Trisha's POV

The canvas is a graveyard of things I will never become.

For seven hours, I've been staring at the same streak of cerulean blue, waiting for it to speak to me, waiting for the universe to offer up some semblance of meaning. Instead, the only thing greeting me is the cold, bitter reality of a lukewarm Americano I forgot existed three hours ago, and the distinct, crushing weight of a social battery that has long since dropped into the negatives. People look at artists and see romance. They see tragedy and passion twisted into strokes of genius. They don't see the absolute, suffocating silence of an empty studio, or the crippling existential dread that whispers you're a fraud with every breath you take.

My spine aches. My fingers are stained with pigment. I am entirely, utterly alone in my head-until my phone begins to violent shake against the wooden stool.

It doesn't just ring. It vibrates with a frantic, aggressive intensity, like a device possessed, screaming a name I've spent the last three years trying to survive.

Araadhna Nandan.

I don't answer. I watch the screen illuminate the dim corners of the room, letting the vibration rattle my teeth from a distance. Decline. It flashes, dies, and immediately resurrects. Decline. Again. Decline. On the fourth consecutive attempt, the sheer persistence of her madness wins.

I press the receiver to my ear, my voice flat, scraped raw from hours of disuse. "What?"

"TRISHA!"

The sheer volume of her voice hits me like a physical blow. I flinch, ripping the phone away from my ear as her frantic tone echoes off the concrete walls of my sanctuary. I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose, already feeling the familiar, slow-burning headache beginning its descent behind my eyes.

"Why are you screaming?" I ask, my tone laced with a deadly quiet exhaustion.

"Because I found a dead body."

The air leaves my lungs in a sharp, sudden gasp. My fingers lose their grip, and the paintbrush slips, clattering against the floorboards, leaving a streak of dark gray in its wake. My heart does a violent, erratic stutter against my ribs. "...What?"

Silence stretches over the line. A heavy, suffocating beat where the world stops spinning.

Then, a sharp intake of breath. "Kidding."

A dark, dangerous urge to walk out onto my balcony and plummet into the pavement below washes over me. I grip the phone tighter, my knuckles turning white. "Araadhna."

"What? You answered, didn't you?"

She says it with that infuriating, untouchable lightness. It is entirely baffling how a woman who stands in courtrooms and commands the fates of the most dangerous criminals in the country can possess the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old on a caffeine bender. She plays with fire for a living, yet she treats life like a game she's already won.

"What do you want?" I demand, my voice dripping with irritation.

"Lunch."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because every single time I step outside a designated safety zone with you, something inherently illegal happens."

"That's blatant discrimination, Rathore."

"Last month, you spent thirty-seven minutes aggressively cross-examining a traffic cop on the side of a busy intersection," I remind her, my voice rising slightly.

"I won the argument."

"You ran the red light!"

"Irrelevant details."

Before I can formulate a lethal rejoinder, before I can hang up and lock my doors to ensure my survival, another sound cuts through the line. It isn't loud. It isn't frantic. It is a cool, calculated slice of ice that immediately drops the temperature in the room. A voice that doesn't need to shout to command absolute submission.

"Be ready in twenty minutes."

My posture shifts instantly. My shoulders square. "Amrita?"

"Yes."

Amrita Valekar doesn't waste breath on dramatics. She doesn't scream like Araadhna, nor does she negotiate. She is a woman carved from granite, possessing an aura of silent, crushing disappointment that has the power to bring empires to their knees.

"What if I refuse to come?" I try, testing the boundaries, even though I already know the futility of it.

"You'll come."

"Why?"

"Because I know exactly where you live, Trisha."

The line goes dead. No goodbye. No room for argument.

In the background, Araadhna's hysterical, wicked laughter echoes faintly before the call terminates completely. I stare at the dark screen of my phone, the silence of my studio returning, though it feels entirely altered now. Contaminated by them.

"I hate both of you," I whisper to the empty room. But the lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

Exactly twenty-three minutes later, I am trapped.

The café is dimly lit, smelling of roasted beans and expensive perfumes, but all I can focus on is the sheer gravity of the two women sitting across from me. I feel small, swallowed whole by the sheer force of their opposing personalities. To anyone else, we look like a mistake. An anomaly in the social fabric of this city.

Araadhna is draped over her chair with a predatory, casual elegance, looking as though she owns the establishment and everyone currently breathing inside it. Confidence isn't just a trait for her; it's armor, woven into the fabric of her tailored suit. She is a creature of noise and victory, capable of charming a waiter, destroying a judge, and befriending a complete stranger all within the span of five minutes.

And then there is Amrita.

She sits with a terrifyingly perfect posture, a shadow cast in sharp lines and dangerous silences. Her eyes move with a cold, analytical precision, scanning the room, calculating exits, dissecting threats. She looks like a woman who hoards classified state secrets for her own personal amusement. To the rest of the world, she is an untouchable phantom of law enforcement. To us, she is just slightly more grounded than the lunatic sitting next to her. Slightly.

A waiter approaches our table, his footsteps hesitant, clearly picking up on the volatile energy vibrating between the three of us. "Ma'am, what would you like to order?"

Before a single syllable can form on my lips, Araadhna's hand shoots out, her finger pointing directly at my face. "She'll have whatever option requires the absolute least amount of human interaction."

The waiter blinks, utterly bewildered. I close my eyes, inhaling slowly.

Amrita doesn't look up from her menu, her nod slow, solemn, and devastatingly precise. "That's an accurate assessment."

I open my eyes, glaring at the pair of them. "I cannot believe I willingly allowed both of you into my life."

"A tragic, irreversible mistake on your part," Araadhna purrs, flashing a brilliant, dangerous grin.

When the food arrives, we manage a grand total of forty-three seconds of relative peace. I should have known it wouldn't last. The quiet is always just a precursor to the storm with them.

Araadhna suddenly drops her fork, leaning over the table, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, chaotic spark. "I have a question."

"No," I say instantly, not even looking up from my plate.

"You don't even know what it is yet."

"It doesn't matter. It's safer for my sanity if the answer is no."

Amrita takes a slow, measured sip of her black coffee, her gaze fixed on Araadhna. "Proceed."

Araadhna's grin widens, turning sharp, almost lethal. "If the three of us committed a high-profile crime together, who would survive the longest?"

I choke on my breath, coughing as the air catches in my throat. "Why is that your baseline for casual lunch conversation?"

"Academic curiosity, darling."

"You are literally a criminal defense attorney!"

"Which makes me uniquely qualified to ask," she counters smoothly.

Amrita doesn't hesitate. Her gaze shifts, settling heavily on me. "Trisha."

I freeze, my fork hovering in mid-air. "Me?"

"Yes."

Araadhna lets out a dramatic, offended gasp, leaning back into her chair as if she's been physically struck. "Excuse me? I am a master of the legal system. I know how to bury bodies-metaphorically and literally."

"Which is exactly why you'd be caught first," Amrita states, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "You possess a pathological need to be the smartest person in the room. You would get caught because you wouldn't be able to resist explaining to the authorities exactly why your crime was a stroke of legal genius."

A sudden, sharp laugh escapes my throat before I can stop it.

Araadhna's eyes narrow, her finger whipping around to point at me accusingly. "She's laughing. Amrita, she's mocking me."

"Because she's entirely right," I manage to say, the tension in my chest loosening just a fraction.

"Trisha would survive," Amrita continues, her analytical tone never wavering, "because she is a ghost. Nobody looks at her and sees a threat. She blends into the background."

Araadhna's eyes go completely still. The playful warmth vanishes, replaced by a sudden, intense scrutiny. Slowly, both of them turn their heads, their gazes locking onto me with a synchronized, heavy weight that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I swallow hard, feeling suddenly trapped in my own skin. "What?"

Araadhna leans in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "What if she's secretly a criminal mastermind? What if this entire innocent artist persona is just a front?"

I stare at her. Amrita stares at me. The silence stretches between the three of us, thick and heavy with absurd suspicion.

Then, Amrita gives a single, slow nod. "It's highly probable."

"WHAT?" I burst out, my hands flying up in exasperation.

"Think about it," Araadhna presses, her excitement building. "She's quiet."

"That's called being an introvert, not a cartel boss!"

"She observes everything," Amrita adds, her eyes narrowing as if she's reading a case file written across my forehead.

"I am an artist! That is literally just me existing in a room!"

"Exactly what a mastermind would say to deflect suspicion," Araadhna declares triumphantly.

Defeated, exhausted, and entirely overwhelmed by the sheer madness of my social circle, I let my forehead drop onto the hard surface of the table with a dull thud. "This friendship was a terrible, terrible mistake."

As I lie there, the cool wood against my skin, the sound of their laughter breaks through the ambient noise of the café. It isn't restrained. It's Araadhna's loud, wicked, uncontrollable sound that draws stares from neighboring tables, paired with Amrita's rare, quiet, genuine chuckle-the kind she only ever releases when the world isn't watching.

Slowly, against my own volition, a smile tugs at the corners of my lips.

They are exhausting. They are terrifying. They are entirely unreasonable human beings who manipulate the laws of the land for survival. But as I listen to them joke about my hypothetical criminal empire, the cold dread that followed me from my studio completely evaporates.

They are my people.

One defends the monsters. One hunts them down in the dark. And I am the one who sits in the quiet, capturing the wreckage they leave behind on a canvas. A criminal lawyer, a CBI officer, and an introverted artist. There is no logic to it. No earthly reason why our worlds should have ever collided, let alone fused together so seamlessly.

But as I lift my head to face the two most dangerous women in the city, I realize I wouldn't have it any other way.

The heavy oak door clicks shut behind me, and the sudden, absolute silence of my apartment wraps around my shoulders like a shroud.

No Araadhna screeching about felonies into my eardrum. No Amrita fixing me with a gaze that makes me feel like I'm under federal interrogation. No existential debates about who would survive a bloodbath. Just the hollow, beautiful quiet.

And my ghosts.

The moment the lock turns, the familiar, grounding scent of turpentine, heavy acrylics, and stale coffee hits me. It is the only smell that makes sense anymore. This apartment isn't just a living space; it's a living entity. My sanctuary when the world grows too loud. My battlefield when the colors refuse to bleed the way I want them to. My prison when the isolation turns sharp, and my freedom when the rest of society demands I be someone I am not. All of it, trapped within four walls.

The living room has long since surrendered to the chaos. It doesn't even resemble a domestic space anymore; the art has staged a violent coup, conquering every square inch of flooring. Massive canvases lean against the baseboards like sleeping giants. Plastic tubes of paint, crusted over and bleeding dried pigments, occupy every flat surface. Sketchbooks are stacked in precarious, towering structures that threaten to collapse if I breathe too hard.

From the far corner, a half-finished portrait stares back at me through layers of dark, moody charcoal, its hollow eyes judging my life choices with a familiarity that feels entirely personal.

I tear my gaze away and toss my jacket toward the couch. The fabric disappears immediately beneath it. Not because the bag is large, but because the sofa itself has been buried alive under a mountain of specialized sketchpads, stray brushes, and palettes I've been too lazy to clean. I stare at the mess for a beat, then look away. That sounds like an issue for Future Trisha. Present Trisha refuses to care.

Instead, my feet drag me toward the center of the room, stopping directly in front of the newest canvas.

It's massive. A five-foot monolith of stretched linen that dominates my view. It isn't complete yet, but it's hovering on that razor-thin edge of finality-the kind of close that makes every single movement of the hand feel like a life-or-death decision. One wrong stroke, one momentary lapse in concentration, and hours of absolute agony will be ruined, bleeding into an irreparable mess.

My heart gives a familiar, nervous thud. I reach up, blindly gathering my hair into a messy, loose bun at the crown of my head, and wrap my fingers around the worn wooden handle of my favorite blending brush.

The outside world dies.

The transition is instantaneous. The noise of the Jaipur traffic below, the suffocating expectations of my name, the heavy weight of being Trisha Rathore-it all evaporates into the ether. There are no people here. There are no demands. Only the stark reality of the canvas and the raw, bleeding colors waiting to be tamed.

Time loses its shape. It expands and contracts until minutes blend seamlessly into hours. Soft, ambient music drifts from a speaker somewhere in the shadows, a low hum against the quiet. The harsh afternoon sunlight slowly deepens, shifting across the floorboards in long, golden amber strokes before dissolving into dusk. I don't look up. I don't breathe.

Then, the floor vibrates.

A sharp buzz breaks the spell. I ignore it, my brush tracing a delicate line of shadow along the canvas's edge. A few seconds later, it vibrates again. Then again. And again. The persistent, aggressive rattling against the glass coffee table is a rhythm I recognize with deep, simmering dread. Only one human being on this planet possesses the sheer, unadulterated audacity to disrupt my workflow with this level of malice.

