CHAPTER IX FALSE CESSION
Ishaani woke up wrong.
That was the first thing she understood—before light, before sound, before sense.
Wrong in the way the body knows before the mind can argue it down.
Wrong like a note struck slightly off-key, still humming under the skin, vibrating through bone and breath.
Something had shifted while she slept, and her body was already keeping score.
The ceiling above her was unfamiliar.
Her room—but not her room. The fan rotated slower than the one she’d grown up counting at night.
The curtains were heavier, darker, swallowing the morning instead of letting it spill in.
The air smelled clean and expensive, layered with sandalwood and something sharper beneath it.
Something that felt deliberate. Like it had hands.
She blinked once. Then again.
That was when she saw the scarf.
Soft silk. Charcoal-grey. Knotted neatly, intentionally, around her wrist.Ishaani stared at it like it might move on its own.
“What the fu—”
Memory did not trickle in. It crashed.
Heat. A door closing. The unmistakable sound of a lock sliding home. A voice low enough to be felt rather than heard, pressing into her nerves. Hands that knew exactly where to pause. Where to wait. Where restraint itself became a threat.
Tara.
Oh my Lord!
Ishaani sat bolt upright and immediately regretted it, because her body lit up like a crime scene—every nerve awake and accusatory, screaming so we’re doing this now? Her thighs clenched on instinct, and she slapped a hand over her face, groaning.
“One time,” she muttered hoarsely. “One fucking time, and I lose my mind.”
She tugged the scarf closer, thumb rubbing the silk like it might answer her. It was unmistakably Tara’s. She’d seen it a dozen times—looped around her neck during late nights, abandoned on chair backs like she owned the space around her simply by existing.
Why was it on her wrist? Was that Tara Kapoor staking her claim? Why did that make her chest ache and her jaw tighten at the same time.
She fell back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling as if it might confess something. It didn’t. It only watched. Silent. Judgmental.
Images kept intruding anyway—sharp, vivid, uninvited. Tara’s mouth near her ear. Tara’s breath. Tara saying her name like it was a verdict. Like a promise. Like a warning that had teeth.
Ishaani squeezed her eyes shut.
'Get it together. Get it the fuck together.'
Downstairs, the house was already alive. Too alive. Cups clinked. Voices overlapped. Screens hummed to life. Sahastra mornings didn’t pause for emotional fallout or existential spirals.
She showered fast, water scalding, trying to scrub the night off her skin. It didn’t work. Every place her fingers passed felt…aware. Like her body had learned something new and had no intention of forgetting it.
She dressed quickly—jeans, tank, hoodie—then stopped, staring at the scarf again, but she didn’t take it off. She couldn't find the marrow to take off something which Tara had put on her.
She loosened it, hid it under her sleeve, and kept it there. Pressed against her pulse. A secret she wasn’t ready to surrender.
'Bad idea. Terrible idea. No regrets.'
By the time she reached the kitchen, she was vibrating. Vedika was already there, hair tied up, glasses on, leaning against the counter with a mug in one hand and a tablet in the other. Tara sat at the dining table, laptop open, posture precise, expression neutral enough to pass for bored.
Too neutral.
Too far.
Ishaani registered the distance immediately. Three chairs. A full table. A deliberate ocean of restraint.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
Tara’s gaze flicked—brief, surgical—to Ishaani’s wrist. Then back to her face. Nothing else gave her away, but her jaw tightened, barely and Ishaani almost combusted.
She dropped into a chair beside Vedika, legs bouncing. “Morning,” she said, voice cracking like she’d just discovered sin and caffeine at the same time.
Vedika eyed her over the rim of her mug. “You look… energetic.”
“I always am, didi.”
Tara didn’t look at her again, which was a crime. A felony. Ishaani kept stealing glances anyway—at the way Tara’s sleeves were rolled just enough, at the clean line of her throat, at how composed she looked while Ishaani felt one breath away from self-destruction.
Every time Tara shifted, Ishaani’s thoughts short-circuited.
Why is she sitting so far? Why does she look like that? Why do I know what her collarbone tastes like?
She curled her fists under the table.
Work cut through the tension like a blade. Screens filled with data. C1PH3R’s voice crackled through the speakers, sharp and irritated.
“I’m close,” he said. “But whoever built this firewall was paranoid and rich. Nasty combination.”
“Any confirmation on Sen?” Vedika asked.
“Yes. Aurobindo’s movements line up with laundering patterns. Rajveer Malhotra too. I’m pulling timestamps.”
Tara nodded, fingers flying. Focused. Professional. Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with proximity.
