—SOHINI—
"Maa, you didn’t just sell all my novels to the kabadiwala?" I shrieked, trying — and spectacularly failing — to hide the panic in my voice.
"My Zade, my Hardin, my Chris — gone?" I tore through the bookshelf. Empty. Hollow. Lifeless. My babies — gone.
"You’ve got your 12th boards in a month! I see you giggling at those useless novels all day!" she shouted from the kitchen. "Finish your 12th first. After that, life gets easier."
"You said the same thing in tenth!" I groaned. "Just get me married already. I can’t do maths anymore!"
Maa stormed out brandishing a knife in one hand and — WHACK! — launched a giant potato at me like it was a weapon of mass destruction.
"Ha! Missed!" I laughed, ducking and grinning.
"Wait till your papa gets home! I’ll tell him his daughter has a boyfriend and is dying to marry him!"
"I don’t have a boyfriend," I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "Nobody around here meets my standards."
No, they didn’t — because my standards were ridiculous. Fictional men had ruined me.
I didn’t want nice. I wanted savage. I wanted emotionally unavailable, trauma-drenched bad boys who loved like hurricanes and kissed like war. I wanted someone possessive, beautifully broken, who’d burn the world to keep me warm.
Not these mama's boys who smelled of cheap deodorant and wore flip-flops.
"Sohini, go and study!" Maa yelled.
I stomped to my room like a martyr and glared at my math textbook as if it had personally betrayed me. Maths sucked. But apparently — according to Maa — maths means every possible job. Its survival.
Boring.
"Stop drooling over your book boyfriends," my younger brother muttered, dumping his bag and logging into the PC.
I ignored him. He was a mosquito— loud, tiny, impossible to swat without consequences.
My life was painfully boring. No drama. No crush. No passion. Until he showed up — Vedant Khanna.
I was staring out the window, ignoring calculus for the prettier, more sensible sky, when I saw him. Shirtless. On the balcony across the street.
I snapped my textbook shut. Eyes wide. Mouth open.
The abs. Oh, the abs.
"Who’s that, daddy?" I muttered. My brother raced to the window.
"Isn’t that old Khanna uncle’s son?" he asked.
We’d lived in this 2BHK since I was five. The Khannas’ house sat right across from ours. Their son had always been away — studying or working abroad. I’d seen him twice, once at a wedding, once at Mr. Khanna’s hospital bedside.
"He’s divorced now," my brother added, like it was casual chat.
Obviously I already knew — research purposes. I always wondered what went wrong.
"That’s why I tell you — arranged marriages are best," Maa said, setting the dinner plates. The Khanna son became the topic of the table.
"Mrs. Sharma said his wife was after his money," she went on, gossiping. "This generation—"
"How many times have I told you: no gossip at the table," Papa snapped, tapping the table with two fingers.
Silence fell like a curtain. Papa was a high-school history teacher, discipline was his default setting. Even at home. Even with his wife.
That was the kind of arranged marriage we all saw every day — one talks, the other obeys. But I wanted more. I wanted a love that erased limits, the kind I read about in novels. Would I ever get one?
The doorbell rang.
"Chinu!" Maa snapped. "Go open the door."
"I’m not going," he sulked.
"Sohini," Papa said. One word was enough.
I went to the door expecting some aunty with coriander or Papa’s walk partner. When I opened it — it was him. Vedant Khanna.
Up close he was even better: flawless skin, hunter-brown eyes, tall enough that I barely reached his chest.
"Who is it, Sohini?" Papa called from inside.
"I—" I stammered.
"Your neighbor across the street," he said smoothly, voice deep and warm. "My mom tried a new brownie recipe." He held out the dish.
Our fingers brushed. Tiny electric shock. Butterflies.
"Good night," he said with a small smile and turned to leave.
I stood there, breathless and dazed. He could ruin me in a hundred delicious ways — and honestly, I wouldn’t resist.
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