𓆩❤︎𓆪

The Raichand Mansion:

"Mornings in the Raichand household were never quiet. Beauty echoed in chaos, and love was always laced with conditions."

and the breakfasts? well, it was less 'family bonding' and more 'silent judgment served with jam toast.'"

Inaaya's POV:

The first thing I felt was silk. Smooth, expensive, clinging to my skin like it worshipped me.

Then warmth — sunlight, spilling through the ridiculous floor-to-ceiling windows Papa insisted on, like the sun itself needed an invitation to enter the Raichand estate.

I didn't open my eyes yet. I didn't need to. This bed was too comfortable, and frankly, the world could wait.

A knock. Soft. Measured. The door creaked open just enough for them to slip in.

Of course they were already here. Four of them. Silent. Perfect. Standing in line like clockwork — the way I was raised to expect.

One had my mint tea, brewed just right. Another held my stilettos and satin robe. I didn't even glance yet — I could feel the beige one. I hated the beige one.

Another with the morning paper. Of course. Raichand Enterprises made the front page again. And the fourth, my stylist, already had three outfits hung up. Black, obviously.

God, I loved efficiency.

I finally opened my eyes.

The chandelier above me sparkled like it was happy to see me.
Cute. But it knew who ran this house.

I stretched, slow and dramatic, letting the sheets slip off my shoulder. My voice came out dry, low, and entirely unimpressed.

"If anyone speaks louder than my coffee, I swear to god I'll cry. Silently, of course. Like a Raichand."

They didn't laugh — well-trained. I hated people who thought I was joking.

One of the maids stepped forward, robe in hand.

Beige. Ew.

"No. Not that one," I said, lifting an eyebrow. "The dark wine satin. I want to look like I bite."

She swapped it immediately. Smart girl.

I slid out of bed, my feet sinking into the plush carpet. Warm. Flawless. Because of course it was — in this house, even the floors had to feel rich.

I wrapped the robe around me, took the tea, and walked toward the window. Outside, the world looked obedient. Controlled.

Just like me.

The fountains were already running. The Range Rovers were lined up. The staff scattered like ants. And still... nothing felt calm.

Not really.

"Let the chaos begin."

I whispered it to myself — not as a wish.

As a warning.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

My heels clicked sharply on the marble floor, echoing through the endless hall like a warning shot.

The staff scattered as I passed.

Black blouse, dark wine lipstick, A black leather Jacket and a pair of blue jeans, A simple yet  sharp enough look to slice through hypocrisy — I was dressed for war.
Not because I wanted to be. But because, in this house, even breakfast was a battleground.

As I turned the corner into the grand dining room, the scent of roasted coffee and something caramelized hit me. Everything in here was expensive — even the silence.

The dining table looked straight out of a Vogue shoot. Everyone dressed Fashionably, as if Anna Wintour herself will appear from under the table to judge our tastes. White orchids in the centre. Mahogany wood. Crystal glasses. A thousand-watt chandelier above us that had seen more drama than most therapists.

And sitting right there — like a perfectly choreographed scene — were my two brothers.

Shaurya, sharp-jawed and colder than December, already halfway through his black coffee like it owed him something. His crisp white shirt matched his mood: clean, cold, and mildly pissed.

Akshay, our cousin, sat beside him. Less intense, more reserved. Eyes scanning the newspaper, pretending not to notice the tension swirling like perfume in the air.

I didn't say anything. I just pulled out my chair and sat.

Unbothered. Unmoved. But watching everything.

Because that's what I do best.

The dining room was opulence personified. Walls adorned with hand-painted gold detailing, floor-to-ceiling windows veiled in sheer drapes, sunlight spilling in like even it wanted to see the show.

One by one, the rest began to enter — not in chaos, but with the kind of elegance that only masks dysfunction.

Iranya walked in, phone in hand, wearing an oversized Balenciaga tee like it was armor. She didn't even look up.

"Papa's latest mistress is from Milan," she muttered, scrolling through Instagram. "At least she has taste."

Shaurya didn't even blink.

"You forgot 'fake accent and double-Ds.'"

Iranya cackled. I smirked into my tea.

Then came Papa Raichand.