Ishaani watched her like fire contained behind glass.
The doorbell rang.
Once.
Clean. Precise.
Heels clicked against marble.
And then—
The front door opened.
Devika Rajvanshi stepped inside.
Tailored suit. Hair pulled back. Presence like the atomic bomb deciding to announce itself. She scanned the room in a heartbeat, clocked everything, and then her gaze softened the instant it landed on Ishaani.
“There you are,” Devika said, voice velvet over steel. “You didn’t think I’d miss Diwali, did you?”
Ishaani was already moving.
She collided with Devika without dignity or restraint, arms tight, face buried, breathing her in—authority, safety, home. Devika held her the way she always did: one arm firm, the other protective, hand steady at the back of Ishaani’s head.
“My baby,” Devika murmured. “Missed me?”
Amaya whooped. “SURPRISE QUEEN HAS ARRIVED.”
Vedika laughed, relief written all over her. Tara watched from the table, unreadable—but her eyes never left Ishaani.
The scarf stayed hidden.
But it burned.
And when Tara finally stood, re-establishing distance with practiced ease, control locking neatly back into place, Ishaani understood with chilling clarity that one night hadn’t changed everything.
It had only opened the door.
“DEVIIII DIIIIII,” Amaya wailed, already halfway across the living room. “What did you bring me?”
Devika set her bag down with surgical calm, slipped off her heels, and replied, “A sense of responsibility.”
Amaya froze. “That’s rude.”
Vedika grinned. “Please tell me you brought her a brain. I’m begging.”
Laughter cracked through the room. Even Tara let out a quiet huff. Ishaani watched Vedika’s shoulders drop, tension easing—the relief of someone finally handing the weight back to its rightful owner.
Devika shook her head fondly. “You’re all feral. Geneva could never prepare me for this.”
“And yet,” Amaya said smugly, “you always come back.”
“Because of her,” Devika replied instantly, eyes already on Ishaani.
Ishaani froze.
Devika crossed the room and cupped Ishaani’s cheek, her touch precise, powerful, devastatingly gentle. “How’s my star?”
“I missed you,” Ishaani said, voice small.
“I know,” Devika replied, kissing her forehead. “I always know.”
Later—much later—after tea and noise and layered conversations, Ishaani escaped upstairs.
She had just collapsed onto her bed when a knock came.
Soft. Polite.
“Ishi?” Devika’s voice. “May I?”
“Yes,” Ishaani blurted. “Come in.”
Devika entered with a small paper bag and that unreadable smile. She shut the door behind her. “I heard you won again,” she said. “Student of the year. I’m running out of shelf space.”
She handed over the bag, which was held between her fingers. Inside were pens—beautiful, weighted, absurdly expensive. The kind meant for signatures that changed lives. Ishaani made a sound that cracked her own heart.
“And,” Devika added, handling the slightly larger bag hooked over the other arm. Ishaani frowned taking it in her own hands, as she peeped inside.
Taylor Swift. The Life of a Showgirl Vinyl.
Ishaani's eyes widened as she staggered. “You—how—this is—”
“I have connections,” Devika said calmly. “And taste.”
“I will die for you Devi di,” Ishaani whispered, as she launched into Devika's arms, hugging her tighter than a rubberband snapping into place.
“I expect loyalty,” Devika replied, serene, as she caressed Ishaani's head which still reached her shoulder.
__________________
Later still, Ishaani lay on her bed, controller idle in her hands, while Vedika and Amaya argued at her feet. Devika sat nearby, watchful.
The door opened, through which Tara Kapoor walked in. Similar to a moth attracted to the flame, Ishaani straightened instantly as if even a close proximity to Tara demanded sheer order and force.
Tara spoke to Vedika. “I’m going to get some work done.”
Ishaani almost said stay, please.
The word died, for she knew if she let it escape, she would never seen the end of it.
She had no idea how her sisters would react, and if she swore on the last piece of truffle in the fridge, she had no wish to reveal how they felt regarding the situation.
If they felt fine, Ishaani would be ecstatic yet on the other hand, if they were unwilling, that would shatter Ishaani.
Tara’s gaze flicked to her—warning, quiet, absolute. The gaze that depicted the challenge behind Tara's eyes ever present, daring Ishaani to even try acting like some puppy with attachment issues.
Ishaani obeyed, for she didn't have a wish to annoy Tara or go against her instruction.
Tara walked to the door again, and Ishaani breathed out, yet she forgot that Tara Kapoor makes everything eventful.
Tara raked her hand through Ishaani's hair in a 'ruffle' and then walked out.