I let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping the brush into a jar of murky water, and pick up the device.

Araadhna Nandan.

"What now?" I slide the phone to my ear, my voice flat, tight with the irritation of being pulled back to earth.

"Good evening to you too, sunshine," her voice purrs, dripping with that effortless, untouchable amusement.

"It is barely four in the afternoon."

"Semantics. Details."

I roll my eyes so hard it physically aches. "What do you want, Araadhna? I'm in the middle of something."

"Are you packed?"

The question hangs in the air, cold and sudden. My hand freezes halfway through reaching for a rag. Packed? Packed for what?

Then, the realization hits me like a bucket of ice water straight to the chest. Delhi. The national art exhibition. The high-profile gallery event. The absolute circus of critics, buyers, and media. My stomach immediately twists into a tight, agonizing knot. "Oh."

Across the line, Araadhna lets out a sharp, booming laugh that makes me wish I'd never answered. "You forgot."

"I didn't forget."

"Trisha, you absolutely, one hundred percent forgot."

"...Maybe a little."

"Unbelievable," she scoffs, though the humor in her tone is vibrant. "Trisha Rathore, one of the country's most celebrated contemporary artists, is scheduled to board a flight to Delhi tomorrow morning, and she's currently staring at a wall covered in paint."

"I'm busy," I defend weakly, looking at the five-foot canvas.

"You are always busy."

"Exactly. It's a lifestyle."

In the background, a second voice cuts through the line-low, cool, and perfectly measured. Amrita. "Ask her if she booked the hotel room."

I blink. The hotel.

A heavy, suffocating silence stretches over the phone line.

Araadhna gasps dramatically, the sound sharp enough to shatter glass. "You forgot that too! Oh my god, you are a menace to society."

"I was painting!" I yell back, defending my sanity. "The light was perfect!"

"TRISHA!"

"I was busy!"

"YOU ARE A GROWN WOMAN!" Araadhna bellows.

"Barely," I mutter under my breath.

Through the receiver, I hear a distinct, sudden sound. A snort. Amrita Valekar-a woman who handles national security threats without breaking a sweat-just snorted. It's a sound so rare it belongs in a museum, but before I can comment on it, the tag-team bullying session resumes.

Ten minutes of systematic verbal assault later, the call finally ends. I drop the phone back onto the table, leaning my head against the cool wall. The apartment returns to its natural state. Blessed, wonderful, beautiful-

Buzz.

I stare at the screen. Slowly. Suspiciously.

I pick it up. A text message from Amrita flashes against the glass.

Book your hotel.

A second later, another one arrives.

And pack.

Then, the final nail in the coffin.

This is not optional, Trisha. I will check.

A reluctant, quiet smile touches my lips despite the anxiety bubbling in my throat. Three years of enduring their insanity, and Amrita still manages to act like my self-appointed, federal guardian.

With a defeated groan, I finally force my legs to move, walking down the narrow hallway toward my bedroom. In the far corner, sitting beneath the window, is my suitcase. It's entirely empty. Hollow. Mocking me with its very existence. I stare down at it, and the suitcase wins the silent standoff.

I fling the wardrobe doors open and begin pulling out garments with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Tomorrow morning, I leave the protective cocoon of Jaipur. Tomorrow evening, I will be dropped directly into the lions' den of Delhi's elite.

It will mean rubbing shoulders with pretentious gallery owners. It will mean answering invasive questions from journalists who want to dissect my trauma for an article. It will mean giving speeches, standing under blinding gallery lights, and pretending my social battery isn't hovering at absolute zero while smiling at complete strangers.

It is exactly the kind of agonizing social nightmare I have spent my entire adult life trying to avoid. Wonderful. Truly.

An hour later, with my suitcase half-packed and my anxiety somewhat managed, I drift back into the studio space. The unfinished painting is still standing there on the easel, dominant and patient, as if it knew I could never stay away for long.

I step closer, the wood floor creaking softly beneath my bare feet. Slowly, I reach out, my fingertips lightly brushing against the textured, rough edge of the canvas where the paint has already dried to a hard ridge.

The impending dread of Delhi fades slightly. No matter where I am forced to travel, no matter how many people pretend to understand the madness hidden inside my art, and no matter how heavy my name becomes to carry... this room will always be the anchor. A quiet space. A blank slate. And the infinite, terrifying possibilities of a fresh stroke of color.

Outside, the Jaipur night finally settles over the city, painting the skyline in deep shades of violet and indigo. Inside, beneath the harsh, warm glow of the studio lamps, I pick up my brush once more, the wet bristles glistening with fresh black paint.

Tomorrow can wait. The critics can wait. The world can wait.

For now, there is only the canvas. And it demands to be finished.

If any unsuspecting traveler had wandered into the Jaipur terminal that morning and cast a glance in our direction, they would have locked their eyes on my friends and assumed a definitive tragedy was unfolding.

They would have assumed I was leaving the country forever. Possibly fleeing a cartel. Possibly boarding a one-way, high-risk vessel destined for Mars, never to set foot on Earth again.

The mundane, agonizing reality?

I was traveling from Jaipur to Delhi. For a grand total of three days. Seventy-two hours. That was it. Yet somehow, through the sheer, unadulterated power of her dramatic license, Araadhna Nandan had successfully managed to elevate a routine domestic flight into a national mourning period.

I stood a few yards away from the departure gate, feeling intensely exposed in a simple, sleeveless white kurti and beige wide-leg pants. My single suitcase rested reliably beside my ankle, a stark contrast to the chaotic whirlwind currently manifesting around me. The airport terminal was alive with its usual atmospheric drone-the continuous, hollow rattle of rolling luggage against polished floors, the mechanical chime of overhead boarding announcements, and the hurried, frantic footsteps of travelers who actually had somewhere to be.

Meanwhile, my friends were busy staging a coup against my dignity. A very public scene. A deeply humiliating, soul-crushing spectacle.

And it was entirely Araadhna's fault.

Her manicured hands were clamped tightly onto my shoulders, anchoring me to the spot. When I looked up, her dark eyes were swimming with a suspiciously watery sheen.

"Trisha..." her voice vibrated with a tremor that would have been highly effective in front of a jury.

"No." My response was flat, delivered with zero hesitation.

"Trisha, listen to me-"

"No, Araadhna."

"You don't understand the depth of this trauma," she insisted, her lower lip quivering with a terrifying amount of theatrical precision.

I fixed her with a deadpan stare, completely unmoving. "I understand perfectly. I will see you in exactly three days."

"THREE DAYS!" she wailed, her voice rising an octave, slicing through the ambient noise of the terminal.

At least half a dozen business travelers at a nearby coffee kiosk snapped their heads around to look at us. A deep, agonizing blush crept up my neck. In that exact moment, I genuinely wished the earth would fracture beneath my sneakers and swallow me whole into the tectonic abyss.

Standing just a step away from our immediate disaster zone was Amrita Valekar. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her posture predictably rigid, her face an unreadable mask of absolute stone. She watched the absolute car crash of Araadhna's emotional breakdown with the detached precision of a seasoned investigator observing a minor traffic violation.

"She is being entirely ridiculous," Amrita stated, her cool, even tone slicing through Araadhna's theatrics.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Thank you. Someone with a functioning brain."

"Three days cannot mathematically be classified as a separation," Amrita added, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"Exactly," I agreed, nodding fervently.

Araadhna's head snapped toward Amrita, her finger whipping out to point accusingly at the CBI officer's face. "That is exceptionally easy for a robot like you to say!"

Amrita didn't even flinch. "And why is that?"

"Because you lack basic human emotions, Valekar. You're operating on a glitchy software update."

Amrita simply blinked, entirely unfazed by the insult.

Beside her, a sharp, melodic burst of laughter rang out, instantly shattering whatever solemnity Araadhna was trying to salvage. Standing right next to Amrita was her younger sister, Ridima Valekar. Ridima had been unfortunate enough to inherit the exact same terrifyingly sharp, analytical intelligence as her older sister. But fortunately for us-and unfortunately for the rest of the civilized world-she had also been cursed with a wicked, untamable sense of humor. The combination was lethal.

Her dark, beautiful curls bounced around her shoulders as her shoulders shook with amusement.

"Speaking strictly from a psychological standpoint," Ridima intervened, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she tilted her head thoughtfully, "I am highly confident that Araadhna is currently experiencing a textbook manifestation of temporary abandonment issues."

Araadhna let out a sharp, offended gasp, her hand flying to her chest. "You absolute traitor."

"I am not a traitor, I am simply diagnosing you for free," Ridima countered smoothly.

"You literally received your degree yesterday, Ridima!"

"And yet, I still heavily outrank your current emotional stability, so my assessment stands."

A sudden, nearly imperceptible twitch caught the corner of Amrita's mouth. She actually smiled. It was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it shift in her jawline, but it meant everything. Ridima had scored a direct, unassisted hit to Araadhna's massive ego.

Sensing she was losing her audience, Araadhna pivoted back to me, her grip on my shoulders tightening as she adopted a solemn, tragic expression. "Promise me you will call."

"I will call you, Araadhna."

"Every single day."

"Yes, I will."

"Every single hour."

"No."

"Every thirty minutes, Trisha. I need proof of life."

"Absolutely, unequivocally not."

She drew herself up, looking personally violated by my lack of compliance.

Ridima nodded sagely from the sidelines, crossing her own arms in a perfect, albeit mocking, imitation of her older sister. "A highly reasonable boundary, if you ask me."

Araadhna shot her a lethal glare. "Nobody in this airport asked you, child."

"I ask myself, Nandan. It keeps the internal monologue interesting."

Before Araadhna could launch into a legal defense of her boundary violations, the overhead speakers chimed with a clear, resonant chime. A automated voice echoed through the high ceilings of the terminal, announcing the final boarding sequence for the flight to Delhi.

My flight. Finally, my ticket out of this madhouse.

The moment my fingers wrapped around the handle of my suitcase, Araadhna's hand shot out like a vice, clamping onto my forearm. I closed my eyes, a silent, internal prayer leaving my lips. Here we go again.

"Before you walk through those security gates and leave us behind..." she began, her voice dropping into a low, grave cadence that she usually reserved for murder trials.

"What, Araadhna? What is it?"

"If something catastrophic happens to me while you are gone..."

"Nothing is going to happen to you in seventy-two hours."

"But if it does..."

"Araadhna, please."

"Tell future generations that I was exceptionally beautiful, and that I died fighting the system."

Ridima let out a sound that was half-choke, half-shriek, nearly losing her balance as she doubled over with laughter. Amrita slowly raised her right hand, pinching the bridge of her nose in a rare display of sheer, unadulterated exhaustion.

I forced my gaze upward, staring at the structural steel beams of the airport ceiling. I was genuinely hoping a team of heavily armed airport security guards would notice the public disturbance, suspect me of something entirely illegal, and forcibly escort me away to an interrogation room. At this point, federal custody felt infinitely safer than this conversation.

"You know," Ridima choked out through her laughter, wiping a tear from her eye, "most normal people usually shed tears when someone they love is heading into a highly volatile, life-threatening environment."

Araadhna nodded solemnly, completely missing the sarcasm. "Exactly. My point precisely."

"Trisha is going to Delhi, Araadhna."

"Which is precisely why it is dangerous. Have you seen the AQI data? It's a war zone."

A sharp, genuine laugh escaped my throat before I could suppress it. The sheer absurdity of them was a physical force. "Thank you both for your overwhelming confidence in my survival skills."

"You are entirely welcome, darling," Araadhna sniffed.

And then, the universe decided to throw a complete curveball.

To everyone's absolute, paralyzing shock, Araadhna's dark eyes actually welled up. Real, glistening moisture gathered along her thick lashes. These weren't the calculated, manufactured tears she used to sway a stubborn judge. These were actual, genuine tears of affection.

For a single, breathless second, the entire group froze solid.

The laughter died in Ridima's throat. Amrita's hand dropped from her face, her sharp eyes widening by a fraction of a millimeter. I stood entirely paralyzed, staring at my best friend as if she had suddenly grown a second head.

"...Are you seriously crying right now?" I asked, my voice dropping into a rare, quiet vulnerability.

Araadhna immediately stabbed a manicured finger through the air between us, her defense mechanisms roaring back to life. "Do not you dare judge me, Trisha Rathore!"

"I'm not judging you!"

"You sound explicitly judgmental!"

"I am not judgmental, I am deeply, profoundly confused!"

