Shattered to Be His

72.1| The need of him. #2

Then, he grabs a whisk and starts whisking it.

And, to make my contribution, I touch the bowl with my forefinger. "See, I'm helping."

Dad almost laughs. "Very well... I'm so proud of you."

I grin, looking down at the batter. If it were Aayansh, he'd have made that disgusting porridge of his. But tonight, I'm with my father.

Sometimes, I wonder... how can he love me like this when I'm not even his real daughter? I mean, I've never considered that man-Tarun Jindal-my father. I just hate him.

Here, Dad loves me like I'm his own. Like breathing.

And Bro's love? It's out of this world. Nothing can ever describe the way he's spent his life loving me.

If he loves his sister this much, I can imagine how lucky the woman who comes into his life would be. Yeah! I'm so excited to have a sister-in-law in my life. The woman who'd love my brother the way he deserves, even more.

"What is it, princess?" Dad's voice rings in my ear, making me look up at him as he places the bowl inside the microwave.

"What?!"

"That." He points toward my nose. "On your nose."

I rub my nose, looking at him seriously. "What is there?"

Dad shuts the microwave door and looks at me. "That frown."

"... That's glamour," I say with a grin, making Dad chuckle. But before he can say another word, a voice reaches us.

"What is happening here?"

We both turn our heads toward the voice, only to find Bro approaching us in his casual grey trousers and T-shirt.

"We were making a midnight sweet, and you're late!" I tell him.

His eyes move from Dad to the counter and then to the microwave. "We?!" he remarks with a frown. "I see."

Then, he shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. "Let me guess. Your contribution was touching the bowl once and talking Dad's ears off, right?"

I shoot him an offended look.

When Dad cuts in firmly, "Arsh. Don't you dare."

Brother lets out a faint chuckle. "You both did your part," he says, reaching for the oven mitts. "Now let me serve."

And as he's about to open the microwave and take out the baked base, Dad murmurs, "Careful, son."

Bro rolls his eyes. "Please, Dad."

And like a professional chef, he carefully takes out the soft sponge, places it on a white tray, and slices it into neat little triangles. He then pulls the fresh honey from the fridge, drizzling it generously over each layer of the cake.

"Arsh, how about you leave boxing and business and open a bakery of your own?" Dad comments, and I immediately chime in, "No, Dad. He's multi-talented like me. He can do all three at once."

"For sure."

After neatly plating the cake, Bro walks over to us, cuts off a piece, and holds it up to my mouth. "Have a taste, gentlewoman."

But instead, I quickly cut two pieces and shove one into his mouth and the other into Dad's. "You two deserve to be the first, gentlemen."

Dad and Bro share a bewildered look, then chuckle as I grab the plate and hop onto the cushioned chair behind them.

I don't look up as I eat, but I can feel their eyes on me, soft and warm, as though simply watching me is enough to keep them alive.

?????????????

I stand in front of the mirror, ready to start the day with something new, dressed in a bottle-green turtleneck sweater and a mini skirt. My brown hair falls freely down my back in soft and loose curls, my lips painted in a deep merlot shade.

So hot.

I pick up my phone and scroll through my call log until my eyes find it-Aayansh's number.

I want to call him.

But I won't.

He'd call me first. He'd have to.

I scroll further, my fingers fumbling over Alie's number. Does this girl even know I'm in New York? If she did, I swear she wouldn't let me live in peace.

Or maybe she's busy finding herself "girlfriends."

"Princess?" Rose's voice calls from the entrance. She stands at the door with her head bowed and hands clasped in front of her.

"Yeah?"

"Someone has come to meet you."

My brows furrow. I just nod in response, and she leaves.

Ten minutes later, I step out of the private elevator onto the ground floor. The servants scattered around tending to their duties, while the rest of the household goes about their work. I walk into the great room.

There sits Ms. Verena, one leg crossed over another, she's dressed in a flawlessly tailored charcoal suit over a cream silk blouse, exuding the authority of someone accustomed to negotiating deals worth crores.

But her confidence earns nothing but a sigh from me.

Two weeks. Two damn weeks of this woman trying to convince me to sign with her label and hand them exclusive rights to my work for the next three years.

Three years of my vocals, composition and production exclusively for their albums.

And they're willing to put whatever number I name on that contract.

In this industry, inexperienced artists are often the easiest to corner into deals like this.

