—SOHINI—
"Maa, you didn't just sell all my novels to the kabadiwala?" I shrieked, trying—failing—to keep the panic out of my voice.
"My Zade, my Hardin, my Chris—all 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 10th!" I groaned. "Just get me married already! I can't deal with maths anymore!"2
Maa stormed out, holding a knife in one hand and—WHACK!—a big potato in the other, which she hurled at me like it was a weapon of mass destruction.1
"Ha! Missed!" I yelled, ducking and laughing.
"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 huffed, rolling my eyes. "Nobody around here meets my standards."
No they didn't. Because, truth is? My standards were unreal. Fictional men had ruined me.
I didn't want soft. I wanted savage. I wanted the emotionally unavailable, knife-wielding, trauma-ridden bad boys who loved like hurricanes and kissed like war.
I wanted someone possessive, borderline toxic. Someone who'd burn the world just to keep me warm.
Not these IIT-aspiring boys who smelled like cheap deodorant and who'd still wear flipflop sandals.
"Sohini, go and study!" Maa yelled.
I stomped into my room like a martyr and glared at the math textbook as if it had personally betrayed me. I hated math. But no—Maa said maths is important for all jobs.
Jobs. Pfft. I just wanted to marry a rich, emotionally damaged CEO with a dark past and zero regard for boundaries. Was that too much to ask?
"You're drooling over your book boyfriends again," my younger brother muttered, dropping his bag and logging onto the PC.
I ignored him. He was the human version of a mosquito. Buzzing, irritating, and impossible to swat without consequences.
That was my life was boring. No drama. No crush. No passion.
Until he showed up—Vedant Khanna.1
I was gazing out of my window, ignoring calculus for the sky—it was prettier and made more sense—when I saw him.
Shirtless. On the balcony across the street.
I snapped my textbook shut. My eyes lit up. My mouth may have fallen open.
The abs—Oh sweet abs of destruction.
"Who's that daddy?" I muttered. My brother raced to the window.6
"Isn't that old Khanna uncle's son?" he asked.
We'd lived in this rented 2BHK since I was five. The Khannas' house was right across from us. Their son had always been away, studying or working abroad. I'd seen him twice—once at his wedding, and once during his dad's hospital stay.
"He's divorced now," my brother added casually.
I already knew that. Obviously. Research purposes. I nodded. I always wondered what went wrong.
"That's why I tell you-arranged marriages are best," Maa said while setting the dinner plates. The divorced Khanna son was the topic at the table.
"Mrs. Sharma said his wife was after his money," she added, full of gossip as usual. "This generation—"
"How many times have I told you—no gossip at the table," Papa said, tapping the table with two fingers.
Instantly, silence. Everyone in the house feared Papa. He was a high school history teacher, and discipline was his middle name. Even at home. Even with his wife.
That's the kind of arranged marriage I saw every day—one talks, the other obeys. But I wanted love. A love that made me forget my limits. A love I'd only read about in novels. Would I ever get one?7
The doorbell rang.
"Chinu!" Maa snapped. "Go open the door."
"I'm not going," he sulked.
"Sohini," Papa said. That one word was enough.
I stood up and went to the door, expecting some aunty wanting coriander or Papa's morning walk friend. But when I opened it—
It was him. Vedant Khanna.
Up close, he looked even better. Handsome. Flawless skin. Hunter—brown eyes. And so tall—I barely reached his chest.
"Who is it, Sohini?" Papa called out from inside.
"Its—I—" I stammered.
"Your neighbour across the street," he said smoothly. His voice-god-deep, sexy, and warm. "My mom tried a new brownie recipe."
He held out the dish. Our fingers brushed. Butterflies.
"Good night," he said with a small smile, and turned to leave.
I stood there. Breathless. Transfixed.
That man could ruin me in every possible way. And I'd let him.