Perfectly dressed in a three-piece suit, like he was heading to a boardroom rather than a breakfast table haunted by every poor decision he's ever made.

He smiled at me. Then at Iranya.

"Looking stunning, girls," he said smoothly, like the night hadn't ended in shouting and shattered glasses. Like we hadn't heard Mama crying until 3 AM.

Iranya raised an eyebrow.

"Papa, do I need to be Italian and 25 to get a real compliment from you?"

He didn't answer.

Mama Raichand entered last. Her beauty — still soft, still haunting — looked paler today. She didn't speak. Just went straight to the fruit tray and began slicing a mango in eerie silence.

Slice. Slice. Slice.

The room fell quiet for a second too long.

Shaurya cleared his throat. Akshay looked away. Iranya texted someone.

I kept my gaze on Mama's hands.

God, the way she was cutting that mango...

Like it was someone's throat.

And I knew exactly whose.

Rightfully so

As a daughter, I love him. But as a woman, I can't forgive him...

just then...

Papa's phone rang just as the last drops of tea kissed the rim of his bone china cup. A crisp tone. Not the usual ringtone. Business.

His fingers twitched slightly, but his face? Untouched. Calm. Powerful.

"Excuse me," he said, already standing. The moment he stepped into the hallway, his voice changed.

Like a switch.

Suddenly, he was velvet. Authority laced with charm, dominance masked with poise. Every word measured. Smooth. Unshakable. The kind of voice that could sell dreams to the devil.

"Yes, I understand... we'll close that deal before the board has a chance to blink. Just make sure the Singapore files are clean by Friday..."

That tone... that voice...
He sounded like a man the world feared, admired, and obeyed.

And maybe it did.

But I didn't.

Not anymore.

Because all I could hear was last night.

The walls may have been gilded, the floors imported marble, but they couldn't muffle the storm that cracked open in the master bedroom.
Not for the first time. And never the last.

I had heard it all. Every word. Every cruel sentence he threw at Ma. Every silence she swallowed like glass.

I remembered her sobs — how they slipped into the hallway, quiet but sharp. And how I just sat there outside the door, fingers dug into the carpet like I could hold the house together by force.

I was a child again in that moment — knees tucked to my chest, trying to breathe, trying to not hate the man I was supposed to love.

And now...

Now he stood there, less than ten feet away, charming the world like he hadn't emotionally wrecked the woman who gave him three children and thirty-five years of her life.

I blinked, realizing I hadn't moved. My fingers curled slightly around the edge of the dining chair.
Trembling.

Just enough for Iranya to notice.

She didn't say anything — of course not. We Raichands don't speak when it matters most.
But her eyes flicked to my hands. Then my face. Then back to her phone.

Noted.
Filed.
Silently mourned.

I looked back at Papa through the glass panels.

He was smiling now. That practiced, charming smile.

And all I could think was—

"He could love the world. But never his own house."

Because to him, we were too real.
Too flawed.
Too familiar to impress.

The world got his best.
And we got whatever pieces were left over.

I swallowed down the lump in my throat and picked up my teacup like nothing happened.

After all, what was one more moment of silence in a house built on unspoken things?

1..2..3..4..5..6..10..20..30 seconds...

the clock kept ticking, seconds after seconds...

Still at breakfast.

I hadn't even taken a full sip of my tea when the click of heels echoed down the marble foyer.

Here we go.

Only one woman in Mumbai had the audacity to arrive uninvited, ten minutes before brunch was technically served, and act like she owned the chandelier above our heads.

Akshara Raichand.
My father's sister-in-law.

My so-called Aunt...
A walking perfume ad with claws sharper than her jawline.

Her voice announced her before her silhouette did.

"Well, well... why does it smell like silence in here? Didn't anyone tell this house it's a Sunday?"

She waltzed in wearing enough gold to sponsor a wedding. Her Chanel scarf was tied so tightly around her neck, I half-wished it'd finish the job.

Behind her trailed her husband, Uncle Arhaan, who looked like he'd rather be in a coma, and Akshay, their son—tall, quiet, polite, Who had already been sitting on the dining with us. A complete paradox to the hurricane that birthed him.

Ryesha, of course, didn't even pause her music. Her AirPods were still in, eyes glued to her screen. Typical.