Before the moment could pass, a soft click sounded from the side. Ridima had already whipped out her phone, her camera lens focused squarely on Araadhna's glistening face. "A historic, unprecedented event in modern history," Ridima announced to the surrounding passengers, her voice filled with mock gravity. "Documentary evidence that the ruthless criminal defense attorney possesses a functioning emotional core."

"Delete that footage immediately, Ridima, or I will sue you for copyright infringement of my face!"

"Never. This is going in the family archive."

The final boarding call reverberated through the terminal once more, the tone more urgent this time. The clock was ticking. I couldn't delay reality any longer.

I adjusted the strap of my leather shoulder bag, gripped the handle of my suitcase firmly, and looked back at the three of us. My chaotic, beautiful, completely dysfunctional little family.

Araadhna. Ridima. Amrita.

Three utterly incompatible forces of nature. Three women who, by every law of logic and societal convention, should have never even spoken to one another, let alone become the pillars of my existence. They were the people who made my quiet, introverted life infinitely more complicated, infinitely louder, and infinitely better.

"Take care of yourself," Amrita said quietly.

The words were sparse. Simple. But delivered in that low, steady tone of hers, they carried the weight of an unshakeable promise. Coming from a woman who hunted the country's worst nightmares for a living, it was the highest form of affection she could offer.

I smiled, the tight knot of anxiety in my chest loosening. "I will. I promise."

Ridima waved her hand enthusiastically through the air, her curls bouncing. "Bring me back those specific Delhi street style chaat packets or don't bother returning!"

"That is your final, parting goodbye to me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. Prioritization is a key psychological trait."

"Fair enough."

Before I could even take a single step backward, before I could mentally prepare for the exit, a sudden blur of expensive fabric and perfume collided with my chest. Araadhna threw both of her arms around my neck, squeezing the absolute oxygen out of my lungs before I could react, before I could escape, and long before airport security could step in to salvage my dignity.

"COME BACK ALIVE, TRISHA!" she screamed directly into my shoulder blade.

Literally half the terminal stopped dead in their tracks, staring at the dramatic scene unfolding by the barrier. My soul left my body. I wanted to disintegrate into dust, to atomize right there on the linoleum floor.

Amrita deliberately averted her gaze, staring intensely at a nearby digital departure board, though the tight set of her shoulders gave her away entirely-she was using every ounce of her federal training to avoid bursting into laughter. Ridima, however, wasn't even attempting to hide it. She was laughing so violently she nearly dropped her phone onto the concrete.

Finally, through a monumental effort of physical leverage, I managed to break free from Araadhna's death grip. I offered them one final, breathless look of exhaustion and practically bolted toward the security gate, handing my boarding pass to the officer with a trembling hand.

Just before I turned the sharp corner that would take me to the x-ray machines and out of their sight, I couldn't resist the urge. I paused, glancing back over my shoulder one last time.

Through the clear glass partition, Araadhna was still standing there, waving both arms wildly above her head like a stranded castaway signaling a rescue plane. Ridima was leaning against Amrita's shoulder, still shaking with residual laughter. And Amrita... Amrita was just standing quietly beside them, her arms crossed, watching my retreating figure with a small, rare, and deeply protective smile playing on her lips.

For a split second, a sudden, intense warmth flooded my chest. It felt comfortable. Weighted. Safe.

I realized then that home wasn't always a geographical location defined by four walls and the smell of fresh acrylic paint. Sometimes, home was a collection of completely volatile, utterly unreasonable people who stood in the middle of a public airport terminal, making absolute, shameless fools of themselves just to make sure you knew you belonged to them.

It was exactly what I expected. And as I stepped into the security line, I realized it was the only thing I ever needed.

AFTER 5 HOURS.

he exact millisecond the aircraft wheels touched the burning Delhi tarmac and the seatbelt sign chimed, I made a critical, life-altering mistake.

I turned my phone back on.

It wasn't because of incoming emails from aggressive gallery directors. It wasn't because of frantic notifications from the event coordinators waiting for me at the venue. No. It was because the absolute second my device reconnected to a cellular network, the screen violently ignited with a flashing, inescapable nightmare.

ARAADHNA NANDAN IS VIDEO CALLING.

I stared at the glowing display. The digital letters seemed to mock my existence. I stared, paralyzed, before tapping 'Decline' with ruthless, uncompromising speed. It was a wise decision. A mature decision. A decision grounded in the desperate pursuit of self-preservation.

It lasted exactly three seconds.

The phone vibrated against my palm so violently it felt like a personal assault. Ring. Decline. Ring. Decline. Ring. Decline. The persistence was downright psychotic. Recognizing that she would likely call the Delhi airport security line to have me detained if I didn't comply, I finally swiped the screen and brought the phone to my face.

"What?" I snapped, my voice a mixture of travel fatigue and deep regret.

Araadhna's face materialized on the screen so suddenly, and with such terrifying, distorted proximity, that my grip slipped and I nearly dropped the phone onto the floor of the aisle. Her features were blown out by the camera lens; I could literally count the individual hairs of her eyelashes.

"TRISHA!" she bellowed, her voice echoing out of the speaker.

I immediately jerked the phone a full foot away from my face. "Why are you literally inside the camera sensor, Araadhna? Back up."

"Are you alive?" she demanded, completely ignoring my spatial boundaries.

I blinked, hoisting my heavy tote bag higher onto my shoulder. "Yes."

"Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove it to the court, Rathore."

I stopped walking for a fraction of a second, staring at the screen in utter disbelief as the rest of the passengers streamed past me toward the exit. "How exactly am I supposed to provide empirical proof of life over a cellular network?"

"Wave at me."

I let out a slow, painful breath and raised my left hand, offering a mechanical, thoroughly unenthusiastic wave to the camera.

Araadhna let out a sharp, dramatic gasp, her eyes widening as if she had just witnessed a medical miracle. "OH MY GOD."

"What now?"

"She's functional. She's moving," Araadhna announced to someone off-screen.

Suddenly, a second face pushed its way into the frame, completely shoving Araadhna to the side. Ridima. Her dark, chaotic curls bounced violently as a massive, wicked grin spread across her face. "No way. The introvert actually survived a domestic flight without evaporating into dust."

"I am literally speaking to you in real-time, Ridima."

"This changes all my psychological projections," the younger Valekar declared solemnly.

And then, completing the holy trinity of my impending migraine, a third face appeared in the background. Amrita. She didn't squeeze into the frame; she merely leaned back just enough to be visible, her sharp, analytical eyes looking completely unimpressed by the digital circus unfolding on her sister's phone. Because apparently, despite being three distinct, highly educated professionals, they currently shared one solitary brain cell-and Araadhna was burning through it at an alarming rate.

"Did you reach the hotel yet?" Amrita asked, her voice the only anchor of sanity in the entire conversation.

"Not yet," I replied, dragging my heavy rolling suitcase over the threshold of the jet bridge.

Araadhna's face snapped back into focus, her gasp even louder this time. "NOT YET?"

"The plane literally landed seven minutes ago, Araadhna."

"Seven minutes is more than enough time to cross state lines if you possess the proper motivation, Trisha."

"No, it isn't."

"With sheer determination, it is."

"That is physically impossible."

I was now awkwardly maneuvering through the crowded terminal, steering a five-kilo suitcase with one hand while holding a glowing smartphone out in front of my face like a selfie-stick-wielding tourist. It was an atrocious, deeply humiliating decision. Because now, all three women were actively supervising my every step, operating like a highly dysfunctional, incredibly invasive personal security detail.

"Flip the camera," Araadhna commanded.

"No."

"Trisha, turn the lens around."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

"We require visual airport updates to assess your safety parameters."

"You are absolutely not getting real-time logistics of the Delhi arrival terminal," I muttered, dodging a family of four.

Ridima nodded with profound, mock-professional gravity from the screen. "At least show us a random stranger, then. We need entertainment."

"What? No."

"Fine. Show us a pigeon."

"Ridima, I am inside a locked, indoor airport terminal. There are no pigeons."

"This entire infrastructure lacks cultural depth," she sighed.

I finally managed to navigate the escalators and reached the chaotic, sprawling baggage claim area. Araadhna's eyes suddenly narrowed as she squinted intensely at her screen, her face contorting with terrifying focus. "Wait. Hold on."

"What?" I asked, my internal alarm bells instantly ringing.

"Who is that?"

I paused, looking over my shoulder with a sudden spike of anxiety. "Who?"

"The man standing directly behind you."

I spun on my heel, scanning the crowded perimeter. There were approximately two hundred men standing within a fifty-meter radius of my baggage carousel. "Araadhna, you have to be more specific. Which one?"

"The one in the blue shirt."

I looked again. There were at least six different variations of a blue shirt within my immediate line of sight.

On the screen, Ridima leaned significantly closer to the lens, her eyes lighting up with mischievous glee. "Oh."

Araadhna let out a low, scandalous gasp. "Oh."

Even Amrita, from the shadows of their living room, let out a slow, controlled exhale. "Oh."

I narrowed my eyes at the three pixels of their faces, my voice dropping into a dangerous, protective whisper. "What exactly are the three of you doing right now?"

Ridima's grin turned entirely feral. "Nothing."

That specific smile meant absolutely everything. It was the international symbol for impending disaster. Without another word, I violently whipped the phone back around, locking the front-facing camera squarely on my own irritated face. "No. Absolutely not."

"Trisha, come on!" Araadhna whined. "Just a peek."

"No."

"Maybe he's exceptionally handsome."

"No."

"Maybe he's independently wealthy."

"No."

"Maybe he owns prime commercial real estate in South Delhi!"

I was so thoroughly distracted by the absolute absurdity of her matchmaking logic that I didn't see the concrete support structure until it was too late. My shoulder clipped the edge, and I nearly stumbled headfirst into a massive structural pillar. "Araadhna!" I hissed, catching my balance.

"What? I am merely evaluating potential assets."

"You don't even know what his face looks like!"

"Which is exactly what high-level investigations are designed to uncover," she countered flawlessly.

Amrita gave a solemn, validating nod from the background. "As a certified law enforcement official, I legally support thorough background checks on unknown entities."

I closed my eyes for a brief second, marching toward the exit gates. I was surrounded. Entirely surrounded by high-functioning, certified lunatics.

A few grueling minutes later, I finally broke through the sliding glass doors and stepped out into the taxi pickup zone. The suffocating, heavy Delhi heat hit me like a physical insult, instantly melting away whatever residual comfort I had brought from Jaipur. I was exhausted. My bones ached. My suitcase felt like it was filled with lead bricks, and my internal social battery was blinking red, dangerously close to total failure.

And somehow-by some absolute miracle of modern technology-the call was still active.

Ridima's voice cut through the heavy humidity of the outdoor air, her tone unexpectedly switching into something soft and nurturing. "Trisha, have you eaten anything substantial yet?"

"Not yet," I murmured, scanning the line of yellow-and-green cabs.

"Make sure you drink an adequate amount of water."

"Okay."

"And apply your sunscreen immediately. The UV index is hostile."

"Okay."

"And ensure you get proper sleep tonight before the gallery opening."

"Okay."

Suddenly, Araadhna's face exploded back into the frame, her finger pointing dramatically at the screen. "WHO EXTREMELY MADE YOU HER MOTHER, RIDIMA?"

Without missing a beat, Ridima snapped her own finger toward the camera lens, her eyes flashing with lethal defiance. "AND WHO THE HELL MADE YOU HER WIFE, ARAADHNA?"

The silence that followed that statement was a work of art. Beautiful. Absolute. Glorious. For two full, uninterrupted seconds, the chaos ceased to exist as the words hung frozen in the heavy Delhi air.

Then, Araadhna let out a high-pitched, frantic shriek that probably shattered windows back in Jaipur. "THAT IS EXPICITLY NOT WHAT I MEAN! THAT IS NOT THE LEGAL IMPLICATION!"

Ridima was already doubling over, her loud, breathless laughter echoing through the line. I couldn't help it; a sharp, unsuppressed laugh broke past my lips, the sheer absurdity of the exchange breaking through my exhaustion. Even Amrita, on the other end, looked like she was completely losing her lifelong battle against gravity-her shoulders were shaking, her lips parted in a definitive, undeniable smile.

"Araadhna is actively blushing," Ridima announced to the world, holding the phone closer to her sister's face. "The cold-hearted prosecutor is turning pink."

"I AM ABSOLUTELY NOT BLUSHING!" Araadhna screamed, her face indeed turning a violent shade of crimson.

"You are. It's a physiological fact."

"I AM A FEARLESS CRIMINAL LAWYER, RIDIMA!"

"What does your bar certification have to do with your capillaries dilating, Araadhna?"

"I OBJECT!"

"Overruled," Ridima shot back instantly.

"YOU CANNOT LEGALLY OVERRULE ME!"

