fortress around her, murmuring gentle reassurances, "Breathe, baby, breathe".
The moment they entered the bedroom, Ishaani had crumbled.
No warning, no prelude-just a quiet collapse of someone who had been holding her breath for far too long.
Nayonica didn't question what had happened; she didn't need to.
Instead, she had wrapped her arms tightly around Ishaani's waist, grounding her like gravity, allowing Ishaani to press her forehead into the comforting curve of Nayonica's collarbone.
"She said-she said she doesn't want me to be one of them," Ishaani gasped between sobs.
"Like I'm... diseased for just-" Her voice cracked, each word a struggle against the weight of her sorrow. "For just being me."
Nayonica's grip tightened, her fingers trailing softly against the fabric of Ishaani's shirt. "Hey, hey... breathe. Don't give her that power, okay? She doesn't define what kind of love you're allowed to have."
"I know," Ishaani whispered, her voice small and fragile. "But it still hurts."
Nayonica pressed her chin gently against Ishaani's head, the weight of her affection palpable. "I know, shona. I know." The term of endearment held a reverence that transformed their bond into something sacred, as if Nayonica had built a sanctuary around the girl trembling in her arms.
In that sanctuary, love flourished, tender and fierce, cloaked in the shadows of the night, each heartbeat a promise that they would face whatever came next, together.