Prayer in Silk

CHAPTER V HOW DID IT END?

The name didn’t just land in the room.

It fucking split it.

“Ishicka Malhotra Sen,” Vedika repeated, slower this time, each syllable dragged out like a blade across stone. Her jaw locked so hard it looked painful, the muscle ticking at her temple betraying the control she was barely holding together. “That psychotic, silk-wrapped cunt.”

The air went sharp. Charged. Like the room itself had teeth now.

Tara’s hands were already clenched, nails biting deep into her palms, grounding her through pain. Her voice came out low, venomous, stripped of softness. “I knew it. I knew that woman had rot in her bones. You don’t get that polished without hiding something feral underneath.”

Devika didn’t bother with restraint. She never did when it mattered.

“Ohkay,” she said calmly—too calmly—eyes dark, pupils blown wide with something lethal and patient. “I want this bitch in the fucking ground. Six feet under, preferably. I don’t care if we have to dig the grave ourselves.”

The words didn’t echo. They didn’t need to. They landed with the weight of intent, heavy and absolute, the kind that didn’t perform or posture. The kind that followed through.

Sneha inhaled sharply, the sound breaking.

“Devika—wait,” she said, shaken, hands trembling as she pressed them together like she might pray something back into order.

“Ishicka… she’s Mr. Sen’s daughter. You remember.

We’ve known that family for years. They came to dinners.

Weddings.” Her voice cracked as reality refused to cooperate.

“Plus Nayonica is her little sister. Ishaani’s best friend.

I don’t—” Her brows pulled together, disbelief etched deep. “This doesn’t make sense.”

Vedika let out a laugh with no humor in it. A sound scraped raw. “Oh, it makes perfect sense. Family friend doesn’t mean family safe. Half the monsters in this country were raised at dinner tables, Sneha.”

Tara took a step forward, then forced herself to stop, breath uneven, chest tight like it was being crushed from the inside.

“Rajveer Malhotra’s wife. Ishicka Sen before that,” she said, each word clipped and precise.

“The overlap isn’t coincidence. I can’t believe that bitch would still drop this low after we specifically talked to her.

” Her eyes flicked to Vedika, sharp and knowing.

“She knew we were digging. About the shells. The offshore accounts. The buried money. This is retaliation.”

Sneha shook her head, hands visibly trembling now. “But Ishaani—why Ishaani?” Her voice broke on the name. “She’s a child. She’s not—”

“She’s leverage,” Devika cut in sharply, the words slicing clean. “And if they touched her—” Her voice fractured for half a second, just a hairline crack, before it hardened again into steel. “I will burn everything they love.”

Amaya swallowed audibly from the couch, her good hand clenched white-knuckled around the armrest. Her face was pale, eyes rimmed red with pain and fury. “Ishaani fought them,” she said quietly. “I saw it. She didn’t go easy. They must’ve known who she was.”

Tara closed her eyes.

The image stabbed behind her eyelids—blood, bruises, Ishaani’s stubborn refusal to bend, to submit, to go quietly. Her chest constricted so violently she had to brace a hand against the table to stay upright, breath shuddering as it fought its way back into her lungs.

Vedika noticed. Of course she did. She always noticed the fractures before anyone else saw them.

“This is on me,” Vedika said suddenly.

Tara’s eyes snapped open. “No.”

Vedika turned fully now, facing her, eyes blazing, grief and rage braided tight. “Yes. I pulled the thread. I poked the nest. I knew this was dangerous.”

“And I stood beside you,” Tara shot back instantly, voice sharp with refusal. “Every fucking step. Don’t you dare shoulder this alone.”

Devika exhaled hard, cutting through the rising heat. “Enough. Blame later. Action now.”

Vedika straightened, resolve snapping into place like a loaded gun. “Rajveer Malhotra wanted Ishaani gone because he thinks pain will make me spare him.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard, files opening, folders unlocking, years of buried rot blooming on-screen. “He’s wrong.”

Tara leaned closer despite herself, eyes scanning the headers, the evidence stacked neatly like bricks in a wall built to crush someone. “You’re going to send it,” she realized quietly. “All of it.”

Vedika didn’t look up. “Every dirty fucking thing.”

Tara hesitated. Just a beat. Just enough to feel the weight of consequence. “Vedika—are you sure? Once this goes out, there’s no—”

Vedika’s head snapped up. “Is it—” Her voice rose, sharp, cracking with something dangerously close to breaking. “Is it what, Tara? Too much? Too fast?”

