Chapter 5 #3
One day, I realized something unbelievable: I had accidentally written a book. I was only nineteen when I finished it, and it wasn’t until later that a Hollywood production house reached out, asking to buy the movie rights.
It’s been a long time—too long since I last published a book.
I never imagined I’d be stuck in this never-ending cycle of this mental fog that’s been living rent-free in my life for months, slowly driving me insane.
Every day feels like a battle. Finding the words that once came so easily now feels like pulling teeth.
And my phone? It buzzes every other second—editors, publishers, pressure, pressure, pressure.
And as if that weren’t enough, let me fill you in on the latest update in my life: I ran off the night before my wedding.
Yeah… I know.
I've never been able to understand one thing in my whole life. First, in any gathering of billionaires, no one cancels as if they were dying to see each other's faces. And second, why is it that at every party, they just want to marry their children off to each other?
My family had surprisingly decided on my groom without any arguments. For them, the marriage was nothing more than a business deal, and the new partnership with the Singhanias turned out to be more successful than they ever could have imagined.
A few months ago, I was engaged to Vihaan Singhania—yes, that Vihaan Singhania, CEO of Singhania Industries. The man whose family buys ships with the same ease as most people order their fifth coffee of the week.
The truth is, I barely knew him. Just a string of formal conversations, the kind you’d have with a stranger on a delayed flight. I tried—really tried—to bridge the gap. We were supposed to get married, after all. And yet, I didn’t even know how he took his coffee or when his birthday was.
Not that I ever got the chance to find out.
Every attempt I made to connect—to talk, to meet, to feel something—was met with silence or last-minute cancellations.
Some urgent board meeting. Some unspoken excuse.
He rarely answered my calls. And when he did, it felt like I was intruding on his time rather than being a part of it.
The night we got engaged, Roy pulled me aside and asked if I really wanted this marriage. I still remember what I told him—clear as crystal, or maybe just champagne-soaked bravado:
“One day, I have to marry someone. If this deal makes the family happy, I’m in."
What was I thinking? Drunk on fate? Family duty? Or just the champagne bubbles?
Looking back now, I wonder if I was ever truly present in that moment—or if I was just performing a part I’d rehearsed my whole life. Marrying Vihaan felt like the logical move.
The safe, strategic step. A way to become the daughter Dad could finally be proud of. And for the first time ever, my father didn’t look through me. He stood beside me. Proud. Smiling.
But when I walked away and finally chose myself over a contract, I didn’t just break an engagement. I broke his expectations. Dad lost a merger. A valuable business partnership.
And I… I lost him. Again.
Not in some metaphorical, estranged sort of way. He cut ties. Neatly. Coldly. As if love had always come with a clause I failed to read.
Sometimes I wonder if something inside me broke that day. Not loudly. Not all at once. But quietly—like a hairline crack in glass you don’t notice until it’s already shattered.
I told myself walking away was brave. That this—this pain—was freedom. But the truth? It just feels like abandonment wearing a prettier dress.
I walked away from a contract, not a man. Vihaan wasn’t marrying me—he was merging businesses. And I signed up for it… until I didn’t.
Still, a part of me wanted the illusion. Wanted to believe that maybe, if I played the role well enough, love would grow out of convenience.
Out of politeness. Out of showing up in matching outfits for a magazine spread.
What a joke.
Love, whatever it is, doesn’t come for people like me. Not the messy, bruised ones who ask for too much and smile too little.
I’ve stopped waiting for it. Stopped writing about it. Stopped believing it exists outside fiction—and even there, it feels like a lie we sell to desperate hearts.
Maybe I’m bitter. Or maybe I’m just done.
Done hoping. Done pretending. Done offering pieces of myself to people who never look close enough to see the cracks.
Oh crap.
No. No, no, no… not now. Not tears.
Shit. Not again.
I curled my fingers tighter around the phone, blinking hard. But the tears blurred everything—my vision, my thoughts, my ability to pretend I had it together. I didn’t want to cry. I couldn’t afford to. Not anymore.
This phone—God, I hated it. I hated the way it tethered me to people who expected answers I didn’t have. Sometimes, I genuinely wish it didn’t exist.
“Hey… sweetie… how are you?” Roy.
My voice caught in my throat. “Bhai… I’m good… I am…”
The words broke off halfway. My mouth moved, but nothing came out. What the hell is happening to me?
My eyes stayed shut, locked tight, as if that would keep the flood at bay. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. I was paralyzed by a thousand emotions I’d sworn I’d buried.
“Kiara? You there?”
