2.
KANIKA
“Do you think this looks okay? Like, actually appropriate?” I turn away from the mirror to look at Raghav, my cousin, who is leaning back on one of my ‘too-girly’ chairs. A phone sits in his hand as his thumb continues swiping through the reels, filling the quiet room with trending songs. He has been doing that for an hour now. “Raghav? Tell me, please.”
He finally looks up, peeking at me through his thick lashes. He takes a long, slow breath, narrowing his eyes as he sets the phone face-down on his knee as if giving the gadget a moment to breathe. “Kanika,” he says, his voice slow, automatically raising my heartbeat to hear something unexpected. “This is the eighth time you’ve asked me. Your outfit is fine. You look great.”
I blink, guilt crashing through me for making him feel annoyed. I didn’t mean to be annoying, but the thought of stepping outside this room—especially with Shaurya tightens my stomach with fear.
Last night I couldn’t sleep because the thought of people around me made me feel restless. The feeling is too difficult to explain to a human, but easy to talk about with a canvas.
“Look,” Raghav continues, his expression softening just a fraction like he’s worried about hurting me. He has always treated me like that. “Dad gave Shaurya permission to take you out. As your favorite elder brother, I think you should go and actually try to have fun. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find someone better than that asshole.”
I grab a pillow and throw it at his head. He dodges it with a practiced tilt of his chin, flashing a grin that shows off his perfectly straight teeth. “Stop calling him that,” I mutter, though my heart isn’t really in the defense, and that honestly feels more like a betrayal.
He rolls his eyes at my words, not even trying to hide the hatred he has for Shaurya. In his head, I deserve better—at least someone who wouldn’t run away from his fiancée the moment he gets a call from his girl best friend.
He crosses his arms over his chest, and I couldn’t help but notice how his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt. My brother should get married before me.
“Kanika, do you really think he’s strong enough to keep you safe?” he asks, his voice turning cold. “It’s been two years. Two years of you living like a prisoner because they—he can’t catch the person behind those attacks. Instead of fixing the problem, he’s just… keeping you locked up. It’s pathetic.”
He runs his fingers through his dark hair, trying to divert himself from the volcano erupting inside him. “And you think you could do better?” I snap.
My tone is mocking, but the words die in my throat when he doesn’t snap back.
Instead, his lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile. He lets out a low chuckle that sends a shiver down my spine. It isn’t a happy sound, but something dangerous and something that holds secrets.
“What if I’m already doing my part?” he asks softly. He stands up, the “golden retriever” energy he usually carries disappearing entirely.
“I’m going to earn you your freedom, sisi. I want you to walk out of the door and not just look at it like it has monsters waiting on the opposite side.”
He sounds serious. Too serious.
Raghav is only twenty-nine, and the last thing I wanted is for him to go digging into secrets that could get him killed. He can be sweet when he wants to be, but I know there is a sharp edge to him that he usually keeps hidden.
I step toward him, closing the distance until I am looking right into his eyes. “Don’t do this, bhai. Don’t get involved in this game. Please.” He stares back at me, his gaze intense and unblinking.
He doesn’t promise anything. He just reaches out and snaps his fingers right in front of my nose, breaking the tension.
“Don’t lecture me,” he says, his voice returning to its usual casual tone, followed by a laugh. “Just go get finished. Get ready before that parrot arrives and starts squawking at you for being two minutes late.”
I slap him playfully on his arm before turning my back to him. My eyes fall on the huge paintings I made a few months ago covering my walls, making them look like scenes from a Gothic romance.
“Do you… think I’ll ever get a chance to live like others do?” My words come out as a whisper, barely audible to myself. It wasn’t really a question meant for my brother; it was a question meant for me—the kind of thought you only say out loud when you’re tired of carrying a weight for so long.
There are moments when you look at your life and start trying to fix the broken pieces in your head, imagining a version of yourself that isn’t hunted or hidden. But then reality chains your feet, heavy and cold, reminding you that some things feel nearly impossible to change.
Twenty minutes later, I walk out wearing a simple tank top and bell-bottom jeans. Shaurya, however, looks slightly pissed—probably because of the wait, but he doesn’t say anything as we head out with the bodyguards.