Yes, it appeared as teasing but....in what way?
Ask Ishaani who's heartbeat was practically a horse going wild.
Devika watched Ishaani closely. Curious. Measuring. Saying nothing.
Not yet.
And that restraint—
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
_______________
Diwali morning arrived like a breath the house had been holding for years—finally released.
Light spilled in soft and honeyed through every window, catching on marigold garlands still damp with morning dew.
They clung to the banisters like small suns, fragrant and alive.
The air was thick with ghee and incense and sugar syrup, sweet enough to settle on the tongue.
Somewhere, an old Hindi song played low—not loud enough to command attention, just enough to feel like memory humming through the walls.
A diya had already been lit. Another followed.
The house woke gently, reverently, as if it knew today mattered.
Ishaani came downstairs barefoot, hair loose around her shoulders, still wrapped in the half-softness of sleep.
And froze.
Her father was home.
He stood near the doorway like a trespasser with a surname—expensive kurta, immaculate posture, face carved into polite indifference.
His presence bent the room, sharp and uncomfortable, like furniture placed wrong on purpose.
He did not look at her. Did not look at Sneha.
Did not look at Amaya or Vedika either. He acknowledged Devika with a nod that held more ego than respect.
Ishaani did not hesitate.
She walked straight past him and wrapped herself around Devika’s waist, burying her face into her sister’s stomach like the world had not yet learned how to wound her. Like she was still small enough to hide there.
Devika’s hand came down immediately—firm, sure, protective—fingers threading into Ishaani’s hair. “Hey,” she murmured, steady as stone. “I’ve got you.”
Sneha watched from the kitchen, jaw tight but eyes soft. Vedika let out a sharp exhale and muttered something deeply obscene. Amaya rolled her eyes and reached for sweets with the ease of someone who had done this dance before.
No one said his name.
No one centered him.
The decision was silent and unanimous: he does not get today.
They moved around him like he was furniture—set the table, arranged the thalis, laughed louder than necessary, talked over one another on purpose. He stayed barely an hour. Long enough to remind them why peace was a choice. Then he left, the door shutting behind him with a hollow, definitive sound.
The house exhaled. Finally.
“Okay,” Vedika said, clapping her hands once. “We’re not letting that asshole tank the vibe. Everyone back to work.”
By afternoon, the house glowed.
Lights blinked along the driveway. Rangoli bloomed across the floor like spilled gemstones—turmeric, vermilion, indigo, joy made visible. Devika changed into silk that whispered authority. Amaya wore something bright and unapologetic. Vedika looked lethal in ivory and gold.
Ishaani was upstairs, halfway through losing a war with her kurti, when the front door opened downstairs.
Tara Kapoor arrived like a ritual.
Red and gold.
A saree draped with surgical precision—pleats falling clean, pallu heavy with embroidery, the smallest sliver of her waist visible where gold met skin.
A waistchain caught the light with every movement, deliberate and indecent.
Heels added height she did not need. Her hair was pinned back just enough to expose her neck, bare and unguarded.
Ishaani, peeking from the stair landing, forgot how to breathe.
Vedika complimented her best friend whilst Amaya grinned like she’d just been handed a secret. Even Devika paused to look Tara over. Tara simply inclined her head politely. Serene. Composed. Lethal. It's not like the Goddess was surprised at the number of devotees at her altar.
Ishaani retreated upstairs like she’d been struck.
A knock came minutes later.
“Ishaani,” Tara’s voice called, warm and familiar and dangerous in its ease. “Are you getting dressed or planning to face Diwali in pajamas?”
“I was just—” Ishaani’s voice came out muffled, arms trapped above her head. “I am—I swear—”
The door opened after a polite knock.
Tara stopped short.
Ishaani was mid-disaster—kurti tangled around her shoulders, arms flailing, hair stuck to her face, dignity absolutely missing in action.
Tara laughed. Soft. Unguarded.
“Oh,” she said gently. “You’re fighting it.”
“It’s winning,” Ishaani groaned. “Don’t just stand there—”
Tara stepped forward, hands gentle but assured, guiding the fabric down, freeing Ishaani’s arms one by one. Her fingers brushed skin—shoulder, wrist, back—each touch deliberate, careful, intimate in a way that felt almost reverent.
“There,” Tara murmured. “Breathe.”
Ishaani did not breathe.
She looked up at Tara—at the red, the gold, the way she looked like celebration given a body.
“You look…” Ishaani swallowed hard. “You look unreal.”
Tara’s hands stilled.
“That’s not fair,” Tara said quietly.