"I literally just did."

"YOU ARE A PSYCHOLOGIST!"

"Exactly. Which means I control the narrative of your mind."

For the next five minutes, as I waited in the sweltering heat, the argument somehow devolved into a deeply complex, highly aggressive debate regarding whether a practicing attorney could legally authorize the citizen's arrest of a licensed psychologist. I completely checked out, tuning the noise to a low hum as a designated taxi finally pulled up to the curb.

I loaded my suitcase into the trunk with a heavy thud, climbed into the cracked leather interior of the backseat, and finally interrupted the madness. "Can I please go now? My driver is waiting."

All three faces instantly snapped back toward the screen, their playful hostility vanishing in a second, replaced by a synchronized, intense focus.

Araadhna pointed a sharp finger directly at the lens. "Call us the exact second you step foot inside that hotel lobby."

"I will."

Ridima pointed immediately after her. "And eat real food. Not just black coffee."

"I will, Ridima."

Then, Amrita stepped forward, her finger rising with the absolute, unshakeable authority of a government official. "And do not forget to double-check your event registration documents before you check in."

I froze.

The air inside the taxi suddenly felt incredibly thin. The laughter died instantly in my throat. A heavy, paralyzing silence filled the vehicle.

"...Documents?" I whispered, my voice sounding suddenly very small.

Amrita's sharp eyes narrowed into two lethal slits, her posture stiffening over the video feed. "Trisha. You have the hard copies with the gallery seal, right?"

My heart didn't just skip a beat; it completely stopped functioning. Slowly, with a rising sense of pure, unadulterated dread, I unzipped my leather tote bag. I dug my hand inside, moving past my wallet, past my keys, past my sketchbook. I checked the front pocket. I checked the main compartment. Then, with trembling fingers, I checked a third time, completely turning the bag inside out.

Nothing.

"Oh," I breathed out, the word a tiny gasp of horror.

On the screen, Araadhna's face instantly illuminated with chaotic energy. "OH."

Ridima violently slammed both hands over her mouth, her eyes widening to the size of saucers. "OH NO."

Amrita slowly, deliberately closed her eyes. It was the universal, terrifying sign of absolute, crushing disappointment. The look of a federal agent whose prime suspect had just slipped through her fingers.

"I... I left them on the wooden stool in the Jaipur studio," I confessed, my voice cracking.

The phone speaker literally exploded with sound.

"TRISHA!"

"TRISHA RATHORE!"

"YOU HAD ONE SINGULAR TASK!"

"HOW ARE YOU A FUNCTIONING ADULT IN MODERN SOCIETY?"

Outside the cab, several pedestrians turned their heads to stare at the girl screaming at her phone. Even my taxi driver turned around in his seat, giving me a deeply concerned, judging look through the rearview mirror.

I stared blankly at the screen, then out at the smog-choked streets of Delhi, and finally at the sheer, tragic trajectory of my life choices. Because somehow, against all mathematical odds... I had survived a chaotic airport terminal. I had survived a claustrophobic flight. I had survived the invasive security interrogation of my best friends.

Only to discover that the most volatile, dangerous, and destructive element in my life... was my own damn self.

The taxi driver had already shifted into gear, the old engine rattling beneath the floorboards with an impatient hum.

But my world was entirely contained within the glowing screen of my phone, where my friends were still screaming with enough collective volume to blow out the speakers. I sat in the humid backseat, buried under a mountain of self-deprecation, genuinely questioning how I had managed to become a highly sought-after contemporary artist while possessing the short-term memory of a severely concussed goldfish.

"TRISHA!" Araadhna's voice reached a pitch that should have been physically impossible for a human throat. "YOU ABSOLUTELY LEFT THE ONLY PIECE OF PAPER THAT STANDS BETWEEN YOU AND REGISTRATION!"

Ridima was practically convulsing on her end, laughing so hard she had completely run out of oxygen, her face a bright, breathless shade of red. Meanwhile, Amrita looked approximately three seconds away from filing an official missing intelligence report on my brain with the local authorities.

"Check your bag again, Trisha," Amrita ordered.

"I already checked it, Amrita," I whined, my hand still resting against the empty leather lining.

"Check it again."

"I told you, I checked."

"Again."

"Amrita-"

"Again, Trisha."

That was the truly terrifying thing about Amrita Valekar. She didn't need to shout. She didn't need to use Araadhna's aggressive courtroom dramatics. She simply issued directives in that low, immovable tone of her profession, and somehow, the entire civilized world obeyed. Criminals confessed. Bureaucrats crumbled. And I, an introverted painter, instantly caved.

With the long, ragged sigh of a woman who had officially bartered away the last remaining shreds of her dignity, I dragged my giant leather tote bag across my lap and unzipped it for the fourth time. It was a massive, black leather abyss that could probably comfortably accommodate a small human child if necessary.

I shoved my hand inside and began an aggressive archaeological excavation.

Out came a bound moleskine notebook. A pocket sketchbook. Another charcoal sketchbook. A crumpled, half-eaten packet of biscuits. Three stray gel pens. Two drafting pencils. A long, fine-tipped hog-bristle paintbrush.

On the screen, Araadhna blinked, her legal tirade grinding to a sudden halt. "Why on earth do you have a wet-media paintbrush loose in your handbag?"

I stared at the wooden handle in my palm, blinking back at her. "...That is an exceptionally good question."

Ridima leaned into the frame, her eyes wide and fascinated. "Don't stop now. This is like watching a live National Geographic excavation into the ruins of an ancient civilization."

I rolled my eyes and kept digging deeper into the leather void. A tangled phone charger. A heavy power bank. A half-melted bar of dark chocolate. A second, entirely separate bar of milk chocolate.

Araadhna let out a sharp, scandalized gasp, her finger pointing at the screen. "YOU ABSOLUTELY DID NOT INFORM US THAT YOU WERE HARBORING AMMUNITION. YOU HAVE CHOCOLATE."

"Focus, Araadhna!" I snapped, my hand reaching the absolute bottom of the lining.

Amrita pinched the bridge of her nose, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "The documents, Trisha."

"Right. The documents."

I swept my fingers through the dark corners of the bag, past the stray wrappers and graphite dust. Suddenly, my fingertips brushed against a smooth, stiff edge. A rigid texture. A very familiar, plastic-bound folder.

A folder that looked suspiciously like-

My eyes widened to the size of saucers. I froze. The entire universe seemed to grind to a violent, screeching halt. The Delhi heat disappeared. The traffic noise faded.

"No way," I whispered.

"What?" Araadhna demanded, leaning in. "What did you find?"

"What happened?" Ridima chimed in, her laughter instantly dying down.

Amrita's sharp eyes narrowed into two lethal slits over the feed. "Trisha. Talk to us."

Slowly, deliberately, I wrapped my fingers around the plastic edge and pulled. Out came the black folder. The folder. The official papers. The registration documents.

THE DOCUMENTS.

For three agonising seconds, absolute silence blanketed the video call. Nobody breathed.

Then, the dam broke.

"I FOUND THEM!" I screamed, the sound tearing out of my chest with so much volume that half the drivers at the airport taxi stand physically turned around to look into my cab. "I FOUND THEM!"

My taxi driver nearly jumped out of his skin, his hands slipping on the steering wheel. A nearby toddler walking with his mother looked visibly startled, and a well-dressed businessman checking his watch gave me a look of pure, unadulterated offense. I didn't care. I didn't care about a single soul in this city.

"I FOUND THEM!" I shouted again, hoisting the plastic folder high above my head like a conquering warrior displaying the severed head of her enemy-or in this case, a trophy celebrating the temporary cure for my own stupidity.

The phone speaker absolutely erupted into chaos.

"WHAT?!"

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"

"NO WAY! SHOW US THE SEAL!"

I violently shoved the plastic folder directly into the phone's camera lens, completely blurring out my own face. "THEY WERE IN THE BAG THE ENTIRE TIME! RIGHT AT THE BOTTOM!"

Ridima immediately lost all physical stability, falling sideways off her chair and out of the camera frame, her breathless wheezing echoing through the line. "I can't... I physically cannot breathe right now."

Araadhna's face was twisted in a mixture of pure fury and absolute disbelief, her finger stabbing at the glass. "YOU VISUALLY CHECKED THAT EXACT BAG, RATHORE!"

"I KNOW!"

"YOU CHECKED IT TWICE!"

"I KNOW, ARAADHNA!"

"HOW DO YOU MATHEMATICALLY MISS AN ENTIRE FIVE-INCH PLASTIC FOLDER?"

"I DON'T KNOW! IT'S A DARK LINING!"

By this point, my taxi driver was no longer pretending to look at the road. He was openly, shamelessly listening to the entire conversation, his eyes locked onto me through the rearview mirror with zero subtlety.

Amrita just stared. And stared. And stared. Her face was a terrifying mask of absolute, professional silence-the exact expression a senior intelligence officer wears right before they authorize a maximum-security arrest.

Finally, she spoke. Her voice was terrifyingly calm. Deeply serious.

"Trisha."

I swallowed hard, pulling the folder down. "Yes, Amrita?"

"I would like to issue a formal, professional apology to you."

I blinked, completely caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. "What? For what?"

"I erroneously believed that your event documents were the entity that had gone missing today."

"Okay...?"

"But I realize now," she paused, her eyes glinting with a dangerous, rare spark of pure mockery, "that the only thing truly missing from that vehicle... is your basic eyesight."

Ridima let out a sound that wasn't even human-a full-blown, high-pitched wheeze that signaled total lung collapse. Araadhna slammed her hand down onto a wooden table somewhere in Jaipur, the thud vibrating through the microphone.

"OBJECTION!" I yelled back, my face burning.

"Overruled," Ridima choked out from somewhere off-screen, her voice faint but triumphant.

"I literally checked the main compartment!" I defended myself, holding the folder like a shield.

Araadhna nodded slowly, her smirk returning with a vengeance. "Apparently, darling, you didn't check it with open eyes."

"I DID!"

"The empirical evidence suggests otherwise, Rathore."

"I hate every single one of you," I muttered, slumping back into the cracked leather of the seat. "I am changing my number the second I get to the hotel."

"Yet here we are," Ridima wheezed, her face reappearing in the frame, wiped out from laughter. "You're stuck with us."

Suddenly, a new voice entered the conversation. Deep. Rough. Thoroughly unimpressed.

"Madam."

I snapped my head up, my eyes locking onto the rearview mirror. The taxi driver was staring back at me, his expression completely solemn, his hands resting lightly on the wheel as we finally crawled out of the airport lot.

"Yes?" I asked hesitantly.

"Maybe next time," he suggested, his heavy Delhi accent cutting through the air with absolute gravity, "check the bag properly before you cause a heart attack."

The silence inside the cab lasted for exactly one breathtaking second.

And then, the call exploded all over again. Everyone burst into hysterical, uncontrollable laughter-including the driver himself, whose stern shoulders were now shaking as he navigated the afternoon traffic.

I slowly lowered the phone, letting it rest against my lap, and stared down at the black plastic folder that had just caused a minor civil disturbance. Then I looked at the three tiny, laughing faces grid-locked onto my screen, and finally out at the smog-choked, sprawling expanse of the Delhi skyline.

Some artists arrived in this city and focused on monumental, career-defining metrics. They worried about legacy. They worried about high-society networking, market value, and critical acclaim.

Me? I had arrived in Delhi and successfully managed to trigger a multi-city national emergency because I lacked the basic cognitive function to locate a giant folder sitting directly beneath a bar of dark chocolate in my own purse.

And as I finally tapped the red button to disconnect the call, the last thing I heard through the speaker was Araadhna's loud, wicked laughter echoing in my ear-a sound that, despite everything, made the unfamiliar city outside feel just a little bit smaller.

The worst part about being a highly celebrated contemporary artist isn't the invasive press interviews. It's not the blinding flash of the media cameras, the terrifying prospect of public speeches, or even the suffocating weight of hundreds of complete strangers staring at you as if you hold the secrets to the universe.

The absolute worst part is the constant, exhausting charade of pretending you have any earthly clue what you're doing.

I stood in front of the massive, gold-framed floor-length mirror in my hotel suite, aggressively tugging at the sleeve of my designer outfit for the fifth time. Maybe the sixth. Quite possibly the fifteenth. Honestly, who was counting? Not me. Because if I allowed myself to start counting, I would also inevitably start cataloging the infinite, highly specific ways today's grand opening could systematically self-destruct. And that list was significantly longer than my remaining patience.

Right on cue, the phone on the marble vanity buzzed violently.

A text message from Araadhna. Still alive?

