CHAPTER XII SCALDING SILK
The evening arrived draped in gold and quiet anticipation, the kind that settled over the Rajvanshi mansion like a second skin — heavy, shimmering, and laced with the promise of something inevitable.
Ishaani stood before the full-length mirror in her room, fingers tracing the sharp lapels of her Prussian blue and cream pinstriped suit.
The tailoring was ruthless in its precision, hugging her small 5'2 frame like armor she had earned through pain and survival.
Beneath the jacket, the Prussian satin corset cinched her waist tight, accentuating every curve she had slowly reclaimed after weeks of healing.
The heels added precious inches, lengthening her legs and lifting her posture into something prouder, almost defiant.
She felt powerful. Dangerous, even. Like a smaller, sharper echo of the woman waiting for her downstairs.
Nayonica had insisted they match. She was already waiting below in a flowing midnight blue silk saree that moved like liquid starlight — elegant, untouchable, lethal.
Ishaani smiled at the thought. Her best friend had always gotten what she wanted, even when they were children, armed with nothing but sheer stubbornness and a grin that could disarm gods.
Devika's voice floated up the stairs, calm but commanding. "Ishu, go call Tara. We're required to leave in twenty minutes."
"On it!" Ishaani called back, her voice lighter than she felt.
She made her way down the corridor to the guest wing, heels clicking softly against the cool marble.
Each step sent a quiet thrill through her body — a new definition of power, one she could only compare to the kind her sisters and Tara carried so effortlessly.
The house smelled of fresh tuberoses and expensive perfume, the quiet hum of preparation hanging in the air like static before a storm.
She knocked once on Tara's door, then pushed it open at the low murmur of permission.
And stopped dead.
Tara Kapoor stood before the mirror like a painting that had stepped out of its frame and decided to ruin lives.
She wore a Parisian blue saree — the silk poured onto her body with sinful devotion, clinging to every curve like it had been tailored by someone who understood worship.
The pallu cascaded down one shoulder in a single, fluid line of midnight, the backless blouse exposing the elegant architecture of her spine.
Her hair was swept up in a loose, sophisticated bun, a few deliberate strands left loose to frame her face like ink on porcelain.
Gold earrings caught the light with every subtle movement, twinkling like captured stars.
Tara was in the middle of flicking the pallu over her shoulder — the motion slow, deliberate, almost sensual. The silk whispered against her skin like a lover's secret.
Ishaani forgot how to breathe.
She had seen Tara in power suits and casual elegance, in sleep-rumpled softness and quiet command.
But this... this was Tara as a weapon. A temptress.
A goddess who knew exactly what she was doing to anyone lucky enough to witness her.
Ishaani's heart clenched with that familiar, aching reverence — the feeling that she was nothing without Tara, and everything when Tara looked at her.
Tara caught her reflection in the mirror and turned, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips.
"Star-struck again, Bambi?" she asked, voice low and amused, that faint British lilt making the words sound like velvet dragged across bare skin.
Ishaani swallowed hard, eyes still glued to her. "You... you look..."
"Like sin?" Tara supplied, stepping closer. The saree moved with her like liquid night, the silk catching the light and casting shifting shadows across her collarbones.
"Like a prayer," Ishaani breathed.
Tara laughed — soft, warm, delighted. She reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind Ishaani's ear, fingers lingering on her jaw with deliberate tenderness.
"We match," Tara noted, eyes tracing the striped suit and corset with open appreciation. "Unintentionally lethal, aren't we?"
Ishaani stepped closer, drawn like a moth to flame. "Devika di sent me to call you. But I think I need a minute."
Tara's smile turned wicked. She sat gracefully on the edge of the bed and extended one long, elegant leg.
"Help me with my heels, then?"
Ishaani didn't hesitate. She dropped to her knees in front of Tara — the motion natural, almost reverent.
The carpet was soft beneath her. Tara's foot rested lightly in her hands as Ishaani slipped the delicate stiletto onto it, fingers brushing along her ankle, then slowly up the smooth line of her calf.
Her other hand rested on the red sole for a moment, steadying.