"Good morning, Akshara Aunty," I said smoothly, placing my cup down and adjusting my robe just enough to signal: yes, I live here, and no, I didn't ask for this.

She kissed the air beside my cheek with that signature Raichand double-tap — fake, frosty, formal, Did I mention? Highly Unrealistic.

And then it began.

The ritualistic roasting.

"Iranya beta, you've lost so much weight! Are you even eating anything these days?"

Iranya didn't even glance up. "Just my feelings."

Shaurya's spoon clinked against his cup, and I saw the ghost of a smile threaten to betray him.

"And Inaaya," Akshara cooed, pausing with a well-practiced gasp, "Red lipstick? So early in the morning?"

I didn't blink. Just leaned back with the poise she hated.

"It's never too early to look like I don't need approval."

Boom.

The table went silent. Except for Iranya's soft "Damn."

Akshara's smile faltered, just for a second. But she recovered with the ease of a woman who'd been fake-smiling since 1995.

She moved on to her next victim.

"Shaurya, still unmarried? At this age? What are we waiting for — menopause?"

Shaurya didn't look up from his coffee.

"Waiting for someone who doesn't sound like you."

Even Akshay coughed into his fist to hide the laugh.

Uncle Arhaan was already trying to blend into the furniture. Ryesha took one earbud out, just to mumble, "Is she done yet?"

It was exhausting.
Performing this play every Sunday.
Where love was competition.
And conversation was ammunition.

But we did it. 

I glanced across the table at Iranya, who was already on her phone, typing something that probably would end up as a brutally honest Instagram story.

Shaurya had resumed drinking his coffee like it was a tranquilizer.
Akshay gave me a half-smile. The kind that said: Yeah, I see it too.

And Akshara?

Still glowing. Still venomous. Still convinced we'd die for her approval.

I stirred my tea slowly, smiling to myself.

"Let the circus begin," I whispered under my breath.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

The Rathore Mansion:

Mornings in the Rathore mansion didn't rise — they unfolded, like a silk sari slipping off royalty's shoulder. The scent of imported coffee and crushed roses drifted through corridors lined with oil paintings and untold secrets. Footsteps echoed off obsidian marble, soft and calculated — like everyone had something to prove and too much to hide. The staff moved like shadows, silently setting out gold-rimmed plates as sunlight danced through crystal chandeliers onto velvet chairs. And in the middle of it all, the Rathores woke up not like people, but like legacies — dangerous, divine, and far too powerful to fall.

There was nothing louder than silence when you woke up in a house built on secrets.

And I woke up before the sun.

The sheets were still crisp when I slid out of bed — black Egyptian cotton, obviously. The marble floor was cold beneath my feet, a cruel reminder that I was alive and functioning, even if I didn't always feel like it. Every breath in this house was a reminder of what we had, and what we'd buried to keep it.

Power comes at a cost — and in our house, it cost peace.

"Aarav bhaiya, you up?" Ayaan's voice came knocking through the door before he did. "I'm five seconds from leaving without you—"

"Do it," I muttered, already pulling on my compression shirt.

The door creaked open anyway, revealing Ayaan Rathore — shirtless, grinning, and texting with one hand like the playboy menace he was born to be.

"Texting her again?" I asked, brushing past him.

"You act like you wouldn't go back if she looked like that, bro," he winked. "You should've seen the things she—never mind."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. 

Behind him came Devyaan — my cousin, my shadow, the dangerous one. He had that calm rage, the kind of loyalty that could kill in silence and smile at the funeral. The kind of man you don't send to fix problems — you send him to end them.

"Let's go," Devyaan said, cracking his knuckles. "You promised I'd knock you out today."

"You can try," I smirked back, my scars visible in the mirror.

We descended the grand staircase of the Rathore mansion — a golden serpent curling through centuries of wealth and wickedness. The chandeliers hadn't even flickered yet, but the house was already breathing.

Burnt espresso. Oudh candles. Cinnamon from Amaira's toast. Ghosts of past sins tucked into every corner.

As we passed the velvet-curtained hallway, we caught a glimpse of the dining room — Amaira and Ishra were already seated at the table like Vogue models pretending to be saints. Silky robes, glossy hair, and expressions that said "Don't fuck with me unless you're family — and even then, good luck."