I rolled my eyes, my fingers smoothing out the fabric over my hip. Before I could even think about typing a response, a second notification flashed immediately underneath it. Blink twice if the Delhi art elite have successfully kidnapped you for ransom.

Then, a third. Actually, don't. I just realized I don't understand Morse code or blinking patterns. Just text me.

A reluctant, quiet smile broke through my nerves. But the digital assault wasn't over. A second notification banner slid into view from the top of the screen. Amrita. Good luck today, Trisha.

Short. Precise. Completely devoid of unnecessary punctuation. Classic Amrita Valekar.

And then, naturally, came Ridima's inevitable contribution to my mental stability. Remember your psychological conditioning for today: look people in the eye, smile when spoken to, and try your absolute best to act like a relative approximation of a normal human being.

I stared at the screen for a flat beat, my thumb hovering over the glass before typing a single, definitive word. Impossible.

Her reply materialized within a fraction of a second. Fair enough. Just don't bite anyone.

Exactly one hour later, I was standing inside the sprawling, high-ceilinged atrium of one of the largest, most prestigious art galleries I had ever set foot in. And if I were being entirely objective, stripped of my own crippling imposter syndrome... the venue was beautiful. Absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful.

Massive, intricate crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings, casting a soft, warm golden glow that illuminated the expansive galleries below. Elegant, immaculate white walls stretched as far as the eye could see, acting as a pristine backdrop for the vibrant explosions of color and texture. Artists from every corner of the country had converged under this single roof. There were internationally acclaimed legends whose retrospectives I had spent my college years studying, upcoming contemporary prodigies, and cutthroat collectors who could make or break a career with a single stroke of a checkbook.

My stomach immediately took that information, panicked, and turned itself into a tight, agonizing knot.

"Oh, no," I whispered under my breath, my fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of my bag.

A sharply dressed gallery volunteer walked past at that exact moment, pausing as she caught the sound. "Ma'am? Did you need something?"

I forced a polite, entirely manufactured smile to my face, my voice tight. "Nothing at all. Thank you."

Everything. Everything was wrong. Because in the span of a single heartbeat, the protective armor of my isolation completely shattered, and I became painfully, overwhelmingly aware of every moving part in the room. The low, symphonic murmur of the high-society crowd. The sudden, intermittent flash of professional cameras. The sharp clinking of champagne flutes. The crushing weight of expectations.

And, worst of all, the terrifying reality that my own paintings-the raw, bleeding pieces of my soul that I had agonized over in the lonely silence of my Jaipur studio-were hanging prominently on those very walls.

My paintings.

Actual human beings were standing in front of them right now. They were studying the brushstrokes. Discussing the hidden metaphors. Snapping high-resolution photographs. That specific part of my career never failed to feel entirely surreal, almost detached from reality. When I was painting them, they belonged exclusively to me. They were my secrets. But the exact millisecond they were hoisted onto a gallery wall... they belonged to the world. They were public property.

I pulled my shoulders inward, quietly weaving my way through the perimeter of the crowd, using every ounce of my introverted capability to avoid attracting a single shred of attention. Which was an exceptionally flawed strategy. Because apparently, when you are the designated featured artist of a national exhibition, flying under the radar is a massive design flaw.

As I brushed past a partition wall displaying a moody, large-scale abstract piece, a conversation from two elegantly dressed patrons drifted directly into my path.

"I am utterly obsessed with this piece," a woman whispered, gesturing toward the canvas.

"The emotional resonance is almost suffocating," her companion agreed, swirling the champagne in his glass. "I heard a rumor that the artist is incredibly reclusive. Deeply mysterious."

I immediately slowed my footsteps, my ears tuning into the frequency of their voices. Mysterious? Me?

The woman gave a dramatic, knowing nod. "Oh, absolutely. She rarely ever grants public appearances or participates in the usual gallery circuit." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Perhaps she's one of those deeply tortured, tragic genius types who can only function in total isolation."

A sharp choke nearly escaped my throat. A tragic, tortured genius? Yesterday afternoon, I had successfully managed to lose a massive, five-inch plastic document folder inside the dark lining of my own handbag. I wasn't an enigmatic, dark force of nature; I was just profoundly disorganized and chronically overwhelmed by grocery shopping.

Suddenly, a smooth, thoroughly amused voice materialized right beside my left ear. "Are you actively eavesdropping on total strangers discussing your own psychological state?"

I physically jumped, my heart doing a violent stutter against my ribs as I whirled around.

Standing a mere foot away was a man holding a porcelain coffee cup. He looked to be in his late twenties, immaculately dressed in a tailored, sharp dark blazer that fit his shoulders perfectly. He possessed an easy, effortless posture, and his face was carved into an expression of pure, unadulterated amusement.

Wonderful. Exceptional. I had been caught red-handed in the act of supreme vanity.

"No," I lied instantly, my voice dropping into a defensive, flat tone.

He raised a single, dark eyebrow, his lips twitching upward at the corners. "You completely stopped walking the moment they used the word 'tortured'."

"...A mere geographical coincidence."

"You were staring quite intensely at the molding on the wall."

"...Artistic observation."

"You looked deeply, personally invested in their critique."

"...Market research," I countered, crossing my arms defensively.

The man let out a low, rich laugh, and somehow, the sheer ease of his amusement made the entire situation infinitely worse for my pride.

"I'm Trisha Rathore, by the way," I blurted out.

The exact millisecond the syllables left my mouth, a wave of profound, burning regret washed over me. I wanted to violently hit a rewind button on the universe. Of course he knew who I was. My face was printed on the giant exhibition banner greeting everyone at the grand entrance.

His dark eyes widened slightly in surprise, and then his laughter broke out even harder, a bright, genuine sound that drew a few glances from the nearby partition. "Oh, this is absolutely incredible."

"What?" I demanded, my cheeks flushing a dangerous shade of crimson.

"You just formally introduced yourself at your own solo feature exhibition."

I looked down at the polished marble floor, genuinely praying for a sudden, localized seismic event to open up a chasm right beneath my feet. "I have made a critical error in judgment."

"Several, I'd say."

"Thank you for the validation."

"My absolute pleasure, Miss Rathore."

Before I could formulate a biting, sophisticated response to salvage my dignity, a familiar, shrill voice cut through the air from across the crowded hall, rising above the low chatter like a siren.

"TRISHA MA'AM!"

I froze solid, my shoulders going rigid. The event coordinator was weaving through the sea of socialites, practically sprinting toward me in her high heels, a clipboard clutched tightly to her chest.

"Oh, no," I muttered, my survival instincts screaming at me to run.

"There you are! Thank goodness," she gasped, coming to a halt in front of me and quickly adjusting her glasses. "We have the national media roundtable and the televised camera interviews scheduled to begin in exactly ten minutes."

My soul left my physical body, floating somewhere up toward the crystal chandeliers. "Ten?" I echoed blankly.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Minutes?"

"Yes."

"Single-digit, chronological minutes?"

The coordinator blinked at me, thoroughly bewildered by my sudden cognitive breakdown. "...Yes?"

I cast a brief, desperate glance toward a large, arched glass window to my left, seriously calculating the mathematical probability of escaping onto the ledge without being captured by security.

The mysterious stranger standing beside me watched the entire exchange unfold with a look of pure, delighted relish. "Good luck with the press," he murmured, his eyes dancing with mischief.

"Thank you."

"You are going to need it, I think."

"Thank you for the overwhelming vote of confidence."

He tilted his coffee cup toward me in a mock toast. "Just try your absolute best not to introduce yourself to the reporters. They might find it redundant."

I glared at him, but despite the sheer, mortifying embarrassment of the situation, I felt the tight corners of my lips uncurling into a reluctant smile.

And then, right on the precipice of my impending media execution, my phone violently detonated in my palm. A high-priority video call incoming.

ARAADHNA NANDAN.

Of course. Because the universe refused to allow me a single moment of isolated panic. Recognizing that hanging up on her would only result in her tracking my location via federal satellites, I swiped the screen and answered immediately.

A terrible, catastrophic decision.

The first thing that filled the glowing screen was Araadhna's face, her dark hair perfectly styled, her eyes wide with manic curiosity. The second thing that entered the frame was Ridima, lounging comfortably on a sofa, aggressively stuffing a handful of potato chips into her mouth. The third thing was Amrita, sitting perfectly upright in the background, looking thoroughly exhausted by her current company.

"TRISHA!" Araadhna yelled through the digital audio stream.

"What, Araadhna? I have exactly nine minutes before I am thrown to the wolves."

"SHOW US THE GALLERY EVENT IN REAL-TIME. FLIP THE LENS."

"No."

"TRISHA, SHOW US THE ELITE."

"No."

"TURN THE CAMERA AROUND."

"ABSOLUTELY NO."

On the sofa, Ridima stopped chewing entirely, her eyes narrowing as she pointed a chip directly at the camera lens. "Hold on a second. Her pupils are dilated. She's exhibiting defensive posturing. She's actively hiding something from the group."

Amrita's sharp, analytical gaze instantly locked onto the screen from the background, her posture shifting into operational mode.

Araadhna let out a sudden, sharp gasp that sounded like a vacuum leak. "WAIT. HOLD THE PHONE STILL."

"What now?" I hissed, trying to keep my voice down as the coordinator began gently nudging my elbow toward the press room.

"Who is that man standing directly within your personal space parameter?" Araadhna demanded, her face pressing so close to her camera that her nose flattened against the glass.

I froze track in my inputs. Beside me, the well-dressed stranger froze too, his coffee cup hovering halfway to his mouth as he slowly, curiously lowered his gaze to the frantic, tiny faces screaming from my smartphone screen.

Through the digital feed, my three best friends collectively leaned forward in perfect, synchronized unison, their eyes wide, their expressions shifting into the terrifying, razor-sharp intensity of seasoned federal investigators discovering a vital piece of forensic evidence at a high-profile crime scene.

And just like that... my peaceful, sophisticated art exhibition officially ceased to exist. It was a lockdown.

The exact microsecond Araadhna's voice pitched into that aggressive, high-frequency interrogation register-"WHO'S THAT MAN?"-my finger reacted on sheer survival instinct.

I ended the call.

Immediately. Without a single shred of hesitation. Without an ounce of regret. Without a drop of human mercy. The glowing screen went abruptly black. The frantic voices were cut off mid-syllable, plunged into the digital abyss.

Silence. Peace. Total, unadulterated freedom.

Slowly, I forced my eyes upward. The stranger was staring directly at me, his porcelain coffee cup still suspended in the air, his lips twitched into an expression of profound entertainment. I was staring back at him, my knuckles white around my phone. And standing right between us, the event coordinator was looking from him to me, her jaw slightly slack.

Wonderful. Spectacular. A localized disaster of epic proportions.

"I am so incredibly sorry," I blurted out, the words tumbling past my lips before my brain could censor them.

The man's dark eyes danced, his shoulders shifting with lazy elegance. "About what, exactly?"

"My friends."

"Which specific part?"

I opened my mouth to formulate a coherent explanation, closed it when I realized none existed, and opened it one final time. "All of it. Every single moving part."

The man let out another low, rich laugh, the sound entirely too smooth for my current state of panic. "Fair enough."

I gave him a rigid, mechanical nod, spun on my heel, and fled. I didn't walk away. I didn't exit the perimeter gracefully like a mature, celebrated professional handling a high-society event. I practically sprinted.

Halfway across the polished marble of the main exhibition hall, the faint, desperate voice of the coordinator echoed over the chatter, calling my name. I completely ignored it. I needed geographical distance. Distance from my chaotic inner circle. Distance from exceptionally attractive, strange men who witnessed my humiliation. Distance from my own life choices.

Exactly five minutes later, I was leaning against the cool wall backstage, just outside the heavy double doors of the private artist lounge. Alone. Finally. The air here was thin, devoid of champagne flutes and critical eyes.

Then, my phone violently detonated in my palm.

27 MISSED CALLS.

I stared blankly at the digital notification. Twenty-seven logs. In the span of exactly three hundred seconds. How was that mathematically possible? Did they have a rotating shift format?

Before I could lock the device, the screen illuminated again. ARAADHNA NANDAN. With a heavy, defeated sigh, I slid the bar and accepted my fate. The literal second the connection established, the audio feed exploded.

"WHY DID YOU UTTERLY CUT THE CALL, TRISHA RATHORE?"

"Because I value my residual peace of mind, Araadhna."

"That is shockingly rude."

"No, that is primitive survival."

Suddenly, Ridima's face shoved itself into the frame. She was holding a small, silver juice box, her dark curls falling over her eyes as she sucked aggressively through the straw. "Did the mystery entity possess a legal name?"

"No."

"A definitive occupation?"

"No."

"A verifiable family background or asset portfolio?"