Tara watched her with dark, hooded eyes. One hand came down to caress Ishaani's hair, nails dragging gently across her scalp in that way that always made heat pool low in Ishaani's belly. The touch was possessive. Loving. A quiet claim.
When both heels were on, Ishaani stayed on her knees, looking up at Tara like she was praying at an altar she never wanted to leave.
Tara's fingers tilted Ishaani's chin up. For a long moment, they simply stared — the air thick with everything unsaid, everything they had survived and everything still waiting for them.
Then Tara leaned down and kissed her.
It was slow. Deep. Devouring. Ishaani on her knees, Tara seated above her like a queen receiving tribute.
Tara's hand stayed tangled in Ishaani's hair, guiding the kiss, while the other traced the edge of the corset at Ishaani's waist, nails scraping lightly over the satin.
The silk of Tara's saree brushed against Ishaani's cheek, cool and luxurious.
Ishaani's hands snaked around Tara's exposed waist, gripping tight, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.
Tara made a low sound in her throat and deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against Ishaani's with deliberate hunger.
Her hand slipped lower, palming Ishaani's breast through the corset, thumb brushing over the peak until Ishaani whimpered into her mouth.
The pressure was perfect — teasing, promising, never quite enough.
Ishaani was panting when Tara finally pulled back, lips swollen, eyes glassy with want.
Tara smiled, slow and wicked, thumb brushing over Ishaani's lower lip.
"You're going to be the death of me tonight," she whispered, voice husky.
Ishaani leaned in for another kiss, desperate.
Tara pulled away just enough, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Not yet, Bambi."
She stood gracefully, adjusting her pallu with effortless elegance, leaving Ishaani on her knees, breathing hard, aching.
"Devika is waiting," Tara said lightly, as if she hadn't just set Ishaani on fire. She offered her hand.
Ishaani took it, legs shaky as she rose. Her body was thrumming, heat pooled low and insistent between her thighs. She wanted nothing more than to pull Tara back to the bed and forget the entire evening.
Tara leaned in, lips brushing Ishaani's ear. "Be good tonight," she whispered, "and maybe later I'll give you everything you're panting for."
Ishaani shivered, a soft, needy sound escaping her.
Tara chuckled, low and delighted, and led her toward the door.
They walked downstairs together — two visions in blue, dashing and devastating in their own ways. Ishaani's cheeks were still flushed, her breathing not quite steady, while Tara looked perfectly composed, the picture of elegant control.
"Ready?" Tara asked.
Ishaani nodded, though her heart was still racing. "Ready."
They walked downstairs together — two visions in blue, dashing and devastating in their own ways.
In the foyer, Vedika stood waiting in a sleek maroon pantsuit, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp.
She took them in — the matching blues, the way Tara's hand hovered protectively near Ishaani's lower back — and her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
She could feel something was off, or something, but she couldn't pinpoint anything besides another happenstance.
Devika appeared from the living room, regal in deep emerald, and paused. Her gaze softened when it landed on Ishaani.
"Look at you," Devika murmured, stepping forward to cup Ishaani's face gently. "My beautiful girl. That suit... it suits you. You look strong." She kissed her forehead with quiet affection. "Just be careful tonight. Stay close to us."
Ishaani leaned into the touch, smiling softly. "I will, Didi."
As they turned toward the door, it opened.
Aurelia Voss stepped inside, blonde hair gleaming like frost under the lights, wearing a tailored midnight blue gown that made her look like winter given human form. She smiled at Devika — slow, playful, and entirely too familiar.
"Devika," Aurelia purred, voice carrying the crisp elegance of Stockholm winters. "You look positively edible tonight. Should I be jealous of whoever gets to take that saree off later?"
Devika's expression remained deadpan, though the corner of her mouth twitched. "Aurelia. Always a pleasure. Try to behave. We have work tonight."
Aurelia's laugh was light and wicked as she fell into step beside her. "Where's the fun in that?"
The group moved toward the waiting cars — a sleek, silent procession of power and secrets. The night stretched ahead of them, glittering and dangerous.
The Sen Estate shimmered under strings of golden light, a fever dream of old Delhi wealth and new Delhi ambition.
Crystal chandeliers swayed like captive stars above silk-draped pavilions.
