Reckless (Imperfectly Perfect #2)

Prologue

Sana

Bangalore

Escape—I crave it. I need it. Desperately.

This pain is so damn suffocating that it’s pressing down on my chest. I try to take a deep breath, but it comes out shaky and unsteady.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles paling under the strain.

Through tear-blurred eyes, I stare at the stark white building ahead—a harsh reminder of why I’m here.

I’m here to meet our family lawyer, who’s waiting to revisit a truth I’m not ready to accept, no matter how many times I’ve screamed at myself to come to terms with it, but still refuse to believe. My father is gone.

I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s been two weeks since I lost him, and nothing has lessened the pain that still pierces my heart. It feels like my world has fallen apart and my anchor is gone, leaving me lost in a deep, dark place.

But it is what it is. This ache, this hollowness—it isn’t fleeting. It’s a scar, deep and permanent, etched into my soul by his absence. A wound that I know even time will never be able to heal.

I force my eyes open, trying to pull myself together, but my chest shudders with ragged breaths and sweat clings to my skin as my body teeters between numbness and all-consuming despair.

God, I just want to shut out this pain. I want to be a coward and hide in this car forever.

But a voice inside me screams, reminding me that I can’t.

I just can’t escape the world, no matter how much I want to.

With one last deep breath, I wipe my face, summoning every ounce of strength I have left, as I force myself to unfasten my seatbelt, grab my purse from the passenger seat, and step out of the car.

“I have to face this reality,” I whisper, giving myself a quiet pep talk, even though every fibre of my being screams at me to get back in the car and drive far, far away. Reluctantly, with slow, heavy steps, I move toward the building, enter the elevator, and press the button for the fifth floor.

As the doors close, a knot tightens in my stomach, my pulse quickening with each passing floor. My fingers grip the railing at my side as I fight to keep myself from falling apart.

After what feels like an eternity, the elevator dings and opens on the fifth floor. With another push, I hold back the rising tide of anxiety as I make my way towards the reception desk. A young woman, dressed in a crisp grey pantsuit, greets me with a polite smile.

“Hello, Miss Sana Arora,” she greets me, gesturing towards the door on her right. “You can go in now. Mr. Deshmukh is expecting you and asked me to send you in the moment you arrive.”

“Thank you,” I murmur with a nod. Then, I turn towards the door she pointed to.

My hands tremble as I knock on the door. When I hear Mr. Deshmukh’s voice inviting me in, I slowly push the door open.

As soon as I step inside, I freeze as memories of coming here with my dad to handle the paperwork resurface. Nothing has changed—the white walls, the polished wooden floor, the neatly organised shelves—they are all the same as before. Only this time, I’m here alone. Without him.

Blinking, my gaze lands on Mr. Deshmukh, sitting at his desk, his eyes fixed on me.

Even in his mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and rimmed spectacles perched low on his nose, he carries himself with a certain presence.

As I silently continue to study him, emotions tighten in my throat.

His white shirt, neatly tucked into black pants, stretches across his midsection, revealing a slight paunch.

It floods me with the playful jokes I used to share with my dad about his belly and tucked-in shirts. A joy I’ll never experience again.

“Sana,” Mr. Deshmukh says, his sorrowful eyes meeting mine.

I gulp hard, wishing the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds behind him would simply disappear.

I long for darkness to mask how weak and broken I feel in this moment.

No matter how many times I’ve told myself these past few days that I need to stay strong—not just for me, but for my mom, for whom this is harder than I can even imagine—I still falter again and again.

Even now, I can’t begin to describe how it takes every ounce of my willpower not to break down into sobs. I’m struggling, yet I manage to force a weak smile as I approach his desk.

“Hello, Uncle.”

“Please, sit down, dear,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

With a nod, I sit in the brown leather chair, my heart pounding in my chest.

“How is your mom?” he asks gently.

“She’s holding up,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

He nods slowly, his gaze distant. “I still can’t believe your father is no more. The sudden heartache was so cruel. At sixty, he was still full of life, with so much more to give. It’s just too soon for any of us to accept.”

“I know,” I murmur, the words barely leaving my lips as I glance down, trying to keep my emotions in check. “It feels like we are robbed of so much.”

He clears his throat, and I look up, meeting his gaze as he now adopts a formal tone. “As part of my duties, I need to read the will to you.”

I nod. “I understand.” My mom was also supposed to be here for this, but she didn’t want to come.

She asked me to attend on her behalf, and I didn’t push her, knowing how hard this is for her.

Mr. Deshmukh was understanding about it and explained that since the will was prepared in her presence and she was already aware of its contents, her formal presence wasn’t necessary today.

He folds his hands over the file on his desk, his sympathetic gaze never leaving mine. “Your father, Keshav Arora, was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes. He’s left the house to your mother, Sumita Arora, ensuring she’s well taken care of.”

“It means a lot to her,” I say quietly. And it’s true.

The house—my childhood home—is more than just four walls.

Every corner over there holds memories of my father.

It’s where my mother spent every day of her life with him as they built a life together, raising me and holding the family together through thick and thin.

“And as for you,” Mr. Deshmukh’s voice pulls me back from the hazy memories. I swallow hard, fighting the lump in my throat as he continues. “He’s left you something very dear to him.” His gaze softens. “The café… It’s yours now.”

I stare at him, feeling numb—not from the shock of the news, but from the rush of emotions it brings.

The café. The place where my dad spent countless years of his life and built it from the ground up.

It meant the world to him. For him, it was more than just a place of work.

It was his passion. His pride. His second home.

I can still picture him coming home late, the comforting smell of coffee and spices clinging to him, his hands rough from hard work, but his heart always full. He poured everything into every dish and treated each customer like family. And now, he’s passed it on to me.