"NO, Ridima."

Amrita's cool, even profile materialized right behind them, her shadow falling over her sister's shoulder. "The two of you sound like you are aggressively interrogating a hostile material witness at a secure black site."

"Because we are," Araadhna fired back smoothly.

I hung up again.

Exactly three seconds elapsed before the screen began to rattle against my skin once more. I swiped it open, my voice rising into a sharp note of desperation. "WHAT NOW?"

"Flip the camera to the front-facing lens," Araadhna commanded, her voice dropping into an authoritarian tone.

"No."

"Trisha, turn it around."

"No."

"TURN THE CAMERA LENS RIGHT NOW."

I let out a low groan, pinching my eyes shut before switching the feed to reveal my full-length figure. And the exact millisecond the image rendered on their screens, I realized I had walked straight into a trap of my own making.

Because today was the official, high-profile opening day of the exhibition, I had allowed myself to be draped into a traditional garment for the first time in years. It was a soft, blush-pink floral saree-the silk light as gossamer, flowing elegantly down my frame, simple yet undeniably professional. It was the exact aesthetic opposite of the chaotic, paint-splattered creature who usually inhabited my studio.

And it was the exact opposite of whatever psychological equilibrium Araadhna had left.

The woman on the screen froze solid. Completely, utterly paralyzed. Her mouth parted slightly, her eyes locking onto the screen as the seconds ticked by in absolute, dead silence.

"..."

"..."

"..."

I narrowed my eyes at the frozen frame, suspicion rising in my chest. "Araadhna? Did the network drop?"

Nothing. Total stasis.

Slowly, on their end of the feed, Ridima turned her head to look at her companion, her expression shifting into genuine alarm. "Oh, no. The system is crashing."

Amrita let out a long, heavy sigh from the background, her shoulders dropping. "Oh, no. Not this again."

I knew that specific tone. It was the warning siren before a full-blown behavioral emergency. "What? What is it?"

Araadhna suddenly slammed her left hand flat over her heart, her posture turning incredibly dramatic as she stared through the glass. "TRISHA RATHORE."

"No, Araadhna. Stop."

"TRISHA RATHORE."

"NO."

"WHO IN THE CIVILIZED WORLD GAVE YOU THE LEGAL RIGHT?"

I blinked, thoroughly bewildered. "The right to what?"

"TO LOOK THIS UTTERLY, ABSOLUTELY PRETTY WITHOUT A WRITTEN WARNING?"

Ridima instantly cracked, a spray of apple juice nearly escaping her lips as she burst into loud, breathless laughter. "And there it is. Nandan has officially switched into predatory appreciation mode."

Amrita given a slow, solemn nod. "The patient is in critical condition."

Araadhna pointed a manicured finger directly into the camera lens, her face flush with theatrical outrage. "This is textbook harassment, Trisha. This is a direct assault on my visual senses."

"What are you even talking about?" I muttered, leaning my head against the drywall.

Ridima nearly dropped her entire juice box onto the carpet, her shoulders shaking violently. "She's flirting with the artwork again. Someone revoke her legal license."

"I AM NOT FLIRTING, I AM MERELY APPRECIATING HIGH-VALUE ART!" Araadhna bellowed back.

"Araadhna, she is literally the living artist who created the art," Ridima pointed out between giggles.

"EXACTLY. IT'S A self-sustaining ecosystem."

Amrita raised her right hand, slowly rubbing her temple as if a profound physical ache had settled behind her eyes. "Araadhna, please. You are actively embarrassing your profession and your lineage."

"Not for the first time, Valekar, and certainly not for the last."

Fair point. The woman was entirely immune to public shame.

Araadhna proceeded to aggressively pinch her screen, zooming the camera into my face until my earrings filled her entire display. "Look at the symmetry of the saree draping. Look at it."

"Yes," Ridima giggled.

"The intentional structure of the hair."

"Yes."

"The antique silver earrings."

"Yes."

"The sheer, unadulterated aura of professional confidence radiating off her."

A sharp, involuntary laugh escaped my throat at that last metric. "What confidence? I am currently hiding backstage behind a literal trash bin to avoid human contact."

The three women on the other end stopped for a fraction of a second, and then they collectively burst into loud, synchronized laughter that echoed out of my phone speaker.

"And there it is," Ridima wheezed, wiping her eyes. "The illusion is shattered. She's still just Trisha."

"Underneath that expensive silk saree is the exact same individual who successfully lost a massive, five-inch document folder inside the dark lining of her own purse yesterday afternoon," Amrita added, her tone dry enough to cause dust.

"Absolute traitors, the whole lot of you," I muttered, though the tight knot of anxiety in my chest was officially dissolving into familiar warmth.

Araadhna's expression softened slightly, her finger tapping the glass with a rare, quiet sincerity that caught me entirely off guard. "You look beautiful, Trisha. Truly."

I blinked, the sudden shift in her energy making my cheeks warm up for a completely different reason. "Thank you, Araadhna."

Then, the trap snapped shut.

"But don't let the compliments get to your pristine head, darling," she purred, her eyes narrowing into two mischievous slits. "Because your operational IQ still drops by a solid twenty points the exact second you are placed within a five-meter radius of official logistics paperwork."

Ridima didn't just laugh this time; she physically fell off the side of the sofa. The phone on their end tilted violently sideways, capturing a brief flash of the ceiling before the sound of her body hitting the rug echoed through the line, followed by a series of high-pitched, breathless wheezes. Even Amrita's iron composure completely cracked-her lips parted, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she actively tried and failed to suppress a genuine smile.

"Thank you for the grounding reality check," I said, my voice dry as sandpaper.

"You are entirely welcome, my elite creator," Araadhna replied proudly, adjusting her hair. Then, her gaze sharpened, her focus locking onto the background architecture behind my head. "Wait. Hold on."

"No. Absolutely not."

"Where exactly are you standing right now? That molding looks commercial."

"I told you, I am near the private artist lounge."

"Flip the camera lens around, Trisha."

"No."

"TURN THE CAMERA."

I flatly refused, my thumb hovering dangerously close to the disconnect icon. Because I knew with absolute, terrifying certainty that somewhere out there, wandering the pristine marble floors of that exhibition hall, was a certain well-dressed stranger with a porcelain coffee cup.

And if Araadhna Nandan got so much as a single, high-resolution pixel of his face on her screen again... the formal investigation would resume with full federal force. And unlike the high-profile criminal cases Amrita handled for the state... there would be absolutely no hope of ever closing this file.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The press briefing room was a stark contrast to the absolute sensory overload of the main exhibition floor.

There were no sprawling crowds bumping into structural pillars, no deafening symphonies of high-society chatter, and, most importantly, no Araadhna Nandan screaming through a cellular network. That baseline absence of chaos automatically qualified the space as one of the single most peaceful coordinates in the entire city of Delhi.

A long, polished mahogany table dominated the center of the room. Several prominent journalists and cultural critics sat positioned across from it, their expressions a mix of sharp curiosity and professional focus. High-definition media cameras had been strategically angled to capture the stage, their lenses dark and watchful. Overhead, blinding studio lights cast a pristine brilliance over the platform, while a row of sleek, silent microphones waited to catch my every breath.

I smoothed the silk border of my blush-pink saree, took my designated seat, and allowed my eyes to scan the perimeter.

The familiar, cold twist of nervousness settled directly behind my ribs. It wasn't flat-out fear; it was a deeply ingrained, bone-deep discomfort. If you gave me a paintbrush and a five-foot blank canvas, I could confidently bare my soul in front of thousands of people without a single tremor. I could spend consecutive hours bleeding raw, chaotic emotions through heavy strokes of acrylic and oil. But being forced to articulate those abstract concepts with spoken language? To dissect myself under a microscope of public inquiry? That never failed to feel like a monumental punishment.

The gallery moderator turned toward me, her smile perfectly polished. "Good afternoon, Ms. Rathore."

I offered a polite, practiced nod, my shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. "Good afternoon."

"First and foremost, a massive congratulations to you on the overwhelming success of this solo exhibition."

"Thank you," I murmured softly.

The red tally lights on the cameras ignited simultaneously. The room plummeted into a sudden, absolute silence that felt heavy enough to choke on.

The first journalist leaned forward, his hands folded over a leather-bound notebook. "Your work has systematically become incredibly influential over the course of the last few years, shaping the contemporary landscape. How exactly does it feel to receive this magnitude of critical and public recognition?"

It was a standard baseline question. An easy entry point that I had formulated answers for a dozen times throughout my career. Yet, true to my nature, I forced myself to sit with the silence for a long beat before allowing the words to form.

"It is deeply gratifying," I began, choosing my vocabulary with deliberate, cautious precision. "But more than that... it is profoundly humbling."

The reporter gave a slow, encouraging nod, his pen poised over the paper.

"When I first picked up a brush in total isolation, I wasn't operating with the concept of recognition in mind," I explained, my voice steadying as the truth of the memory grounded me. "I wasn't thinking about prestigious galleries, media roundtables, or solo exhibitions. I was simply a girl trying to decode the heavy, tangled thoughts inside her own head."

The room remained motionless, entirely captive to the cadence of my voice.

"Art became a secondary language for me when the primary one failed. There are specific, volatile human emotions that words simply cannot capture or express with the accuracy they deserve. A painting can bridge that gap. So even today, despite the heavy weight of the recognition outside those doors, I actively try to remind myself why I started in the first place. The core purpose remains entirely unchanged."

Across the table, several reporters immediately dipped their heads to scribble notes.

The moderator smiled warmly, gesturing toward a woman in the second tier. The next question hit the microphones without delay. "Your canvases are frequently described by critics as emotionally intense, moody, and deeply personal. How much of the actual Trisha Rathore exists inside the pigment on those walls?"

For the first time since entering the briefing room, a genuine smile touched the corners of my lips-a small, private thing. "Significantly more than people realize."

A quiet stillness blanketed the journalists.

"Every single artist leaves a trace of their true essence behind in their creation," I said, looking directly into the camera lens. "Sometimes it is the ghost of a specific memory. Sometimes it is a deeply rooted fear they cannot outrun. And sometimes... it is a fractured version of themselves that they simply cannot explain through any other human medium." I paused, letting the weight of the confession settle. "Every piece of art carries a literal piece of my life."

The ensuing silence wasn't awkward or tense; it was a thoughtful, heavy beat of comprehension.

A third journalist adjusted his glasses, leaning into his microphone. "A vast generation of young, aspiring artists look at your trajectory and see a massive inspiration. If you could offer them a single piece of guidance, what would it be?"

That specific question mattered. It mattered infinitely more than market values and gallery statistics. I felt my posture shift, straightening my spine against the leather backing of the chair.

"Do not chase the illusion of success first," I stated, my tone sharpening with absolute conviction.

Several heads lifted instantly, pens pausing mid-air.

"Chase internal improvement. Modern social media platforms have manufactured a toxic illusion that artistic genius and financial success happen entirely overnight. That is a dangerous lie. It is rarely, if ever, true." I folded my hands calmly on the mahogany surface. "The overwhelming majority of true artists spend years in the dark, learning the technicalities of their craft. Years failing miserably. Years drowning in paralyzing self-doubt. And I need them to understand that that process is entirely normal."

The cameras remained locked on my face, capturing every line of sincerity.

"The ultimate metric of your journey shouldn't be about becoming famous or celebrated by high society. The goal should strictly be about becoming a slightly better creator than you were when you woke up yesterday."

A ripple of subtle, validating nods traveled through the press pool.

The moderator exchanged a brief, meaningful glance with a senior editor near the front row before launching into the final inquiry-perhaps the single most personal question of the afternoon. "You are quite notorious within the industry for maintaining an incredibly guarded, private life away from the public eye. Why is that?"

I lowered my gaze for a split second, my thumb tracing the edge of my ring as I gathered my thoughts. The room waited, the silence thick with anticipation. Finally, I looked back up, meeting the reporter's eyes.

"Because not every single aspect of a human life needs to become public property."

The response was sparse, stripped of defensive armor, but entirely honest.

"My paintings are public. The work I produce is fully public. But there are sacred fragments of an existence that deserve the protection of absolute privacy." I allowed my gaze to drift across the audience, thinking of a chaotic living room in Jaipur, a silver juice box, and a loud, wicked laugh. "The people I choose to love. My foundational friendships. My quiet, uninterrupted moments of isolation. Those are the specific anchors that keep my feet on the ground when the world grows too loud."

A faint, soft smile reappeared on my face as I leaned slightly closer to the microphone. "And honestly..."

Several journalists instinctively leaned forward, hanging on the sudden shift in my tone.