The air was thick with night-blooming jasmine, expensive perfume, and the low, electric hum of predators circling one another in couture.
Aurobindo Sen stood at the heart of it all, silver-haired and impeccably tailored, playing the gracious patriarch with the effortless charm of a man who had never been truly cornered.
Devika Rajvanshi approached like a Bengal tigress in emerald silk — sleek, golden, and utterly composed.
At her side moved Aurelia Voss, the Swedish diplomat, pale as frost and twice as sharp.
Where Devika was fire wrapped in restraint, Aurelia was winter: cool, elegant, and dangerous in her flirtations, especially at the most inconvenient moments.
Aurobindo's smile widened. "Devika, my dear. And the formidable Ms. Voss. What a delight."
Devika returned the smile, warm enough to disarm, sharp enough to cut. "Twenty-five years, Uncle. An achievement in any city, let alone this one."
Aurelia tilted her head, her silver-blonde hair catching the light like fresh snow. Her gaze lingered on Aurobindo just a fraction too long, playful and predatory. "Indeed. In Sweden, we say such marriages survive three lifetimes. You must share your secret sometime... preferably over a drink."
Devika shot her a subtle warning look. Aurelia only smiled innocently, as if she hadn't just flirted with their target in front of half the press corps.
The conversation flowed easily at first — surface-level pleasantries, compliments on the décor, questions about the guest list. Reporters hovered at a respectful distance, cameras flashing discreetly. Among them were three Vedika had been carefully planted earlier that evening.
Devika steered them toward the heart of it with velvet precision.
"Your work with women's empowerment has always fascinated me," she said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "Particularly the Sahastra Alliance. The way you've structured those shelters — giving vulnerable girls skills, dignity, a future. Revolutionary."
Aurelia leaned in slightly, her shoulder brushing Devika's. "Yes, we were discussing it in Brussels recently. The transparency of those funds, the placement programs... truly admirable." Her tone was light, almost teasing, as if she were flirting with the idea of exposure itself.
Aurobindo's smile remained fixed, but something tightened around his eyes.
One of Vedika's planted reporters stepped forward, voice polite but pointed. "Mr. Sen, there have been concerning rumours about some Sahastra beneficiaries going missing after placement. Can you comment on the oversight mechanisms for these programs?"
A second reporter followed immediately. "There are also whispers of funds being rerouted through offshore entities. Would you care to address those allegations, sir?"
Aurobindo chuckled — a rich, paternal sound meant to dismiss. "Rumours are the currency of this city, my friends. Young women from difficult backgrounds sometimes make... impulsive choices. We cannot be held responsible for every personal failing."
The air shifted.
Devika's smile never wavered, but her eyes gleamed with panther-like satisfaction. Aurelia's hand brushed Devika's wrist in silent acknowledgement — a small, electric touch.
A third reporter, Vedika's best plant, struck the killing blow. "So you're saying the girls who disappeared after being placed through your flagship program were simply... impulsive? Even the ones whose last known locations were properties linked to your associates?"
Aurobindo's mask cracked.
For one fatal second, irritation flared into something uglier — contempt, arrogance, the casual cruelty of a man who had never been held accountable.
"Those girls were provided opportunities most of them could never dream of," he snapped, voice losing its polished warmth. "If they chose to disappear or fall into bad company, that is hardly my concern. We are not their keepers. Some people are simply... meant for certain paths."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Cameras flashed. Reporters scribbled furiously. Aurobindo realized his mistake almost immediately, but the words were already poison in the air.
Devika tilted her head, voice soft but lethal. "Meant for certain paths. How very insightful, Uncle."
Aurelia smiled like frostbite. "Indeed. We'll be sure to quote you accurately."
Aurobindo's face tightened, but he recovered with practiced grace, laughing it off as a "misunderstanding." Too late. And...... The damage was done.
From across the lawn, hidden among the guests, Ishaani and Nayonica watched the exchange.
Nayonica frowned, puzzled. "What just happened? Why is Devika going after Dad?"
Ishaani didn't answer immediately. She simply smiled — small, discreet, and fiercely proud. Devika's panther-like lethality had struck again. Clean. Elegant. Devastating.