Deep down, I always knew I would one day take over my dad’s café. It had been a dream of mine since I was ten. Last year, at twenty-three, after completing my master’s, I joined him and started learning the ropes from him. But I never imagined I’d inherit it like this.

Tears well in my eyes, blurring the room around me. I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. I squeeze my eyes shut as the tears stream down my cheeks silently. I can almost see my dad standing behind the counter, his proud smile lighting up his face as he hands the keys over to me.

“Sana,” Mr. Deshmukh’s voice pulls me back, and I open my eyes.

“He often spoke to me about how much he wanted you to have the café,” he says softly, leaning forward as he gently places his hands over mine.

“He believed in you, in what you could do with it. He always said that if anyone could turn that café into something great, it was you—something that he wasn’t able to do so himself. ”

I bite my lower lip, a wave of guilt washing over me.

The reason my dad couldn’t turn the café around was because he poured every penny he made from it into my education.

Coming from a middle-class family, money was always tight.

But my dad never let me feel the strain.

He carried that weight alone so I could chase my dreams.

But now, I have the chance to make his dream a reality. His belief in me is both heavy and empowering, giving me the strength I need in this moment.

“Thank you, Uncle,” I whisper, wiping away my tears. “I hope I can live up to Dad’s expectations.”

“You will,” he says, offering me a small smile.

I nod as we spend the next few minutes going over the rest of the will. It’s straightforward and doesn’t take long as my dad didn’t have many assets—just a few small savings here and there. Once we’re done, I thank Mr. Deshmukh, say my goodbyes, and step out of his office.

I get behind the wheel but don’t start the car.

Instead, I just sit there, staring blankly ahead, my hands resting on the steering wheel.

My dad is gone, but he’s left a part of himself with me—a legacy to carry on.

And I won’t let him down. I’ll do everything in my power to honour his wish.

Taking a deep breath, I shift the car into gear and drive home.

Thirty minutes later, my heartbeat quickens as our house comes into view. I blink rapidly, fighting the sting in my eyes as I pull up outside our cozy, single-storey home with its beige stone walls.

Ever since Dad passed, I’ve been grappling with one question—how do I stay strong enough to help Mom through this loss?

Every time I see her, my heart breaks, and I’m reminded of how impossible it is to maintain a brave front when the emptiness in my heart feels so deep.

The pain of losing Dad will never be easy for either of us, no matter how hard I try to be strong for her.

But I know, no matter how difficult it gets, I have to hold it together.

My mom needs me, and, perhaps more importantly, I need her.

Drawing in a deep breath, I open the car door and step out.

I climb the two steps to the porch, and as I reach the door, I pull my keys from my purse.

Turning the knob, I push the door open and step inside.

But the sight that greets me as I enter my home makes the pain in my chest intensify—a heavy, throbbing pressure mingled with sharp, stinging pangs.

Mom is sitting on the living room couch, staring at Dad’s photo.

She doesn’t even need to look at me—I already know that her eyes would be red from crying.

As if sensing my presence, she looks up and offers a small, weary smile.

I see the tears in her brown eyes, a clear sign that my earlier thoughts were right.

I even notice how much she has aged since Dad’s death.

It’s not just the salt-and-pepper hair or the lines on her face.

It’s in the way her spirit seems to have dimmed.

I return her smile and walk over to her, sitting down beside her. Gently, I take the photo from her hands. My eyes sting as I look at Dad’s smiling face in the picture. I place it on the coffee table, then turn back to her, wiping the tears from her cheeks before hugging her.

“You promised me you wouldn’t cry,” I whisper, holding her tighter than I ever have in my life.

She doesn’t reply; instead, she buries her face against my shoulder, and her sobs fill the room.

In this moment, I’m not sure if I’m comforting her or if I’m clinging to her to keep from falling apart myself.

All I can feel is our bodies trembling together as we’re both caught in our shared grief.

A few seconds later, when we’ve managed to calm ourselves, she pulls back from the hug.

“How did the reading go?” she asks softly, choosing to ignore my previous words.

“He left the café to me,” I breathe out.

She nods, tears welling up in her eyes again, as she reaches out to take my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Sana,” she whispers, her voice quivering. “That has always been your dad’s dream.”

“I know, Mom,” I say, squeezing her hand in return.

“I remember when I was little, he used to take me to the café, and we’d work together for hours.

He’d teach me and let me help with the small things.

” I pause, feeling the wave of emotion threatening to break through as memories flood back.

“And I’d always seen this look in his eyes, like he was holding onto a secret dream, something he never fully said aloud.

I never really understood what it was until now. ”

Mom nods at me, a bittersweet smile on her face.

I take a shaky breath. “I knew Dad always wanted me to take over one day. He talked about it often. But I thought it would be a natural step for me to simply slip into his shoes, rather than truly expand and elevate the café.”

“That café was his life, and he loved those moments with you. You were his pride and joy. He always said that if anyone could turn his café into something bigger and special, it was you. Only you. He’d spend hours talking about his plans for the café and how he wanted to see you bring them to life,” Mom reminisces.

A lump rises in my throat. “I promise, Mom, I will make him proud. I’ll turn the café into something he’d have loved, something that honours his memory,” I whisper, more to myself than to her, my hands trembling as I wipe away the tears that have started to fall.

Mom nods, her tears mingling with a sad smile. “I know you will, Sana. Your dad believed in you. And so do I.”

I look at her and return her smile, my heart heavy with a storm of emotions, each one pulling me in a different direction.

Unable to bear it any longer, I close my eyes and rest my head on Mom’s lap, letting her comforting presence calm me.

As the peace settles over me, only one thought rises above the rest—my determination to honour my parents’ dreams. Above all else, it is now my sole purpose in life.