But not me. Never me. I don't want anyone owning a piece of my artistry.

My voice, my music, my work... they're mine.

I've built my things on my own, and I'm not about to put it on hold or chain myself to one company for three years simply because they're willing to bend over backwards to meet my demands.

"So, what did you think?" she begins, her voice all soft and professional.

I say nothing, merely settling back in my settè comfortably.

"Nine point five million dollars," she goes on. "Nine and a half million for three years of your time. Turning down an offer this lucrative at this stage of your career would be nothing short of foolish."

I pick up the glass of fruit wine and look at her with boredom, making it clear that this manipulation tactic won't work on me.

"Well, the amount you just mentioned..." I take a sip. "I spend that on my basic shopping every day."

Her brows crease.

Yet, she responds with a smile. "This much arrogance from someone who hasn't even properly understood the industry... isn't good, cari?o."

"I'm representing an established label and approaching you with the respect your position as an artist deserves. I expect that courtesy to be mutual."

I set the glass down, gaze at her for a moment more, then very politely begin to respond. "Right. But I already declined your offer twice. Did you respect that?"

Her lips part, ready to defend herself. But I don't give her the chance.

"And as for me..." I force a polite smile. "Trust me, I'm very respectful-until I'm not."

Silence hangs for a moment, the offence evident on her face. Yet, she seems too wary to risk saying anything wrong to me.

As she should.

"The attitude..." she speaks again, wounded pride barely concealed beneath her composed tone. "Just because you're AJ's sister. And now... married to a powerful man?"

Oh, right. This is the kind of shit people spew when they're left with nothing logical to say.

I look her in the eye with the same bored confidence. "I'm not here as anyone's sister. Or wife. I have an identity of my own beyond that."

I tilt my head slightly. "One you're practically begging to put your label on."

There it is.

Her patience thins. Rising to her feet, offence flashing harder across her features. "This isn't rig-"

"Pick up your shit and leave, Ms. Verena," I cut in, gesturing toward the documents she came with. "I'm no longer in the mood to entertain you."

I don't bother looking up to see her reaction.

A moment later, she herself picks up her things and walks out.

And I slump back like some living corpse, shutting my eyes as I return to my usual self.

Ugh, how much I hate being serious like this, even for a little while. But you can't be sweet all the time. Sooner or later, people start taking it for granted... and forget your worth.

?????????????

After a major meeting in the boardroom, Arsh sits in his cabin on the topmost floor of the building. A crisp white shirt lying beneath the blazer, the tailored ensemble accentuating his muscular frame. His hair is perfectly settled, his sharp eyes fixed on the screen before him.

Then, his gaze shifts towards Dhairya, dressed in a grey suit, his attention seemingly elsewhere, lost in thought.

Where?

... To the night Aayansh had taught him what fear truly meant. When Dhairya had hired Cadon Riazov, an international assassin, to injure Aayansh, only to find Cadon's body torn into pieces and pinned to the ceiling, his blood dripping onto Dhairya's head.

Then, Aayansh had walked in, that haunting whistle of his preceding him, turning Dhairya's blood cold.

How he had made Dhairya beg for his life at his feet. That was the day Aayansh had carved a fear into his father-in-law so deep that Dhairya knew it would never fade.

But he doesn't know why his mind keeps returning to that night today, as though some part of him is warning him that it isn't over yet...

"Dad?" Arsh's voice rings in his ears.

Dhairya doesn't react.

"Dad?!" Arsh calls again, louder this time.

His attention snaps back to Arsh. "Hm?"

"Where are you lost?"

"Nothing. I was just-"

Arsh's gaze hardens, cutting him off. "You were just thinking about him."

His father's brows crease.

Arsh gets to his feet and walks towards the glass wall. He slips his hands into his pockets, his cold gaze fixed on the world outside. "Get him out of your head, Dad. He's not relevant in our lives anymore."

A beat of silence passes before Dhairya speaks. "Tara loves him. And you know that."

"That man is nothing but a curse in her life... she doesn't understand that yet."

Dhairya stands, meeting his son's gaze head-on.

"She understands more than you think," he says firmly. "And you don't get to decide what's best for her just because you believe you know better. You've never been this controlling when it came to Tara."

"You've always bowed to her every wish. Arsh... what has happened to you?"

Arsh doesn't answer. His eyes stay fixed on his father's reflection in the glass, his face still unreadable.