She felt a quiet thrill run through her.
The hunt was truly on.
The Sen Estate pulsed like a living thing under the night sky, its lights bleeding gold into the darkness. Laughter rose and fell in waves, crystal glasses clinked like distant bells, and the scent of night jasmine hung heavy in the air, sweet enough to mask the rot beneath.
Ishaani and Nayonica moved through the crowd like they belonged there — which, obviously, they did. Ishaani, in her sharp pinstriped suit and corset, Nayonica in liquid blue silk, both radiating the kind of quiet defiance that came from surviving hell and refusing to shrink.
They spotted the college boys first.
The same two who had spoken filth about Nayonica in the lecture hall — now dressed in expensive but ill-fitting suits, standing with their older brother and a cluster of businessmen.
Their eyes locked on the girls with pure venom.
This was the sole problem with gathering of this manner, you were sure to meet people you have had some sort of history with.
One of them sneered, elbowing his brother. The older one stared longer, assessing.
Ishaani felt the familiar burn of rage, but she laughed instead — light, airy, almost silly. She leaned toward Nayonica, linking their arms.
"Look at them," she whispered, loud enough for the boys to hear. "Still mad we didn't let them jerk off to the sound of our voices."
Nayonica's laugh was sharp and crystalline. "Pathetic. They think having daddies with money gives them power. Cute."
The boys glared harder. One muttered something vile under his breath. The other stepped forward, chest puffed.
Before anything could escalate, chaos arrived in the form of God's beloved twins.
Sparshi came barreling through the crowd like a guided missile, eyes locked on her targets. She "accidentally" slammed straight into the first boy, elbow digging hard into his ribs as she pretended to stumble.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" Sparshi exclaimed, not sorry at all. "These heels are killers. You okay, big guy?"
The boy staggered. His older brother stepped up, face darkening. "Watch where you're going."
Saarakshi appeared beside her twin, cool and unbothered, sipping champagne. "She said sorry, bozo. Move."
The older brother looked ready to escalate until his gaze landed on Aurelia Voss, standing a few feet away with Devika, watching the scene with predatory interest. He wisely shut his mouth up as Aurelia smirked.
Nayonica's glare intensified — dark, unblinking, pure panther energy. The boys averted their eyes almost instantly, muttering curses as they slunk away.
Ishaani clapped Nayonica on the back with a proud grin. "Good job, Panther."
Nayonica pinched Ishaani's waist, making her best friend wince, whilst smiling herself. "Don't call me that in public."
The Sen Estate breathed like a living creature under the night sky — heavy with the perfume of night-blooming jasmine, smouldering oud from silver censers, and the faint, metallic undercurrent of old money and older sins.
Crystal chandeliers swayed overhead, scattering fractured light across marble floors worn smooth by generations of footsteps.
Laughter rose and fell in waves, sharp as broken glass.
Tara Kapoor moved through it all like smoke wrapped in silk.
The saree clung to her body with sinful devotion, the pallu draped over one shoulder in a single fluid line that shifted with every breath.
Her skin glowed warm against the midnight fabric.
The delicate gold chain at her throat — hiding the chip that fed live to Vedika and C1PH3R — rested cool against her collarbone.
Aurobindo Sen noticed her the way sharks notice blood in the water.
"Ms. Kapoor," he said, voice rich and cultivated as he approached. "What a rare pleasure."
Tara turned, offering him a slow, devastating smile. The scent of his cologne — heavy sandalwood and vetiver — wrapped around her like a too-tight collar.
"Mr. Sen," she murmured, letting her voice drop into that low, expensive register that made men lean in despite themselves. "The pleasure is entirely mine. Your collection has haunted my dreams for years."
He offered his arm. Tara took it, pressing just enough of her body against his side — the warmth of her skin through the thin silk, the subtle brush of her breast against his sleeve — enough to tempt, never enough to reveal.
They walked through long corridors lined with priceless art. The marble beneath her heels was cool, almost cold. Distant music from the main pavilion faded into a soft hum, replaced by the quiet echo of their footsteps and the faint ticking of an antique clock somewhere deeper in the house.