“I understand what you’re goi—”

“No, you don’t!” Vedika barked, slamming her palm down on the desk. The sound echoed like a gunshot. “You don’t. You’d never get what I’m going through.”

The words cut deep, unfair and raw, but Tara took them without flinching. How could she explain that her love for Ishaani had no edges, no logic? That this was her haunting, her worst nightmare, because she hadn’t learned how to love someone so pure, so selfless, without fear of losing them?

She couldn’t explain the tears she’d shed just an hour ago for the girl Vedika was claiming a stake over. She had no right to say it now. She remembered Ishaani’s poem—about making Tara her world—yet Tara knew that only worked if Ishaani was the sun.

Ishaani was her wildest tide. The one who made Tara Kapoor break after so many years.

She swallowed hard. “I do,” she said quietly. “Just… differently.”

Vedika scoffed, pain flashing raw across her face. “No. You don’t. That’s my sister out there. Mine.”

Tara didn’t answer. She couldn’t bring herself to say the truth—that Ishaani wasn’t collateral to her, wasn’t just important. She was everything. Saying it aloud felt like tempting fate.

Devika stepped between them, voice steel-clad, immovable. “Enough. We don’t fracture now.”

Vedika turned back to the screen, jaw tight. “Naina Rizvi-Roy will publish this,” she said flatly. “She won’t hesitate. Rajveer Malhotra will be dragged into daylight kicking and screaming.”

“And Ishicka?” Tara asked.

Vedika’s lips curled, vicious and unrepentant. “I’ll personally claw that cunt’s eyes out.”

She hit send.

The file transferred. Years of silence shattered. Evidence flew into the hands of a woman who knew how to make blood spill with words alone.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Sneha sat down heavily, palms pressed together as if praying the universe might listen now. “Bring her back,” she whispered. “Just bring my baby back.”

Tara stared at the screen. Then at the door. Then at nothing at all.

Her voice broke, finally. “Where are you, Ishu?”

__________________

The Malhotra manor breathed like a beast that never slept—too much marble, too much money, too many corridors where sound died quietly and truth went to rot.

Even the lights felt hostile. Cold. Surgical.

White walls polished to the point of cruelty.

Nothing warm ever survived long in places like this.

Warmth required honesty, and honesty was bad for business.

Rajveer Malhotra stepped out of the room rolling his shoulders, loosening his neck like a man who had just finished something strenuous and mildly irritating.

His cuffs were undone, shirt collar open a fraction too casually, as if violence were just another meeting that had run over time.

His voice still echoed faintly in the hallway behind him—raised earlier, sharp, calibrated to bruise without leaving marks.

He didn’t look back. He never did. Whatever was behind him was already dismissed.

At the far end of the corridor stood Ishicka.

Her arms were crossed tight against her chest, spine rigid, heels planted like she had rooted herself into the marble.

Her face was stone—composed, flawless, immaculately trained—but her eyes betrayed her.

They were furious. Not loud fury. Not hysterical.

This was the kind that calcified over time.

The kind that didn’t scream, didn’t flail. The kind that waited.

Rajveer noticed her and smirked, adjusting his watch as he walked toward her like he owned the ground beneath her feet. Like the house itself bent to make way.

“What’s with the face?” he asked lightly, voice smooth, amused. “You look like someone pissed in your food.”

Ishicka didn’t move. Didn’t soften. Her voice came out clipped and controlled, sharp enough to draw blood. “What the fuck do you mean by wrong?” she shot back. “You abducted Ishaani Rajvanshi.”

Rajveer scoffed, the sound ugly and dismissive, like he was swatting at a fly. “Oh, come on. You can’t seriously be worried I took that girl in.”

Her jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath her skin. “I watched her grow up, Rajveer. She was in my house. She ate at my table.” Her voice dipped, steadier now, more dangerous. “She’s a child to me. Like Nayon is.”

Memory rose unbidden—two little girls with scraped knees and loud laughter, sprawled across the floor with crayons and secrets.

Ishaani had always been gentle, always smiling, except when it came to Nayonica.

Then she’d turned into a wall—bristling, stubborn, protective beyond her years.

Ishicka had seen that devotion grow. She couldn’t just erase it. Couldn’t pretend it hadn’t mattered.

The memory came back to her the way good memories always did—uninvited, vivid, and cruel in their tenderness. It struck without warning, sharp as glass under the skin, dragging her backward through time with no regard for the woman she had become.

It was summer. One of those North Indian summers that baked the world golden and lazy, where the air smelled like hot dust and jasmine and sugar melting too fast. The Sen house was loud back then.