Amaira raised her mug in greeting. Ishra didn't even look up — too busy sipping her French press with a blank screen in front of her. Not even on. Just vibes.

"Good morning, Amaira," Devyaan said.

She didn't smile. "Is it?"

Mood.

Meanwhile upstairs, Papa Rudra and Mama Ishita were... definitely not asleep. We passed their room and—

"You're spoiling me, Rudra."
"Let me. Just for one more morning, let me pretend this world hasn't taken everything from us."

The sound of a kiss. A soft laugh. Then silence again — the heavy kind. The kind that smells like memory and grief.

They didn't talk about Devyaan's parents anymore. They didn't have to. The scar ran through all of us, but it bled the most in Papa's eyes and Mama's quiet prayers.

They had raised Devyaan and Ishra as their own ever since that car crash. Never treated them like second children — only like reminders of what the world can take when you're not watching.

Back in the car, Ayaan was still texting.

"She sent me a voice note," he said. "Should I play it?"

"No," I deadpanned.

He played it anyway.

"I miss your hands," the voice purred from his phone speaker. "And your—"

"Ayaan!" Devyaan and I barked in unison.

"What? She's a poet," Ayaan smirked.

Back in the car, Ayaan was still texting — thumbs moving like he was writing his autobiography in sexts.

"Okay, last message: 'You left your earring in my car. Want to come pick it up... or should I drop it at your place? ;)' Done. Sent. I'm a king."

"You're a walking HR violation," Devyaan muttered from the passenger seat, eyes still fixed on his switchblade that he liked flipping open for fun. Or threat. Depends on the mood.

I ignored them both, tightening My grip on the steering wheel, my eyes on the road. Not the cars. Not the sky. Just the emptiness in between.
The silence was loud, broken only by the sound of Ayaan snorting at his own charm.

"So what's the plan today, bhai?" Devyaan asked, leaning back, that slow grin crawling up like he was ready to unleash some violence. "Box until we bleed or just lightly traumatize each other first?"

"Both," I replied, my voice calm — too calm. "Start with trauma. End with bruises."

A beat of silence.

Ayaan popped a protein bar in his mouth and grinned. "God, I love family bonding. This is why we're so well-adjusted."

Devyaan: "Speak for yourself. I have at least four undiagnosed conditions and a hit list."

Ayaan: "Only four? I'm offended."

Me: "Shut up and stretch your damn wrists. I'm not carrying either of you out of the ring today."

The Luxurious Black Ferrari hummed through the quiet roads, the city still half-asleep, unaware that three Rathore boys were about to treat a gym like a battlefield.

Ayaan started playing music — something bass-heavy and annoying.

Devyaan rolled his eyes. "Change it. I don't want to fight with a stripper soundtrack."

"It's called motivation, loser," Ayaan grinned. "Not my fault you punch like you've got daddy issues."

Devyaan cracked his knuckles.

"Remind me to break your nose after warm-up."

"You won't," Ayaan smiled.

"You're both idiots," I muttered, jaw tight, but the corners of my mouth curled — barely.

They were chaos. But they were mine.

Brothers, by blood and by war.

And soon, we'd be bleeding together — the only way Rathores ever said I love you.

At the gym, sweat hit leather. Our fists echoed in the underground boxing arena Papa built for us — the only therapy we ever took seriously.

Devyaan swung fast. Ayaan danced. I stood still, letting the silence sink into my bones before I hit back.

Because in this house, we don't run from pain. We train with it. We spar with it.

And then we bury it with gold rings and blood-stained gloves.

And yet... underneath all the laughs, I felt it.

That silence. That ghost. That weight.

We were born into power, privilege, money, danger.

But love?

We had to carve it out with our own damn hands.

And I'd protect them all — Amaira, Ishra, Ayaan, Devyaan — even if it meant setting the world on fire.
(Ishani: And soon you'll have to buy protection, sir. iykyk)

Even if it meant destroying myself.

Because that's what Rathores do.

We bleed. But we never break.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Across the sprawling estate, the Rathore dining room glowed under morning sunlight — the kind of golden hue that made everything look like a still from an old-money fantasy. Chandeliers glittered above a black marble table so long, it could seat a small army. And often did.