"I spend quite enough time being observed, dissected, and analyzed through the medium of my art," I murmured, a spark of quiet amusement in my eyes. "I don't particularly need my entire human life to be converted into a gallery exhibition too."

A wave of soft, genuine laughter rippled through the briefing room-not the loud, disruptive roar of my friends, but a gentle, respectful sound of appreciation.

The moderator's smile widened as she tapped her notes together. "That is a truly beautiful note to end on. Thank you, Ms. Rathore."

I offered a final, polite nod of gratitude as the interview officially concluded. The red tally lights on the cameras went dark. The microphones clicked off with a series of dull thuds, and the standard ambient drone of professional conversation rushed back into the space.

For the first time in nearly sixty minutes, I let out a full, uninhibited exhalation, feeling the crushing tension slowly drain out of my shoulders. The execution was over, and against all internal panic, it had gone well. Better than I could have ever calculated.

As I pushed back from the table and stood up, adjusting the elegant folds of my pink saree, a senior journalist stepped into my path, lowering his head slightly. "Thank you for your absolute honesty today, Ms. Rathore. It was refreshing."

My smile this time was entirely real, reaching my eyes. "Thank you for taking the time to listen."

And for a rare, fleeting moment, standing in a room still buzzing with media technicians, aggressive recording equipment, and complete strangers-the residual trace of nervousness vanished entirely. It was replaced by a deep, sweeping sense of gratitude.

Because years ago, before the names and the national exhibitions, it had just been me. A single girl standing in a cramped, poorly lit room with a completely blank canvas and a dream that absolutely nobody else could see. Today, people had traveled across state lines just to sit in a silent room and listen to me speak. Not because of a manufactured persona, but because of the raw, bleeding art I had created with my own two hands.

And that was a reality I would never, under any circumstances, take for granted.

By the time the app-cab pulled up against the grand, swept curb of the hotel, I was utterly, comprehensively hollowed out.

It wasn't a physical sort of exhaustion; my limbs worked perfectly fine, and my spine wasn't aching. It was a profound, bone-deep mental, social, and emotional drainage. Every single internal battery pack inside my consciousness was hovering at approximately 2%, flashing a violent, digital red. The grand exhibition opening had been an undeniable triumph. The national media roundtable had gone exceedingly well. Complete strangers had stood before my canvas and appreciated the rawest fragments of my soul. Everything, by all societal metrics, was entirely perfect.

Which, according to the cruel, twisted laws of the universe, explicitly meant that fate was currently preparing a brand-new, highly specific challenge to throw off my equilibrium.

I stepped out into the humid Delhi air, instinctively adjusting the heavy leather strap of my tote bag over my shoulder. The sprawling evening sky over the capital had bruised into a magnificent, bleeding shade of molten gold, and the hotel's majestic glass facade glowed warmly beneath a series of recessed architectural lights. For the first time in a grueling twenty-four hours, I was looking forward to one singular, sacred thing.

My room. A beautifully quiet, unbothered sanctuary. A heavy, double-locked door. And absolutely zero human interaction for the next twelve hours. It was a flawless blueprint.

I wrapped my fingers around the handle of my suitcase, pulling the wheels smoothly toward the sliding glass doors of the entrance.

And then, my entire body ground to an abrupt, screeching halt.

Standing in a loose, strategic cluster right near the perimeter of the main lobby were people. Several people. And the exact millisecond my silhouette crossed into the light, every single one of their heads snapped in my direction, their eyes locking onto me with terrifying accuracy.

My heart didn't just sink; it dropped straight through the marble floorboards. "Oh, no," I muttered internally, my grip tightening on my suitcase handle.

They weren't typical hotel guests checking in with heavy luggage. They weren't the polished, uniformed hospitality staff. They were holding bound moleskine notebooks. Smartphones held at the ready. Glossy, heavy exhibition catalogues still smelling of fresh ink.

One girl in the front row suddenly leaned sideways, her voice a sharp, audible whisper: "That's her. Look, it's Trisha."

Another girl beside her let out a small, breathless gasp. And before my brain could even begin to process a tactical retreat back into the cab-

"TRISHA MA'AM!"

My soul promptly exited my physical body for the second time today, leaving my empty shell standing under the awning. The group began moving toward me in a unified wave. They weren't moving aggressively or acting with an ounce of rudeness; they were just vibrating with pure, unadulterated excitement. Which, to an introverted painter who spent her life hiding behind an easel, somehow made the situation infinitely more terrifying.

Excitement meant immense expectations. And expectations made my nerve endings catch fire. I instinctively shifted my weight, taking a desperate half-step backward toward the safety of the driveway.

Then, I stopped myself.

No. I took a slow, grounding breath, forcing my shoulders to drop. These weren't elite, cynical art critics waiting to dissect my brushwork for a high-society column. These were real human beings who actively loved the things I created. That singular realization helped steady my pulse. A little. A very, microscopic little.

The first girl reached my personal space parameter. She looked significantly younger than me, likely a college student navigating an art or design degree. Her fingers were visibly trembling against the edges of her catalogue, which was a deeply surreal thing to witness-mostly because my own hands were shaking with equal intensity beneath the folds of my saree.

"Ma'am..." she began, her smile incredibly nervous as she looked up at me. "I... I just really wanted to stand here and say thank you."

I blinked, the simple weight of the phrase catching me off guard. "Thank you?"

She gave a frantic, earnest nod, her eyes shining under the lobby lights. "Your specific winter landscape paintings... they genuinely helped me survive a very dark, incredibly difficult year. They made me feel less alone."

The raw honesty of her words hit my chest with a force that far surpassed any critical acclaim I had received from a gallery board. In a single, sweeping instant, the residual nervousness evaporated. I forgot the suffocating weight of the crowd. I forgot the blinding flash of the media cameras. I forgot the grand hotel entrance. I forgot everything.

Comments regarding my technical execution were common. Critiques about my color palettes and tonal values were a dime a dozen. But this-the realization that a silent canvas painted in a lonely Jaipur studio had reached through the dark to pull another human being forward-this was entirely different.

I offered her a soft, entirely genuine smile, my voice dropping into a gentle cadence. "I am so incredibly glad they could be there for you."

The girl's face illuminated with a smile so bright it felt almost visceral. And suddenly, the surrounding crowd didn't feel like an intimidating sea of judgment anymore; they just felt like people.

Another fan cautiously stepped into the clearing, her phone raised. "Ma'am, would it be alright if we took a quick picture together?"

Deep inside my consciousness, my social battery let out a high-pitched, agonizing scream. Loudly. Very loudly. But I didn't let it touch my face. I gave a reassuring nod. "Of course we can."

The fan looked genuinely stunned, her eyes widening as if she had fully prepared herself for a cold, celebrity refusal. A few moments later, the shutter clicked. Then another picture was taken. Then another.

Suddenly, a clean notebook was gently extended into my field of vision. "Could you please sign this for me?"

"Sure," I murmured, taking the pen.

Another hand offered an official exhibition brochure. Then a thick, textured sketchbook. Then a small, high-quality canvas print of one of my early abstracts. At a certain point, the sheer speed of the interaction blurred together, and I had absolutely no cognitive idea what I was signing my name onto anymore. I could only pray it wasn't a legally binding asset transfer or a high-interest car loan. Araadhna would probably be profoundly proud of my contractual negligence. The sheer irony of the thought almost made me laugh out loud.

Then, a young boy approached the perimeter. Unlike the older students, his steps were incredibly hesitant, his sneakers scuffing against the polished stone. He was clutching a small, battered black sketchbook tightly against his chest like a shield.

"Ma'am?" he called out quietly, his voice cracking slightly.

I turned my full attention to him, stepping slightly away from the center. "Yes?"

"I... I really want to become a professional artist someday," he whispered, his eyes locked onto mine.

I smiled warmly at him, and his pupils immediately dilated in absolute disbelief, as if the mere reality of me answering his human frequency was a statistical impossibility.

"Is it okay if... could I show you some of my work? Just a few pages?"

The crushing weight of my exhaustion vanished into thin air, replaced by an instant, protective rush of familiarity. "I would absolutely love to see it," I said gently.

The boy eagerly flipped open the cardboard cover of his sketchbook. The pages were densely packed with raw graphite drawings. Some were rough, structural drafts; some were clearly unfinished silhouettes; but several pieces possessed a genuinely impressive understanding of depth and light. But as my eyes traced the lines, I realized that technical perfection didn't matter in the slightest. What mattered was the undeniable, burning passion radiating off the paper.

It was the exact same untamed passion I remembered harboring within my own chest years ago. The same stubborn determination. The same solitary dream that felt too big for the room it lived in.

I carefully turned each page, taking my time to absorb the strokes, refusing to rush him. The boy stood perfectly still beside me, waiting with an anxious, breathless intensity. Finally, I closed the book, looked up, and met his gaze directly.

"Never stop drawing," I told him, my tone absolute.

He blinked, stunned. "Really? You think it's... you think it's good?"

I gave him a firm, decisive nod. "You are improving with every single page. Keep going."

His entire face lit up with an expression of pure, unadulterated joy. And in that precise microsecond, a profound clarity settled over me. International art awards were wonderful milestones. Critical recognition from the elite was wonderful. Commercial success was undoubtedly wonderful. But moments like this... these specific, quiet exchanges on a hotel floor... these were the metrics that actually mattered. Because once upon a time, when I was completely invisible, someone had taken the time to encourage me too. Someone had chosen to believe in my hands. And now, the universe had rotated just enough to give me the opportunity to pass that exact fire along.

Eventually, the small crowd began to naturally disperse. People offered parting words of gratitude, waved polite goodbyes, and smiled as they walked back out into the Delhi evening.

A few minutes later, the grand hotel entrance returned to its default state of quiet luxury. Finally. Peace had returned to the kingdom.

I let out a long, ragged exhalation, my shoulders physically dropping three inches.

BRRRZZZ.

I physically jumped a foot in the air as my phone violently vibrated against my palm. The screen flashed with a familiar, aggressive interface.

ARAADHNA IS VIDEO CALLING.

I stared down at the glowing glass, my eyes narrowing. The timing of this incoming transmission was suspicious. Beyond suspicious. It was borderline supernatural. I swiped the bar and connected the call. "How on earth do you always know?" I demanded without a greeting.

Araadhna's face filled the high-definition display. She was looking exceptionally smug-an expression of pure, unadulterated satisfaction that usually signaled trouble. "Know what, my darling genius?"

"You managed to place this call at the exact, chronological second the last fan exited the lobby. Do you have a drone tracking my coordinates?"

Suddenly, Ridima's face shoved its way into the frame right beside her, a massive, wicked grin plastered across her features. "We didn't need a drone, Trisha. We simply have access to the internet. Someone just uploaded a live thread of photos to an art forum online."

I froze solid, my hand tightening on my bag. "What? Already?"

"Oh, absolutely," Ridima cheered, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "By the way..."

"No, Ridima. Whatever you are about to say, the answer is an absolute no."

"...You looked exceptionally cute standing there being entirely paralyzed by nerves while that sweet girl thanked you."

Without a single word of rebuttal, my thumb slammed onto the red button, terminating the call with extreme prejudice. Again.

And somewhere across the state lines in Jaipur, three women were undoubtedly collapsing onto a sofa, laughing hysterically at my expense. While here in Delhi, I finally wheeled my suitcase into the quiet luxury of the lobby, genuinely wondering why fate had seen fit to grant me national fame... but had simultaneously cursed me with an inner circle of friends who would absolutely never allow me to survive it in peace.

By ten-thirty at night, I was finally, officially entrenched inside the sanctuary of my hotel room.

I was freshly showered, the residual grime of Delhi's humidity washed away, and wrapped comfortably in an absurdly oversized vintage T-shirt. My hair was still slightly damp, releasing the faint scent of hotel botanicals into the air. On the bedside table, a steaming, fragrant cup of chamomile tea rested on a ceramic saucer, sending lazy curls of vapor toward the ceiling.

Peace. Finally. Full, unadulterated peace.

Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling glass window, the sprawling, chaotic skyline of New Delhi glittered like an ocean of fallen stars, the traffic noises muted into a distant, rhythmic hum. The room was perfectly quiet. Intimate. Comfortable. It was precisely the kind of heavy, unbothered silence that I absolutely loved.

And it lasted for exactly six consecutive minutes.

Right on the dot, my smartphone vibrated violently against the nightstand, its screen illuminating the dark room with a blinding glare.

VIDEO CALL INCOMING: THE CHAOS COMMITTEE. Also known to the civilized world as: Araadhna Nandan, Amrita Valekar, and Ridima.