The Barrel Circuit is a forty-five-minute drive away. Usually, I would have hated the distance, but today, I savor it. It is the only time I really get to spend with Shaurya without any worries, even though a part of me is worried about how I’ll meet people.
The moment I step out of the car, my heart curls into a tight, unfamiliar knot. Perhaps I have become so comfortable within the company of walls, paint, and music that the sight of real people, hearing them and talking to them, makes me uncomfortable. But it’s going to be fine. At least, that’s what I think.
“It’s fine, baby,” Shaurya says, as if reading my mind. His hand wraps around my waist, pulling me against his side. I turn my head to look at him, but he isn’t looking at me.
His brows are furrowed—a silent command for me to fix my face. He does that every time I forget to smile in public. To him, I wasn’t just his fiancée; I am a reflection of him, and I have to look perfect.
“Do you… think I look pretty?” I ask, seeking a bit of genuine reassurance.
Instead of an answer, he gives my ass a firm squeeze and leans in to press a quick kiss to my cheek. “You look hot, baby,” he murmurs against my skin. “Now, shall we?”
The VIP area is a bubble of glass and polished chrome hovering directly over the pit lane. It smells of expensive perfume. Shaurya had reminded me twice that the glass is bulletproof, a necessity because Vidyut Suryawanshi, the royal and the businessman is present here.
At first, I thought it wasn’t really serious, but seeing the amount of bodyguards makes me realize the weight of the situation. No doubt they are so famous.
I take my seat at the front, my fingers gripping the cool metal railing. Below us, mechanics in fireproof suits swarm the cars like ants, their neon liveries glowing under the track lights.
”Is this better than being locked in your room?” Shaurya asks. He leans against the glass next to me, looking perfectly composed, as if he owns the circuit.
“Pretty much. Thank you,” I mutter, the luxury of the view finally starting to distract me from my nerves.
“How about a kiss as a thank you?” He leans in, a smirk playing on his lips. I smile, ready to answer him, when a low roar erupts from the track.
One car starts its engine. Then another. And another. The sound doesn’t just hit my ears; it hits my chest, raising my heart rate as if a heart attack is soon going to knock at my door.
”The formation lap is starting,” Shaurya whispers from my other side. When I look at him, I find a smile on his face—the smile he gives every time he has something dangerous going on in his brain.
I turn my gaze to the car he is staring at. I assume that man is Achyut. “Rascal,” Shaurya chuckles.
I wasn’t really invested in Shaurya’s rival, but the moment he said that name, I realized Achyut Suryawanshi is a dangerous name.
I Google him. To my surprise, he is the brother of Vidyut Suryawanshi—a royal who has a special interest in cars and races that risk his life. That is the reason why he often participates in such races and wins them. Most races are won by him or by the team of his brother, Vihaan Suryawanshi. More like his family just doesn’t participate in the race—they dominate it. And no, they just don’t dominate in racing, but in multiple businesses.
The most interesting and dangerous part about Achyut is an article that says he killed someone when he was sixteen years old. I believe that is a lie. Why would a man like him, who donates to orphanages, spends time there, and helps others, kill someone?
***
Lap 47 of 56. As the time is running, everything is getting intense—the desperation of the racers to win it all, but for some other reason, my eyes automatically find a place. I couldn’t look at anyone else other than my fiancé’s rival.
”We are on the fifty-six! And it all comes down to this! Armaan leads by only four-tenths of a second, but Achyut is breathing down his neck! He’s hunting him, looking for any gap, any mistake!”
Then, the world breaks.
A sharp, metallic snap echoes over the roar of the crowd—something in the rear suspension has given up. In a heartbeat, the back of the car steps out. I am not even sure what happened to Achyut’s car until I see it hit the curb, quickly getting launched into the air and beginning to roll. And if I am not wrong, he was at least at two hundred miles per hour; there is no such thing as a small mistake.
Metal pieces fly in the air. One. Two. Three. The sound is horrifying—the screech of carbon fiber tearing like paper and the heavy thud of the chassis hitting the ground.