"You have an extraordinary eye," Tara said, stopping before a rare M.F.
Husain. She let her fingers trail lightly along the frame, nails clicking softly against gilded wood.
"This piece... it carries such violence beneath the colour.
Where does one even begin to acquire something so. .. intimate?"
Aurobindo's chest puffed slightly. "Private sources, my dear. Certain discreet markets in Dubai. Hong Kong. Business connections that understand the true value of beauty."
Tara tilted her head, letting the pallu slip just a fraction down her shoulder, exposing the elegant line of her neck. The gold chain at her throat caught the light as she adjusted it — the signal to Vedika and C1PHE3R clear and silent.
"Business," she echoed, voice like warm honey poured over razor blades.
"How utterly fascinating. One hears stories about those circles.
The kind of places where beautiful things change hands in back rooms..
. where the air is thick with incense and secrets.
.. and sometimes, people disappear as quietly as paintings. "
She stepped closer, letting the scent of her perfume — jasmine and smoked vanilla — curl around him. Her fingers brushed his sleeve, feather-light.
Aurobindo's breath hitched, just barely.
Tara smiled, slow and knowing. "But of course, that's just rumour. You strike me as a man who values discretion above all."
She let the silence stretch, heavy and charged, the distant sound of laughter from the main party feeling miles away. The air between them thickened with the weight of unspoken truths.
Aurobindo recovered with a chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. "You are dangerous, Ms. Kapoor."
Tara's smile sharpened. "Only when I want to be."
She had him. For now.
But the door to his private study loomed at the end of the corridor — sleek, electronic, requiring both fingerprint and code. Not easy access.
Fuck. This will take years if we continue deliberation.
Tara kept her expression serene, but her mind was already recalculating. She needed Devika. Going full Charlie's Angels in this moment would be suicide.
"Perhaps we should rejoin the party," she said smoothly, turning back to him with a smile that promised both salvation and damnation. "I wouldn't want to keep you from your guests for too long."
"How about I show you the Picasso I had the luck of finding in Monaco?" Tara was about to gently weave out of the conversation, "It's in my office," Jackpot. Tara couldn't help the nod that her body had elicited next.
The Sen Estate had begun to feel like a beautiful cage and had become a theatre of exquisite deception.
Tara Kapoor had orchestrated every beat.
She had let Aurobindo Sen guide her deeper into the private wing with a smile that promised everything and revealed nothing.
The blue saree moved like liquid night against her skin, the pallu slipping strategically with each calculated step.
She laughed at his jokes, leaned in just enough for her perfume — jasmine and smoked vanilla — to curl around him like a noose.
Her fingers brushed his arm, her voice dropped to that low, velvet register she knew made powerful men stupid.
She was the bait. She was the trap.
They entered the private study. The door clicked shut behind them.
Aurobindo's eyes darkened with lust and entitlement. "You've been asking dangerous questions tonight, Ms. Kapoor."
Tara smiled, slow and inviting. "I like dangerous things."
She reached up herself, deliberately loosening the drape of her saree.
The pallu slid off her shoulder, silk whispering down her back, exposing the elegant line of her spine and the curve of her waist. She let the blouse shift just enough — calculated, controlled — to look dishevelled, vulnerable, tempting.
The gold chain at her throat (the live feed to Vedika and C1PH3R) gleamed against her skin.
Aurobindo stepped closer, breath heavy. His hand reached for her. Tara absolutely knew this man's intentions with her, and what better way to use the very obvious bait presented in front of her than to wait for a more ethical opening.
Evil didn't do ethical, and their field of work could do away with it altogether.
That was when Tara screamed.
A raw, piercing, blood-curdling scream that tore through the corridors like a blade.
"HELP! GET OFF ME!"
Vedika's voice crackled urgently in Devika's earpiece from the van outside. "He's in the private study. Tara just triggered the alarm. Now. Go."
Devika moved like lightning, emerald silk flaring behind her. Ishaani, who had been hovering nearby with Nayonica, saw her sister's face and rushed without question, heart pounding. Nayonica had no idea, but the moth to the flame scenario is tempting to everyone till the heat engulfed them.
