Chapter One #2
Advika didn't trust herself to speak. She fled, practically running through the mansion, past Sharma's sympathetic gaze, past the judging portraits, out into the night air that did nothing to ease the suffocation in her chest.
She made it to her car before the tears came. Great, heaving sobs that shook her entire body. She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel, her carefully constructed walls crumbling.
Two months.
The drive back to Sinfully Sweet passed in a blur. Advika's hands gripped the wheel too tight, her knuckles white, her vision blurred by tears she refused to let fall again. She wouldn't give them that satisfaction. Wouldn't break any more than she already had.
The bakery was dark when she pulled into the alley behind it. Meera had locked up and gone home. Advika let herself in through the back entrance, the familiar smells offering no comfort tonight.
Her apartment above the bakery was small—a studio with a kitchenette, a bathroom, and just enough space for a bed and a small sitting area. But it was hers. Every piece of furniture, every decoration, every book on the shelf—she'd chosen it all.
Or she had thought it was hers. But her father's words echoed in her mind: You live in this city under my protection. Everything you have exists because I permit it.
Even this sanctuary was an illusion.
Advika sank onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars she'd put up years ago mocked her with their artificial light. She'd been such a fool, thinking she could escape her father's world. Thinking she could be normal.
You've finally found your purpose, Anjana had said.
The illegitimate daughter, finally useful.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Unknown: I look forward to meeting you, Advika Pradhan. - R.S.
Her blood ran cold. He already had her number. Already knew about the arrangement. While she'd been having her world shattered, Sidharth Singhania had been... what? Celebrating? Planning?
With shaking hands, Advika opened her laptop. If she was going to be sold off to this man, she needed to know who he was. What he was.
She started with the basics—news articles, public records, society pages.
Sidharth Singhania, 33, billionaire businessman, heir to the Singhania empire.
The public face was impeccable: handsome in a devastating way, always photographed in designer suits, attending galas and charity events.
There were pictures of him with politicians, celebrities, other business moguls.
But Advika knew how to read between the lines. The companies he owned were fronts. The charities he supported were strategic. Everything about Sidharth Singhania was calculated, controlled.
She dug deeper, into the darker corners of the internet where rumors thrived.
The whispers about his parents' deaths five years ago—murdered by a trusted family friend, the betrayal that had hardened him into something ruthless.
The stories about his enemies, the ones who disappeared or ended up in the river.
The fear he inspired, the loyalty he commanded.
Then she found the photographs.
Sidharth at a business meeting, his expression carved from ice. Sidharth leaving a club, a beautiful woman on his arm. Sidharth at a funeral, his face blank of emotion even as he stood over a grave.
But it was his eyes that made her stomach twist. Even in photographs, even through a screen, they were dead. Cold. Amber-colored and absolutely empty of warmth.
These were the eyes of a man who felt nothing. A man who'd been carved hollow by trauma and had filled the void with power and control.
These were the eyes of the man she'd have to marry.
Advika slammed the laptop shut, her breath coming in short gasps. She wanted to run. Pack a bag, empty her bank account, and disappear into the night. She could go to Mumbai, or Delhi, or somewhere even farther. Start over with a new name, a new life.
But her father's reach was long. He'd find her. And when he did, Sinfully Sweet would burn.
Everything she'd built. Everything her mother's sacrifice had given her. Gone.
Mama.
The thought of her mother was a knife to the heart. Akshara Singh, who'd loved her so fiercely, so completely, despite being nothing more than a mistress. Who'd died when Advika was only five, leaving her daughter in the care of a man who'd never wanted her.
Advika pulled open her nightstand drawer and withdrew the small wooden box she kept there. Inside was all she had left of her mother—a few photographs, a pressed flower, a letter written in shaky handwriting as death approached.
She unfolded the letter with trembling fingers, the paper worn soft from years of handling.
My darling Advika,
If you're reading this, I'm gone. I'm so sorry I couldn't stay with you longer, couldn't protect you the way you deserve. But I need you to know something, my brave girl: you are not a mistake. You are not less than. You are my greatest joy, my proudest achievement.
Your father's world is dark, but you don't have to be. You have my heart, my strength, my stubbornness. Use them. Fight for your own happiness, your own life. Don't let anyone make you feel small.
Be brave, my darling. Be brilliant. Be YOU.
All my love, always and forever, Mama
Tears streamed down Advika's face, hot and unstoppable. "I tried, Mama," she whispered to the empty room. "I tried to be brave. I tried to build something of my own."
And now it was being taken away. She was being given to a monster to secure peace between warring families.
The illegitimate daughter, finally useful.
Advika carefully refolded the letter and returned it to the box. Her hands had stopped shaking. The tears had dried. In their place, something harder settled into her chest.
If she couldn't run, and she couldn't fight, then she'd survive. She'd go into this marriage with her eyes open, her guard up. She'd find a way to protect what was hers, even if she had to do it from inside the cage they were putting her in.
Sidharth Singhania thought he was getting a meek, biddable bride? A pawn to be moved around his board?
He was in for a surprise.
Advika might be forced into this marriage, but she'd be damned if she'd be broken by it. Her mother had been strong until the end. She could be strong too.
She had to be.
Her phone buzzed again. Another text from the same unknown number.
R.S.: Sleep well, jaan. Our lives begin in two months.
Advika stared at the message, at the endearment that meant 'life' or 'beloved' in Hindi, twisted by a man who probably didn't know the meaning of either word.
She didn't reply. Instead, she turned off her phone and lay back on her bed, staring at those stupid glow-in-the-dark stars.
In two months, she'd marry a stranger. She'd enter a world of violence and power.
And somehow, she'd have to find a way to survive it.