Amaira — my youngest sister, soft-spoken but never soft-willed — was already seated, pouring chamomile tea into bone china with the kind of elegance that didn't need effort. She wore a satin robe and pearls, like she woke up in a Vogue editorial.

"You're late," she said, not even glancing up. Her voice was calm, casual... lethal. "Breakfast started twenty minutes ago."

"Blame your brother," Ayaan huffed behind me, already halfway through unbuttoning his gym jacket. "He was busy brooding like Batman on a therapy hiatus."

"He is Batman," Ishra chimed in, perched on the other side of the table like royalty with a switchblade. Her dark curls were pulled back, one leg up on the chair like rules didn't apply to her. "Just richer. And hotter. also, blessed enough to be MY BROTHER"

She didn't even look up from her nails as she said it — blood-red polish being applied with surgical precision, like she had a hit list and this was part of her war paint.

I shot her a look.

She grinned. Unapologetic. Dangerous. Family.

Devyaan grabbed a black coffee and sat down with a dramatic sigh, flipping his silver rings against the porcelain mug. "Can we have one morning where no one praises Aarav? Just one. My trauma can't take it."

"Your trauma needs decaf," Amaira replied, delicately buttering a croissant.

Ayaan flopped into his chair like a menace. "Says the girl who cried because her favorite perfume got discontinued."

Amaira sipped her tea. "It was limited edition. That's called grief, you emotionally illiterate man-child."

The table fell into familiar chaos — forks clinking, sarcasm flying like cutlery.
But underneath it all, there was comfort. Not peace. Just the kind of broken love that held itself together with gold thread and denial.

I sat down quietly, watching them — my siblings, my people, my tether to this world.
I didn't say much. I never had to. They filled the silence, so I wouldn't have to face it.

From the far end of the hall, Mama and Papa finally emerged.

Papa — Rudra Rathore — still looked like sin in silk. His white kurta was casually unbuttoned, his hair perfectly tousled in that just had sex or just survived a war kind of way. His hand was resting lightly on Mama's waist — not just touch, but claim.

Ishita Rathore walked like she was still the most beautiful woman in every room. And she was. Her smile was soft, her eyes still slightly puffy from laughter — or something more fragile.

For a split second, they looked like a couple untouched by grief.

But I knew better.

Devyaan's eyes flicked upward — just for a moment. I saw it too. That silence between them when their gaze slipped past the empty space where his parents should have been.

A ghost. Always at the table.

But no one said anything.

We ate. We sipped. We laughed. Like we weren't all living with invisible knives tucked under our ribs.

And maybe that was love, in the Rathore household:
Eating croissants next to your demons.
Smiling through the grief.
Bleeding in private.

Just like always.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

✨Author's Note from Your Favourite Unstable Genius✨

First of all—THANK YOU FOR READING, MY LOVES!!
If you made it this far without fainting, crying, or texting your ex out of pure emotional damage... congratulations. You're stronger than 97% of the population. 💀👏

Now, before I collapse dramatically onto the floor like a Raichand mother crying in silk sarees — LET ME REST 😭
I am, once again, begging the universe to delete all my assignments. Like girl, be fr. Why is "due tomorrow" always giving "you shall not sleep tonight"?
Everything in life is temporary—except me crying about assignments and overthinking about fictional men who don't exist (yet).

ALSOOOO, drop an honest review babes. Don't lie to me like Papa Raichand lies to his wife. I want the truth — Did you GASP? Did you simppp? Did you lose brain cells in the best way possible? 😌

Don't forget to VOTE 🗳️
Your girl is out here working harder than Inaaya's emotional trauma and Aarav's punching bags, okay??

And let me tell you this—
This book is only going to get filthier, darker, more sinful, and dangerously addictive.
We're talking obsession that'll ruin your standards and drama that'll have you refreshing the app like you're stalking someone's story 👀💋

So buckle up, baby. We're just getting started.
More trauma, more lust, more family issues wrapped in designer drama.

Until next time—
Stay toxic, stay hot, and blame it on the main leads.

XOXO,
Your Sleep-Deprived, Assignment-Dodging, Delulu Queen Ishani 💻💋

𓆩❤︎𓆪