They burst through the door. Devika, in disbelief, her eyes widened at the moment in front of her. Ishaani stabilised herself on the threshold as she rushed into the scene. The ruckus had invited certain media peers to follow the girls.
The scene was perfectly staged: Tara against the desk, saree dishevelled (by her own hand), Aurobindo looming over her with his hands raised in shock.
Devika grabbed him from behind, yanking him off balance while shouting for security. But Ishaani was lost to the rage as she saw red.
She launched herself at Aurobindo, small body fueled by months of trauma, fear, and ferocious love.
Her fist connected with his jaw with a sickening crack.
She didn't stop. Punch after punch rained down — knuckles splitting, blood spraying across the antique rug.
She was sobbing, cursing his name, every hit carrying the weight of every bruise she had survived, every night she had woken up terrified.
"You touched her— you fucking monster— I'll kill you— I'll kill you—"
She kept hitting him, small fists flying with terrifying force.
The media had followed the scream. Now every cameraman and reporter was hanging by the door as Devika looked at Ishaani losing every thoughtful bone in her bone.
Flashes exploded. Phones recorded. The scandal detonated in real time.
Tara pushed herself up, lip bleeding where she had bitten it to sell the scene, eyes wide but calculating. She saw Ishaani spiralling — blood on her knuckles, tears on her face — and her heart clenched.
"Ishaani," Tara said, voice cutting through the chaos like a command. "Stop. Baby, stop."
Ishaani froze mid-swing, chest heaving, eyes wild. The moment she registered Tara's voice, the fight drained out of her. She stumbled back, breathing ragged.
Tara opened her arms.
Ishaani crashed into her, burying her face in Tara's neck, sobbing. In the heat of the moment, with cameras flashing and the world watching, Ishaani cupped Tara's face and kissed her — desperate, raw, and devastatingly public. It wasn't gentle. It was survival. It was terror and relief colliding.
"I really thought I'd lost you," Ishaani whispered against her lips, voice breaking. "I thought—"
Tara kissed her back just as fiercely, one hand tangled in Ishaani's hair, the other gripping her waist. The kiss tasted of blood and salt and love too big to hide anymore.
What happened to Tara might not have been real, but Ishaani's response to danger toward Tara was the real deal, and Tara could feel it in the deepest depths of her bones.
The media ate it alive.
Flashes blinded them. Whispers erupted. The image of Ishaani Rajvanshi — the youngest daughter, the survivor — kissing Tara Kapoor in the middle of a scandal would be everywhere by morning. That too over the bloody body of the perpetrator of the woman whom she loved.
Devika stood frozen a few feet away, eyes wide with shock as she watched her baby sister kiss Tara with such raw, unfiltered passion. The realization hit her like a physical blow, but she said nothing. Not now.
Aurelia Voss appeared silently at Devika's side, ever the snow leopard, absorbing everything without a word.
Vedika, watching the live feed from the car with C1PH3R, went completely still.
"Fuck," she whispered, voice cracking with a mix of fury, fear, and reluctant understanding. "What the hell did you do, Tara?"
The Rajvanshi mansion felt like a mausoleum when they returned — cold, echoing, and unforgiving.
The grand foyer swallowed their footsteps whole, the marble floors gleaming dully under the low chandelier light like a mirror reflecting every fracture in their family.
The faint scent of jasmine from the Sen Estate still clung to their clothes, now corrupted by the metallic tang of blood, sweat, and the bitter residue of choices that could not be undone.
They had barely closed the heavy doors behind them when Vedika appeared at the top of the staircase, descending like a storm given human form. Her face was pale, eyes burning with a fury that had been simmering for weeks and had finally boiled over.
She stopped at the bottom, gaze raking over Tara's deliberately torn saree, the split lip, the bruise blooming along her jaw, and then Ishaani's raw, bloodied knuckles. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"You planned this," Vedika said, voice low and trembling with barely contained rage.
"You let him touch you. You staged the entire fucking thing.
For what, Tara? A viral spectacle? To force our hand?
To make Aurobindo look like the monster he is, while you play the victim you never were?
Oh, God, Tara! You didn't have to rush everything without keeping anything else in mind. "
Tara stood perfectly still, elegant even in ruin, her hazel eyes calm. She didn't deny it.