The commentary suddenly stops, as if no one expected such misery.
A chuckle fills the air, making my head instantly turn to face Shaurya, and my heart stops. I am pressed against the glass, my breath hitching in my throat. Did he… no, no my Shaurya can’t do such a pathetic thing.
”OH! A massive, massive impact for Achyut! The car is airborne! It’s rolling… it’s still rolling—” The commentator’s voice breaks, his scream turning into a horrified gasp that echoes through the VIP speakers.
”FIRE! We have a major fire!” The commentator’s voice returns, now fueled by pure panic. “Achyut is still in there! He’s upside down and the cockpit is completely engulfed! We need extinguishers NOW!”
I stand frozen, my hands pressed so hard against the glass that my knuckles turn white. Achyut is trapped in a cage of burning carbon fiber, the black smoke blowing up.
”This is horrific,” the commentator breathes, his voice shaking. “We haven’t seen any movement. The fire is too bright… we can’t see the cockpit. We have a major fire!” Several cars rush to him, but there is no sign of him.
“I guess… he won’t survive this accident and fire.” A voice reaches me, and I turn to look at the elderly man sitting beside Vidyut. While everyone is stressed and praying for Achyut to be safe, Vidyut is sitting still, one leg over the other, his eyes on the track—on his brother and a smile on his face.
Vidyut nods slowly and tilts his head a little. “He is a player; he’ll play with it.” A chuckle slips from his mouth.
I turn my face, eyes fixed on the orange-black smoke, when a dark shadow emerges even before the team steps in. He isn’t running, not stumbling. Just walking, like the fire was worth giving a try.
”WAIT! HE’S OUT! ACHYUT IS OUT OF THE CAR!” The commentator’s voice doesn’t just return—it explodes. It is a roar of disbelief and pure adrenaline. At this time, no one is cheering for the winner; it’s as if they were here to see the battle between adrenaline and fire while this man—he is playing.
”A miracle at two hundred miles per hour! Achyut is standing on his own two feet! Ladies and gentlemen, we have just witnessed the impossible!” Achyut turns, looking at the car, a helmet still covering his head. I take a breath of relief the moment the medical team reaches him.
What is he thinking, standing there? Is he upset because he lost it the moment he thought he’d make it? Or is he happy to finally make it out alive?
“Fuck,” Shaurya utters under his breath, and even though my heart isn’t ready to accept it, my brain is sure of it. My fiancé was behind this.
I stand on my feet, brushing the invisible dust off me. My brain tells me to just walk out of here, but because Uncle trusts Shaurya, I have to inform him before walking away. “Shaurya, I’ll be back.” He doesn’t even look at me as I sigh, walking to the washroom.
After splashing cold water on my face and trying to steady my breathing, I step back into the hallway.
I am halfway to the lounge when a voice stops me cold. “You thought I wouldn’t know?” The words are low, vibrating with a quiet, lethal anger. I stop, my footsteps swallowed by the carpet. Through the narrow gap of a door left ajar, I peek inside.
My eyes widen; hands fly to my mouth as I watch a man throw punches at another. He is wearing a jacket, and by that costume, I assume he is one of the racers. “Please… l-let me go,” the man pleads, his face a mess covered in blood and saliva.
The racer leans in, whispering something into the man’s ear. I can’t hear the words, but the victim’s face loses its color.
He begins to tremble so violently I think he might collapse. Suddenly, the man on the floor locks eyes with me through the gap.
“Please… help me, lady.” I freeze. It shouldn’t happen—how can I be visible when I am hiding? Oh! Then I realize the door wasn’t just ajar; it had swung wide open. I am standing in plain sight.
The racer doesn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. He lands one last, brutal punch before standing straight. My feet breeze inside, not going close to him but trying to make him walk away. “You shouldn’t—”
My voice dies in my throat as he grabs the man by his collar, lifting him effortlessly. “The next time you think of doing that… remember… I’ll burn you alive.” And he drops him.
The man in the jacket turns. My eyebrows relax in shock as my eyes meet his.
Achyut.
There is blood on his face—not his own. He wipes a smudge from his cheek, but his knuckles are so bloodied that he only succeeds in staining his skin further.