“It’s true,” Ishaani pressed, stepping closer without thinking. “You look like you walked out of a prayer.”
Tara turned away sharply, jaw tight. “Enough.”
But her ears were pink.
She reached out and tapped Ishaani’s cheek lightly. Once. Then again. A reprimand disguised as affection.
“Put your heels on,” she said, control sliding neatly back into place. “Come downstairs.”
The pooja passed in light and sound—bells ringing, flames dancing, Devika’s voice steady and commanding, Vedika focused, Amaya restless. Ishaani stood between her sisters, Tara just a step behind her, close enough that her presence felt like a hand at Ishaani’s back.
(Pooja— praying to the Lord)
When it was done—when the father was gone again, when laughter returned without restraint—they stepped outside.
The lawn glowed. Lights reflected off marble. Firecrackers burst in the distance.
They stood together—sisters, chosen and born—watching the night bloom. Firstly, Ishaani did not reach for Tara for she knew in that moment, the hand in hers was supposed to be her sisters'. But Tara stood close enough that Ishaani didn't have to mourn fir the distance.
And for once, that was enough.
_______________
The Sens arrived as the diyas were being relit.
Aurobindo Sen stepped through the gates like a man convinced the world owed him quiet respect—crisp kurta, calm eyes, a smile that never reached the bone. Debina Sen followed, silk-draped and watchful, grace practiced to muscle memory.
And behind them—
Nayonica.
Ishaani’s breath stuttered so violently it felt like a punch from the inside.
Nayonica Sen looked exactly the same and entirely different. Same posture. Same dark hair pulled back too tightly. Same sharp mouth that had once whispered jokes into Ishaani’s shoulder at three in the morning. But her eyes were colder now. Guarded. Closed.
She smiled at Devika. Hugged Vedika. Ruffled Amaya’s hair like nothing had ever broken.
She did not look at Ishaani.
Sneha welcomed them with polished warmth, tea poured, sweets offered. Polite laughter filled the cracks. Hospitality arranged like flowers over fractures.
Across the courtyard, Tara stood with Devika and Vedika, all three watching Aurobindo like surgeons studying a malignant scan.
He laughed too easily.
Tara’s gaze flicked to Ishaani—and paused.
Ishaani stood rigid near the steps, hands clenched, jaw tight, eyes shining too brightly. Holding herself together with thread and prayer.
Tara frowned, barely.
“Is she okay?” Tara murmured.
Vedika followed her gaze and went still. “Fuck,” she said quietly. “That bad.”
“Eyes open,” Devika said, never looking away from Aurobindo.
The evening continued like a play everyone knew by heart. Plates passed. Laughter rose. Aurobindo spoke of philanthropy and education with sincerity polished to a mirror sheen.
Ishaani barely heard him.
All she could see was Nayonica’s profile. The tilt of her head. The space where Ishaani used to stand.
She tried. Once. Twice.
Finally, desperate, she touched Nayonica’s arm.
“Nayon,” she whispered. “Can we talk? Just a minute.”
“I’m good,” Nayonica said coolly, not turning. “No need.”
The words cut.
“Please,” Ishaani said.
Nayonica sighed sharply and finally faced her. “Fine. Outside. Don’t make a scene.”
The garden was dressed up like a lie told beautifully.
Fairy lights spilled gold through the trees, draped low and careless, casting soft halos that blurred edges and softened sins.
Shadows pooled beneath the hedges, thick and knowing.
The night was warm in that dangerous way—inviting, indulgent—while the house behind them breathed like a living thing, laughter muffled through glass, voices colliding, plates clinking as if nothing important was happening anywhere at all.
They stopped near the divans, velvet cushions catching the light.
For a long moment, they just stood there, two figures suspended between past and present.
Ishaani’s chest hurt with the effort of not speaking first. Nayonica’s posture was rigid, arms crossed, jaw set—defensive architecture built brick by brick over months of absence.
“I’m sorry,” Ishaani said finally, the words tumbling out too fast, already fraying. “I know that doesn’t fix anything. I just— I need you to know I’m sorry.”
Nayonica looked at her like she was an unfinished sentence. “You think that’s enough?” she snapped. “You think you get to say sorry and I just nod and forgive you like this is a bad group project?”
“I didn’t say that,” Ishaani said, voice low, careful.
“You disappeared,” Nayonica shot back, anger breaking through restraint. “One day we were everything. We were us. And the next—you were gone. No call. No explanation. You fucked me and then filed me away like paperwork.”
The words landed sharp. Ishaani flinched anyway.