Vedika's breath hitched, the conflict tearing her apart from the inside.
The sheer intensity of the emotions made her throat dryly clenched, and a chill run down her spine just at the thought of something else happening to Ishaani, "She's my little sister, Tara.
My baby sister. She was already taken once.
She came back with nightmares carved into her bones.
And you — my best friend, the one person I thought I could trust with my life — you drag her into this cyclone because it suited your strategy?
I'm happy for you. God! A part of me is so fucking happy you finally let someone in.
But why her? Why the one person I swore to protect above everything else?
She's inexperienced. She's still healing. She doesn't know the games you play."
Devika, standing like a statue in her emerald saree, finally moved. Her voice was ice-cold. "Vedika. Stop."
But Vedika couldn't. The words poured out like poison she could no longer contain.
"No. You don't get to tell me to stop. She's our baby sister, Didi.
She's vulnerable. She's still our little Ishu who used to make paper crowns for Tara and call her 'Tara di' like she hung the moon.
And now you've turned her into a weapon in your war.
Look at her hands!" Vedika harshly pointed at Ishaani's hands, partially covered in blood, in a desperate attempt to make everyone understand the gravity of the situation.
"Look at what she did because of you. Because you decided the rules weren't moving fast enough for your liking. "
Ishaani stepped forward, small body trembling with exhaustion and defiance, still holding Tara's hand tightly.
"Stop it, both of you. Tara didn't force me into anything.
I knew what she was doing. I stood there and let it happen because I trust her.
Because she's fighting for all of us. Because she loves me. "
Devika's eyes flashed with a terrifying mix of fury and fear.
All the restraint that she had was melting into irritation once she realized Ishaani was looking at Tara through her rose-tinted glasses.
"Love? You think this is love? Letting a man like Aurobindo Sen put his hands on her?
Manipulating the situation, knowing exactly how you would react?
Dragging you into violence in front of the entire city?
I don't care if she loves you." Devika's eyes were ablaze with barely concealed wrath, eyeing Ishaani as if her youngest had lost her mind.
She knew if their mother were here, the conversation would steer into a very vulnerable direction.
Hence, she was trying her best to mellow down the situation into something manageable rather than flaring the beast. "She had no right — no right — to pull you into this mess.
You are my sister. My responsibility. And she turned you into collateral damage in her perfect little game. "
Aurelia Voss, who had been standing quietly in the corner like a statue observing the kill, finally spoke, her voice calm but firm. "Both of you, chill. Listen to the woman. This isn't helping anyone right now."
Devika ignored her completely. "You think I don't see what you're doing, Tara?
You've always been like this — collecting beautiful, broken things.
And now you've collected my sister. You risked her safety, her reputation, her life, just to create the perfect scandal.
She's not ready for this. She's not ready for you. "
Ishaani's voice rose, trembling but fierce. "She's not collecting me. She's not using me. She's the only one who's been there every single second when I needed her. You don't get to blame her for fighting the only way she knows how."
Devika stepped closer, towering over her, chest heaving.
"Fighting? This is not fighting. This is recklessness.
This is selfishness. You threw yourself at a monster because she decided to play hero in the most dangerous way possible.
I raised you better than this, Ishaani. I protected you better than this. "
The words cut deep. Ishaani's eyes filled with tears, but her chin lifted defiantly.
"You protected me by keeping me in the dark.
By treating me like I'm still a child who can't handle the truth.
Tara trusts me enough to let me stand beside her.
You didn't do shit." And just like that, Ishaani had taken away all the responsibilities taken and sacrifices made by her older sisters so she could justify the love she had for another woman.
Devika's hand flew before she could stop it.
CRACK!
The slap landed hard across Ishaani's cheek with a sharp, resounding crack. Ishaani's head snapped to the side, a gasp escaping her lips. The sound echoed through the marble hall like a gunshot.
Tara, who had remained indifferent and composed through the worst of the accusations, moved like a viper. Her eyes flashed with cold, lethal fury.
"Don't you dare hit her," Tara said, voice low and dangerous, stepping between them. "Not her. Imagine being so insecure that you can't let your own sister find love without tearing it apart."