Not this mausoleum of marble and silence it had grown into.

Back then, it breathed. Laughter ricocheted off the walls.

Bare feet slapped against cool floors. Ceiling fans spun endlessly, fighting a losing war against the heat, humming like they were alive.

Ishicka had been twenty-four.

Fresh out of Cambridge. Sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous.

She wore confidence like it had been stitched into her bones—hair always immaculate, posture impeccable, words chosen like weapons.

She was the kind of woman who walked into rooms and rearranged power without ever raising her voice.

People listened to her because they felt smaller when they didn’t.

She had not wanted to babysit.

Let that be said plainly.

Debina had asked with a smile that knew how to corner. “Just for the afternoon, Ishicka. I have meetings. Aurobindo is out. It’s only Nayon and Vedika’s sister.”

Vedika Rajvanshi’s sister.

Ishicka had rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt.

Vedika Rajvanshi—the sanctimonious little lawyer-in-the-making with her righteous spine and surgical tongue.

Ishicka respected her intellect and despised her existence in equal measure.

The kind of woman who made you feel judged even when she was silent.

So when Debina added lightly, “Her little sister is staying over,” Ishicka had sighed, already defeated. “Fine,” she said. “But if they break anything, I'll not be held accountable.”

That was how Ishaani Rajvanshi entered her life.

Fourteen. Maybe fifteen. All elbows and intensity.

Shorter than Nayonica but broader in the shoulders, skin kissed too often by the sun, hair always escaping whatever half-hearted attempt at neatness had been made.

She wore a sleeveless t-shirt and coloured sneakers, and she walked into the Sen house like she belonged there.

She did not look intimidated by Ishicka Sen.

That alone should have irritated Ishicka more than it did.

Nayonica—sixteen and already heartbreakingly beautiful—dragged Ishaani in by the wrist. “Didi, this is Ishu,” she announced proudly, like she had discovered fire. “She’s staying the weekend.”

Ishaani looked up at Ishicka—really looked—and grinned. Wide. Unapologetic. No fear.

“Oh,” she said easily. “You’re the scary sister.”

Ishicka blinked. “Excuse me?”

Nayonica groaned. “Ishu!”

“What?” Ishaani shrugged, utterly unfazed. “Everyone says she’s scary. But like… smart scary. Not murder scary.”

The laugh tore out of Ishicka before she could stop it. A real laugh. Loud. Unfiltered. The kind that surprised even her.

“Well,” she said, crouching slightly to meet Ishaani’s eyes, “you’re brave. Or stupid. Hard to tell.”

Ishaani beamed. “I get that a lot.”

That had been the first crack.

The afternoon dissolved into something unexpected.

They sprawled across the cool marble floor, textbooks forgotten, popsicles melting faster than they could be eaten.

Ishicka had started with strict rules—no running, no breaking things, no noise—but those rules died quickly. Quietly. Without ceremony.

Because Ishaani asked questions.

Not the annoying kind. The hungry kind.

“So did Cambridge suck or was it fun?”

“Why do people think debating is just shouting?”

“Do you ever get tired of being the smartest person in the room?”

That last one had stopped Ishicka cold.

She studied the girl then. Really studied her. The way Ishaani sat—grounded, coiled, like she could spring to her feet at any moment. The way her eyes tracked everything, sharp and alert. The way she listened—actually listened—not waiting for her turn to speak.

“Sometimes,” Ishicka had answered honestly after a beat. “But you don’t dull yourself for other people.”

Ishaani had nodded solemnly, like she was storing that sentence somewhere important. “Yeah,” she’d said. “I don’t think I could.”

Ishicka had smirked. “Good. Don’t.”

At some point, the power went out. Typical. The fans slowed to a pathetic crawl and then stopped entirely. The house groaned under the weight of the heat.

Nayonica groaned louder. “I’m going to die.”

Ishaani jumped to her feet instantly. “No you’re not. Come on.”

“Where?” Nayon asked.

“The terrace,” Ishaani said, already moving. “It’s breezy up there.”

Ishicka had followed despite herself.

They lay on the terrace under a sky bruised purple and orange, fairy lights flickering weakly like they were embarrassed to still be trying. Ishaani stretched out flat, hands folded behind her head, staring up at the sky like the universe owed her answers.

“This is nice,” she said quietly.

Nayonica turned onto her side, propped on her elbow, watching Ishaani like she was the only solid thing in the world. “You’re stupid,” she said fondly.

Ishaani grinned without looking at her. “You love me.”

Nayon scoffed. “As if.”

And Ishicka saw it then.