He steps toward me and I gulp, my survival instinct finally kicking in. “Hey!” I speak, searching for any word that would keep him at a distance. “I… I was just…” Is he going to hit me?
I step back until my spine hits the cold surface of a table. He doesn’t stop until he is inches away. The scent of him fills my lungs—expensive cologne, smoke, and the heavy, metallic smell of engine oil from the accident earlier.
He is so close I can see the tiny mole on the bridge of his nose. It is an unfairly handsome detail on a face that looks like it has been sculpted from granite.
My eyes slip, noticing his peeking chest before looking him back in the eyes.
He tilts his head, his eyes pinned to mine, unblinking. It’s then I realize I have been holding my breath for so long my chest aches.
This isn’t going to end well. I’ve always had a bad experience when it comes to talking, even before I got locked in the house. So, every time I get tangled in situations like this—I feel the need. The need to have someone who could make me feel strong, but right now I am not sure if anyone would manage to do so.
Note to self: Stay the fuck away from this man. He is a monster.
He leans forward, his chest nearly brushing mine. At that moment, I finally understand why Shaurya hates him to the core. It isn’t just the racing or business, but the overwhelming power he radiates—the kind that makes you hold your breath and pray to God to make you invisible.
“I promise… I’ll not say a-anything to anyone… p-please.” I slowly open my eyes, my nails digging into my jeans.
One moment Achyut is so close to me, the next he steps back. I see him press his phone to his ear, speaking as if I am not a threat to him.
Achyut doesn’t even look at me as he speaks into the phone. “I get it.” For someone who just beat a man nearly to death, he sounds so calm—no adrenaline, no heavy breathing.
I stay pinned against the table, the edge of the wood digging into my lower back. I want to run, but my legs feel like lead. “Feel free to say anything to anyone.” He lifts his gaze from his phone, then steps forward until he is so close to me.
My back presses harder against the table, the wood biting into my skin, but there is nowhere left to go. “Go ahead,” he whispers, his voice dangerously smooth. “Tell Shaurya. Tell the police. Tell the whole world what you saw in this room; it’s the least of my headaches.” I rip my gaze away, not wanting to see the blood on his face.
This man is insane. He should be afraid for his image, his family’s reputation, his own reputation, but all I see is him giving zero fucks about all of that. “You are a weird man. Don’t criminals usually threaten or beg the witness not to open their mouth? They even kidnap or kill them to keep themselves safe,” I say.
A smile curls his lips. “I am not a criminal, Kanika. However, I do threaten people, but I don’t beg.”
My heart hammers against my ribs at the sound of my name. I hadn’t told him. Shaurya hadn’t introduced us—our relationship has always been a secret, yet the way it rolls off his tongue sounds practiced, like he’d said it a thousand times in the dark.
”How do you—”
”I know everyone who breathes in Shaurya’s circle,” he interrupts, his smile never reaching his eyes. It is a cold, predatory curve that makes the hair on my arms stand up. He leans even closer, his shadow pinning me against the table. “And you’re wrong about something else, Kanika. I don’t need to kidnap you to keep myself safe. Where would you go? Who would believe you?”
He reaches out, his blood-stained knuckles stopping just an inch from my cheek. I flinch, but I don’t look away this time. I can’t.
”The difference between a criminal and me,” he whispers, his voice dropping low, “is that a criminal fears the consequences. I am the consequence.”
He finally touches me—a single, terrifyingly light flick of his finger against the collar of my shirt. “You saw me break a man. And yet, here you are, asking me why I’m not following the ‘rules’ of a movie script. You’re either very brave, or you’re just as broken as the man on the floor.”
He steps back suddenly, the air rushing back into the space between us. He looks down at his bloodied hands with a flick of his wrist, as if the gore is nothing more than a minor annoyance, like dust on a sleeve.
”Go back to the lounge, Kanika. Drink your champagne. Tell Shaurya I said hello.” He turns his back to me, dismissing me entirely. “And pray we don’t meet again. I’m much less ‘weird’ when I’m actually trying to be a criminal.”
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