Ishaani touched her stinging cheek, eyes wide with shock and hurt. Tears spilt over, hot and silent. Without another word, she turned and walked away, footsteps echoing through the foyer as she headed toward the side entrance, the cool night air calling her like an escape.
Tara moved to follow, but Devika stood frozen, hand still raised, horror dawning on her face as the weight of what she had done crashed down.
The house, once again, held its breath.
Ishaani didn't stop. She slipped out the side door into the cool Delhi night, the city lights blurring through her tears.
She felt grey — hollowed out, heavy, like the sun had been swallowed whole.
The slap wasn't just physical; it was the final fracture in the fragile trust she had been clinging to.
Nayonica Sen's apartment was a quiet sanctuary of maroons and soft lighting, but tonight it felt like a pressure chamber.
The news had broken like thunder: her father, Aurobindo Sen, had been taken into custody.
The images were already everywhere — grainy footage from the Sen Estate, Aurobindo bloodied and dishevelled, security dragging him away while cameras flashed like vultures.
Nayonica had watched the clips on loop, her phone screen glowing coldly in the dim room, until Sparshi had gently taken it from her hands.
She couldn't believe that her father would prey on another woman in the manners familiar to that of a rapist. She still couldn't erase the shots of her best friend hitting her father into a bloody mess.
Oh....Ishi!
She sat on the couch now, knees drawn to her chest, wearing an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, not from tears exactly, but from the hollow ache of something fracturing deep inside.
She had known her father was not a good man.
She had seen the cracks for years. But knowing and watching him be publicly dragged away like a criminal were two different kinds of pain.
Sparshi sat on one side of her, uncharacteristically quiet, one arm wrapped around her best friend's shoulders. Saarakshi sat on the other, calm and steady, her hand resting on Nayonica's knee like an anchor.
"He's not innocent," Nayonica whispered for the third time, voice hoarse. "I know he's not. But he's still my father."
Sparshi pressed her forehead against Nayonica's temple. "We know, Nayon. We know."
DING!
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
Saarakshi stood to answer it. When she opened the door, Ishaani stood there — small, dishevelled, cheek still reddened from Devika's slap, eyes swollen and distant.
Her pinstriped suit was rumpled, the corset underneath askew, hair messy from running her hands through it too many times.
She looked like the sun had been swallowed whole, leaving only grey clouds and exhaustion.
Nayonica's heart twisted with another sharp pang.
"Ishi..." she breathed, standing up slowly.
Ishaani didn't say anything. She just stepped inside and slumped straight into Nayonica's arms.
Nayonica pulled her in fiercely, wrapping her best friend in a tight, desperate embrace.
Ishaani dropped to her knees on the rug, fitting in Nayonica's embrace, who reciprocated with her hands tightening around her back.
She buried her face in Nayonica's shoulder, small body trembling as the weight of the night finally crashed down on her.
The slap from Devika, the accusations, the public kiss, the way her family had fractured in front of her — it all poured out in silent, shaking sobs.
Nayonica held her tighter, one hand stroking her hair, the other rubbing slow circles on her back. "I've got you," she whispered, voice cracking. "I've got you, Ishi. Breathe."
Sparshi and Saarakshi hovered close, giving them space but staying near — a quiet circle of protection. Sparshi, for once, said nothing inappropriate. She simply reached out and squeezed Ishaani's shoulder gently.
They stayed like that for a long time — two best friends holding each other in the wreckage of the night. Nayonica felt another wave of gloom settle over her. Her father in custody. Her best friend broken and hurting. The world felt too heavy, too cruel.
Ishaani finally pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glassy. "Your dad..."
Nayonica shook her head, swallowing hard. "Not tonight. He deserves it, baby. Tonight is about you. What happened?"
Ishaani's voice was small. "Devika di slapped me. Because I defended Tara. Because I wouldn't let them blame her for everything."
Nayonica's arms tightened again. She didn't offer empty words. She just held her, letting Ishaani cry until the tears ran dry, the grey clouds rolling thicker over what little sun remained.
The night stretched on, heavy and quiet, two girls leaning on each other in the middle of storms that refused to pass.