The way Nayonica’s fingers twitched like she wanted to reach out. The way her voice softened without permission. The way her eyes stayed locked, unguarded and raw.

Ah.

Interesting.

Later, back inside, Ishaani helped without being asked.

She stacked plates, wiped spills, moved through the house with an ease that came from growing up around older siblings who expected competence instead of coddling.

She didn’t whine. Didn’t sulk. Didn’t act like she needed to be entertained.

At dinner, Ishaani listened while Ishicka spoke about her work. About diplomacy. About power structures and manipulation and the illusion of choice. The adults talked around the table, voices layered and confident.

At the end, Ishaani asked one question. Quiet. Piercing.

“So if power is allowed,” she said carefully, “who decides who deserves it?”

Ishicka had stared at her for a long moment, something old and unsettled stirring in her chest.

“That,” she said slowly, “is the only question I'll answer for you, later on.”

That night, lying awake beneath silk sheets and a ceiling too high for comfort, Ishicka thought—briefly, quietly—that Ishaani Rajvanshi would grow into something dangerous.

Not because she craved power.

But because she refused to give herself away.

And some people, Ishicka had thought even then, did not deserve to be broken.

Not like that.

Not ever.

“Please,” Rajveer laughed, curling his lip. His obnoxious voice cut through Ishicka's ttain of reminiscence. “Nayonica and her little friend?” He mocked the words deliberately. “That boxer brat? Don’t be dramatic.”

Ishicka stepped forward then, finally closing the distance. Her voice dropped, lethal and precise. “You crossed a line.”

Rajveer’s expression hardened—not offended, not guilty. Annoyed. Like a man being lectured by someone he’d already decided not to respect. “You women,” he said, shaking his head. “You will never understand what it means to protect power.”

There it was. The sermon. The red-pill bullshit dressed up as inevitability.

“All of this,” he continued, gesturing vaguely at the walls, the chandeliers, the obscene quiet wealth humming around them, “exists because I made it exist. Power isn’t about morality. It’s about permission. About knowing when you’re allowed to take.”

Ishicka let out a harsh laugh, the sound cracked and bitter. “I’m a fucking Cambridge graduate, you sick fuck. I didn’t crawl here on your coattails.”

“And what has that gotten us?” Rajveer snapped suddenly, the amusement dropping. “Degrees don’t buy silence. Influence does. Fear does.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “Everything we have is not because of you.”

“Oh?” He leaned closer, invading her space, eyes cold and assessing. “Take my name off the accounts. Take my leverage out of the rooms you sit in. Let’s see how long you last.”

“You’re delusional.”

“And you’re naive,” he shot back. “This helps us either way. It puts pressure where it needs to be.”

“It’s morally wrong,” Ishicka said, the word heavy, deliberate, like she was placing it between them as a challenge.

Rajveer laughed outright. “Don’t you dare say immoral.” His voice sharpened, turning vicious. “Where was this Mother Teresa bullshit when you were filing logs on those girls? When you talked about selling them off? When it benefited you?”

Her mouth tightened. He had struck something true. Something buried and festering.

“Don’t,” she warned quietly.

“You don’t get to pretend you’re clean now,” he continued, relentless. “You don’t like those women either. Vedika. Tara. Devika. They threaten the order.”

“They threaten you,” Ishicka corrected, her voice steady as a blade. “Because they don’t bend.”

“Women should know their place,” Rajveer said flatly.

The silence that followed was volcanic. Thick enough to choke on.

“I cannot believe,” Ishicka said slowly, each word trembling with restrained violence, “that you would sink into something this monstrous.”

Rajveer tilted his head, studying her. “Monster?” he said coolly. “If I were one, that girl would be on a bed. Not chained the way she is now.”

Ishicka’s face went dead.

For a heartbeat, she looked like she might kill him. Her hand lifted—

“Mrs. Malhotra.”

The interruption sliced clean through the tension.

Officer Aarya Rizvi Roy stood at the end of the corridor, uniform crisp, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. “The car is waiting,” she said evenly. “You’re late for brunch.”

Ishicka lowered her hand with surgical control. She looked at Rajveer once—eyes promising war, slow and inevitable—then turned toward Aarya.

As she passed, Aarya’s gaze lingered on Rajveer a second longer than necessary. A flicker. Assessment. Memory.

Ishicka noticed. Of course she did.

She said nothing. She just walked on.

Behind her, Rajveer muttered, barely audible, dripping contempt. “Cunt.”

The manor swallowed the sound whole. Yet it's echo would haunt the hallways for a period longer than deemed necessary.