“I loved you,” Nayonica said, tears blazing now, unstoppable. “Since we were fifteen, Ishaani. Fifteen. I waited. I stayed. I watched you figure yourself out, and I was patient and I was there. And when you finally touched me like you meant it—when you finally chose me—I thought, fuck, this is it.”
“I know,” Ishaani whispered. Her voice cracked straight through. “I know.”
“No,” Nayonica said, bitter. “You don’t. You don’t know what it feels like to wake up and realize the person you trusted most decided you were optional.”
Ishaani stepped closer, tears spilling now, uncontained. “I was scared,” she said. “Not of you. Never you. I was scared of myself. Of how much I needed you. Of how real it felt.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“It’s not,” Ishaani agreed. “It’s the truth. I ran because loving you felt like standing too close to the sun. And I was a coward.”
Nayonica’s breath hitched, sharp and betrayed.
“You were my constant,” Ishaani continued, the words soft but devastating. “My anchor. The person who knew how I take my tea and how I spiral when I think I’ve disappointed someone. Losing you felt like losing language.”
Silence stretched between them, fragile and vibrating. Nayonica’s shoulders sagged, just a fraction.
“You ruined me,” she said quietly. “And I hate that I still miss you.”
“I miss you every day,” Ishaani replied. “I thought I’d lost you forever.”
“You almost did.”
Nayonica turned away and sank onto one of the divans, staring up at the fairy lights like they might offer absolution. Ishaani followed, sitting beside her—close, but not presumptuous. The distance mattered.
“I really thought I lost you,” Ishaani said.
“I was afraid you had,” Nayonica admitted.
After a long hesitation, Ishaani gently wrapped an arm around Nayonica’s, pulling it to her chest like something breakable, sacred. “You’re my best friend, Nayon.”
Nayonica closed her eyes. “Don’t fuck this up again.”
“I won’t.”
Under the gold-lit sky, with the house murmuring behind them and monsters smiling somewhere inside, something broken made a quiet, stubborn decision to mend.
They stayed there, not speaking. The fairy lights hummed overhead, golden and offensively pretty, as if the universe had no idea it had just watched two people rip each other open.
Somewhere inside, someone laughed. Life continued, rude and unbothered.
Nayonica leaned back against the divan, eyes fixed on the canopy of lights like she was counting them, like if she stayed busy her chest wouldn’t cave in.
“You know what fucked me up the most?” she asked finally.
Ishaani shook her head. “Tell me.”
“You didn’t even fight for me,” Nayonica said. “Not once. I was ready to scream. To beg. To burn bridges. And you just vanished. Like I wasn’t worth the mess.”
Ishaani stared at her hands—scarred knuckles, faint veins, hands built to hit and defend, never to stay. “I thought if I stayed,” she said slowly, “I would ruin you. I was spiralling. I didn’t know how to be someone safe.”
“So you decided for me?”
“Yes.” Ishaani met her gaze. “And I was wrong.”
The silence that followed was gentler. Less sharp.
“I loved how intense you were,” Nayonica said softly. “You felt things so hard it scared people. Me included. But I loved it.”
“I still do,” Ishaani said. “Feel. Care. Hurt.”
Nayonica huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. I can tell.”
She hesitated, then asked the question that had been poisoning her for months. “Was I just… convenient?”
“No,” Ishaani said immediately.
“Then what was I?”
“You were home,” Ishaani said, voice breaking. “You were the person who saw me without the performance. You were too important—and I didn’t trust myself not to destroy that.”
“You should’ve let me decide if I was worth the risk.”
“I know.”
They sat shoulder to shoulder now. Ishaani’s arm stayed looped around Nayonica’s, grounding, real.
“You hurt me,” Nayonica said.
“I know.”
“And I don’t forgive you yet.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
“But,” Nayonica added, quieter, “I miss my best friend more than I hate you.”
Ishaani leaned forward, resting her forehead briefly against Nayonica’s shoulder, reverent. “I’ll earn it,” she said. “Slowly. Properly.”
Nayonica studied her for a long moment, then nodded once. A warning. A truce. “You don’t get to disappear again.”
“I won’t.”
“Okay,” Nayonica said. “We try. Carefully.”
Ishaani smiled through tears. “Carefully is my new religion.”
That earned a real laugh—rough, unpolished, honest.
They stayed there beneath the lights, the future uncertain but stitched together with truth instead of fantasy. From the balcony above, unseen, Tara watched Ishaani’s shoulders finally relax—and let herself breathe.
Not everything broken was lost. Some things just needed to be sat with.