That was the promise I made to myself—to stop letting things get under my skin. To stop feeling so damn much. But here I was, on the verge of unraveling. Again.
I swallowed hard, forcing the tears back, digging my nails into my palm. Roy was still there, waiting, probably worried. And I had nothing to give.
So I did what I always did. I lied.
“Yeah, Bhai… I’m good. Just… tired,” I said, my voice light, casual, rehearsed.
“All well, baby girl?”
“Yeah… When are you coming back…?”
I bit my lip until I tasted blood, but the tears came anyway.
No. No, don’t cry. Not now. Hold it together, Kiara.
“Kia…? Are you there? Hello…?”
And then— A soft touch on my hand.
Grounding. Gentle. Manav.
“Hey, Roy. It’s Manav here,” his voice composed. “Kiara had to attend another call—something urgent came up. Yeah, everything’s fine here. Maybe a network glitch. I’ll have her call you back, buddy.”
I just stared, frozen.
Manav ended the call, his gaze steady, his eyes never leaving mine.
I felt like I was splintering right in front of him.
“Kiara,” he said softly.
The tears wouldn’t stop. I stood abruptly and walked toward the ocean—barefoot, breathless, broken.
The evening sky was painted in a warm, golden hue. Picture-perfect. The kind of sunset that should’ve felt like peace. But inside, I was chaos.
“Kiara…” His voice followed me. Not demanding. Not forceful. Just… there.
I didn’t answer.
“Look at me,” he said again, closer now. Gentle. Real.
I couldn’t. If I looked, I’d break.
“Please,” he whispered, reaching for my hand, turning me toward him.
His touch was so soft it hurt. It made everything real. I looked away. Down. Anywhere but his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice low.
How do you explain this kind of pain? The kind that doesn’t come from one wound but from years of tiny, silent bruises?
“I’m fine,” I choked.
“Try again,” he said quietly.
“I just…”
I hate how fragile I am. Like some polished glass—nice to look at until it shatters under the slightest pressure.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I… I need to go.”
Before I knew it, I was running. Away from him. From the waves. From myself.
Back inside, I slammed the door shut and leaned against it, heart racing. Another meltdown. Another panic attack. In front of a man I barely know.
What the hell is happening to me?
____________
Ugh.
I can’t believe I left my phone with him. After that emotional meltdown. Of course, Manav had it—he was the one who swooped in when I was barely holding it together with Roy. But now it’s 10 p.m., and my phone is still missing.
He should’ve returned it. It’s mine.
I need to check my emails. I need to call Dadi. I need to tell Myra I’m not dead in a ditch. And Roy… he deserves something more than silence. An explanation. Maybe.
So, here I am. Standing outside Manav Oberoi’s room, about to knock.
Or, you know, ninja my way through a window and reclaim my phone without facing his irritatingly symmetrical face and impossibly good-smelling neck.
I knocked. Twice.
The door opened instantly.
“Hi—” Regret. Immediate regret. He stood there like a walking ad for expensive cologne and poor life decisions. Tousled hair. Bare feet. Arms crossed over a chest that should be illegal after 9 p.m.
“Hello…” he said, one brow arching ever so slightly.
“My phone. You still have it. I… kind of need it back.” Great. Now my brain couldn’t even construct a proper sentence.
“Would you like to step inside?”
“I’ll pass, thanks. Just… need my phone.”
He stared at me like I’d asked if I could adopt a goat in his backyard.
“What? You don’t like me in your house?”
“Excuse me?”
Blink. Blink.
“I just— Look, it’s fine. You don’t have to explain. I just want my phone, and I’ll leave.”
He folded his arms, muscles flexing unnecessarily. “And what made your overthinking genius brain conclude that I don’t want you in your brother’s house?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Just give me my phone.”
“It’s cute how you think I’ll just hand it over.”
I pointed at it—still hostage in his hand. “It’s right there.”
“I have to ask,” he said casually, like we were discussing weather and not hijacked privacy. “Is your emergency call to Myra? Because she’s been trying. A lot. You should call her back. She can’t sleep because of your ‘boyfriend.’”
“What? She knows I don’t do boyfriends!”
He smirked. “She seems to think your nonexistent boyfriend has abs worthy of a literary tribute.”
“Wait. Did you read my texts? That’s an invasion of privacy!”
“I had no choice,” he shrugged, unbothered.
“You are not supposed to read private messages on a stranger’s phone!”
“Well, after ignoring her 75th call, I figured someone might’ve died. So yes, I peeked.”
“Ugh. What did she say? Is she okay? Engaged? Married?”