I let out a long, theatrical sigh, reached across the mattress, and accepted the connection. The second the digital feed rendered on my display, I immediately realized that Araadhna was not tuning in from the sanctuary of her own house. Instead, she was sprawled completely sideways across Amrita's expensive living room sofa, a silk throw pillow tucked under her arm.

Naturally.

"Why exactly are you inhabiting her premises right now?" I asked, propping the phone up against my tea mug.

"Because I was profoundly bored at my own place," Araadhna replied smoothly, shifting her position to look directly into her lens.

Amrita's cool, deadpan profile materialized in the background, her dark hair pulled back into a precise knot. "She arrived at my front door without a single syllable of prior warning."

"I brought premium baked goods and snacks, Valekar," Araadhna defended herself, tossing her hair. "That makes me an elite guest."

Ridima's face suddenly popped into the lower corner of the frame, her eyes briefly flicking up from the pages of a thick paperback novel. "She actively consumed roughly eighty percent of said snacks during the first twenty minutes of her arrival."

"Traitor," Araadhna hissed, pointing an index finger at her.

"Historical fact," Ridima countered evenly.

I found myself smiling, a wave of genuine warmth washing away the last of my social exhaustion. Some things in the universe were simply fundamental constants. Governments fell, markets crashed, but these three would remain exactly the same.

Suddenly, Araadhna pointed dramatically at her front-facing camera, her eyes narrowing with intense focus. "Anyway, moving on to vital matters."

"No," I cut in instantly.

"I haven't even articulated the thesis statement yet, Trisha!"

"Experience has taught me that preemptive rejection is the only viable method of self-defense when dealing with you, Nandan."

Ridima let out a sharp snort of laughter, while Amrita quietly took a slow, methodical sip from a porcelain coffee cup, her eyes glinting with amusement.

"Trisha," Araadhna said, her expression instantly shifting into a terrifying simulation of absolute gravity.

"Oh, no."

"You should absolutely go on a date while you're in Delhi."

The digital room plummeted into an immediate, dead silence. Amrita slowly, deliberately lowered her coffee cup back to its saucer, her gaze locking onto the screen. Ridima closed her book completely, leaning forward with sudden, intense psychological interest.

I stared flatly at my display. "No."

Araadhna gave a slow, magnanimous nod. "Okay."

I blinked, thoroughly caught off guard by the lack of resistance. "...Okay?"

"Fine. I drop the subject."

I narrowed my eyes into two suspicious slits, my internal alarm bells ringing loudly. Something was profoundly wrong with the matrix. Araadhna Nandan did not possess the psychological capacity to surrender a romantic crusade that easily.

Exactly two seconds later, she cleared her throat and spoke again. "You should go on a date."

"And there it is," Amrita muttered under her breath, completely unsurprised.

I let out a ragged groan, sliding further down against the plush fabric of the hotel headboard. "No, Araadhna."

"Give me one logical reason why."

"Because I simply do not want to."

Araadhna's features twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated horror, as if I had just confessed to a major felony. "That is not a valid socio-emotional reason, Rathore!"

"That is literally the primary foundation of human free will."

"Trisha."

"Araadhna."

"You cannot mathematically spend your entire earthly existence completely alone."

I reached over, taking a slow sip of my tea before leaning back. "Why exactly can't I? Give me the legal precedent."

Araadhna opened her mouth to deliver a grand courtroom monologue, closed it when her brain failed to locate a single coherent argument, and opened it one final time. "...Because. Just because."

"A deeply compelling, legally airtight argument," Ridima snorted, resting her chin in her hands.

Amrita looked suspiciously entertained by the breakdown of Araadhna's rhetorical skills.

"I genuinely, truly do not understand your panic," I continued, my voice dropping into a softer, more reflective tone. "I genuinely love being alone. I like the isolation."

Araadhna stared back through the glass as if I had just confessed to being a biological alien lifeform. "What do you mean you like it? Explain the mechanics of that to me."

I blinked at her. "I paint for ten hours a day."

"Okay."

"I read entire trilogies in a weekend."

"Okay."

"I book solo travel tickets to historical towns without an itinerary."

"Okay."

"I watch obscure historical documentaries until three in the morning."

"Okay."

"And then I willingly spend my remaining social energy talking to you three idiots."

"Okay."

"I am entirely, profoundly happy with the layout of my life."

Silence. Actual, unbroken silence blanketed the video call. For a rare, fleeting moment, nobody cracked a wicked joke. Nobody interrupted with a sarcastic rejoinder. I offered them a soft, quiet smile, the golden lights of Delhi reflecting against the window behind me.

"I've never felt like a piece of the puzzle was missing," I added softly.

The digital grid remained quiet. Ridima watched me through her screen, her expression turning uncharacteristically thoughtful, while Amrita's sharp, guarded eyes softened with a rare touch of maternal warmth. Even Araadhna seemed to pause, absorbing the weight of the honesty.

For approximately three seconds.

Then, her eyes lit up with manic energy. "But what if the hypothetical individual in question is exceptionally handsome?"

"ARAADHNA!" Ridima shouted, instantly dissolving into loud, hysterical laughter.

Amrita immediately raised both hands, covering her entire face in utter, professional defeat. "You are completely, systematically impossible," she murmured into her palms.

"I am not impossible, Valekar; I am relentlessly persistent," Araadhna shot back proudly.

"You are profoundly annoying."

"It's a semantic distinction."

"No, it isn't."

"Close enough."

By this point, I was laughing out loud against my pillows, my exhaustion entirely forgotten. The conversation had officially been derailed, doomed to descend into standard chaotic territory.

Ridima's gaze began to track slowly between Amrita and Araadhna on her screen, her eyes moving back and forth like a spectator watching a high-stakes tennis match. Then, she paused. Her eyes narrowed into two dangerous, analytical slits.

"Hm," Ridima hummed quietly.

Araadhna's defensive radar immediately went off, her finger pointing at her screen. "What exactly does that tonal 'hm' signify, Ridima?"

The girl kept her gaze fixed on the duo on the sofa. "Hm."

Amrita lowered her hands, her sharp intelligence officer instincts immediately picking up on the shift in the room. Her expression turned visibly concerned. "What are you calculating, Ridima?"

Ridima's lips curved into a wide, entirely innocent grin. "Nothing at all."

"Ridima."

"Nothing, I swear."

"RIDIMA."

The grin expanded until it occupied her entire face. Then, with the precise timing of a professional saboteur dropping a grenade into a secure bunker, she tilted her head.

"What if YOU go on an actual date, Araadhna?"

The ensuing silence was immediate. Absolute. Breathtakingly beautiful.

Amrita froze mid-breath. Araadhna's entire face locked up into total, rigid stasis. Back in my hotel room, I physically sat completely upright against the headboard, my tea mug forgotten as an intense, joyful interest took over my features.

"Please, continue this line of questioning," I ordered, a massive smirk spreading across my face.

"Absolutely not," Amrita replied instantly, her professional shield snapping back into place.

"YES. ABSOLUTELY YES," I cheered.

Ridima looked completely delighted with her tactical strike, pointing a finger at the sofa. "Just observe the baseline data here. We have one specific entity who spends eighty percent of her waking hours aggressively forcing everyone in her social radius to date."

Araadhna's eyes narrowed into two lethal slits. "And what is your conclusion?"

"Meanwhile," Ridima purred, her voice dripping with sweet triumph, "she has literally never entered the dating pool herself."

I immediately covered my mouth with both hands, trying and failing to suppress the loud, unladylike laugh that was threatening to tear out of my chest. Amrita looked like she wanted to take a screenshot of this exact moment, frame it, and hang it prominently on a wall in her office as a trophy.

For the absolute first time since I had met her in college-Araadhna Nandan was entirely, comprehensively speechless. Her mouth was slightly open, but zero syllables were coming out.

"Interesting," I murmured, leaning closer to the microphone. "Profoundly interesting metric."

Amrita given a slow, validating nod. "Fascinating data point."

"Completely revolutionary," Ridima added, practically vibrating with joy.

Araadhna finally broke through her paralysis, pointing a shaking manicured finger directly at her camera lens. "TRISHA RATHORE."

"Yes, my darling?"

"Do you happen to remember the exact historical period when I supported your early contemporary art career with my blood, sweat, and tears?"

"I am searching my memory banks, Araadhna, but nothing particularly rendering," I shot back smoothly.

"YOU ABSOLUTELY UNGRATEFUL TRAITOR!"

The video call instantly dissolved into a magnificent symphony of pure, unadulterated chaos. Ridima was laughing so hard she was once again losing oxygen; Amrita had finally abandoned her iron-clad professional composure and was openly, genuinely laughing along; Araadhna was violently waving her hands, threatening to legally terminate our decades-long friendships; and I was sitting in a quiet hotel room hundreds of kilometers away in Delhi, staring at the glowing screen with a brilliant smile plastered across my face.

Because it didn't matter where the trajectory of my career took me-Jaipur would always systematically follow me wherever I went. It would always manifest in the form of these three ridiculous, brilliant, chaotic women.

And honestly? As I looked out at the glittering lights of the unfamiliar city outside, I knew I wouldn't have wanted my universe aligned any other way.

The digital connection had officially crossed the threshold from standard post-exhibition banter into absolute, unfiltered nonsense.

Araadhna was still actively waving her hands in the frame, aggressively defending her honor against Ridima's allegations of romantic hypocrisy. Amrita had officially transitioned into that advanced stage of professional exhaustion where she no longer possessed the human will to intervene. And Ridima...

Ridima had that specific look.

That highly dangerous, analytical gleam in her eyes. The exact look clinical psychologists get right before they systematically dismantle a person's entire psychological peace for their own personal amusement.

Ridima suddenly sat bolt upright on her end of the screen, a profoundly thoughtful, academic expression settling over her features. "Hypothetically speaking," she began.

Amrita let out an immediate, low groan into her coffee cup. "Oh, no."

Araadhna's defensive radar flared instantly, her finger snapping toward her camera. "What? What are you calculating?"

Ridima folded her arms with immense satisfaction. "Just stretch your cognitive faculties for a moment and think."

"No," Amrita replied flatly.

"It's already too late for prevention," I chimed in from my bed, pulling the duvet over my knees.

Ridima's smile widened, turning thoroughly wicked. "Imagine Araadhna gets a psycho."

Araadhna blinked, her legal brain momentarily stalling. "A what?"

"A psycho."

"Like... a hardened criminal?"

"No."

"A highly organized serial killer?"

"No."

"An enforcement directorate tax compliance officer?"

"Even worse," Ridima purred.

The digital room fell into an immediate, heavy silence.

Ridima continued, her voice dropping into a theatrical whisper. "A handsome psycho."

Araadhna looked deeply offended by the specification. "Why exactly does he have to be handsome?"

"Because ugly psychos simply do not exist in contemporary romantic fiction, Araadhna. It's a genre rule."

A sharp laugh escaped my throat. Amrita given a slow, solemn nod of agreement. "Fair point. The data supports the trope."

Araadhna pointed aggressively at her screen, her curiosity winning out over her indignation. "Fine. Continue the profile."

Ridima leaned forward dramatically, her face occupying the entire grid. "A handsome psycho."

"Okay."

"Who is completely, pathologically obsessed with you."

Araadhna's ego immediately took the bait, a smug grin reappearing on her face. "Well. As expected, honestly."

"Who follows your vehicle everywhere."

The grin weakened a fraction. "Okay..."

"Who possesses a comprehensive copy of your daily courtroom schedule."

"Okay..."

"Who has meticulously memorized your exact custom coffee order."

The grin vanished entirely from Araadhna's face. "Okay..."

"Who does nothing but stare at you with absolute, unblinking intensity from across the gallery during a high-stakes trial."

Araadhna blinked, her legal armor cracking. "That is... that is legally concerning."

Ridima nodded with immense professional satisfaction. "Exactly." Then, her smile somehow became infinitely worse. "And he is so profoundly obsessed with your existence that every single morning he wakes up, looks at your picture, and asks himself one fundamental question."

The entire video call waited, the silence thick with anticipation.

Ridima's eyes danced with absolute chaos. "'Should I kiss her... or should I kill her?'"

Silence. Complete. Absolute. Unbroken silence blanketed the line.

I nearly choked on a sip of my chamomile tea, coughing violently as I reached for a tissue. Amrita slowly, methodically lowered her porcelain cup down to the saucer, her eyes wide. Araadhna just stared through the glass, her expression completely paralyzed.

"RIDIMA!" Araadhna finally screamed, her voice cracking under the psychological weight of the narrative.

Ridima immediately dissolved into loud, breathless giggles, throwing her head back. "I'm just saying! It's a hypothetical profile!"

"YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY NOT 'JUST SAYING'!"

"Personally, I think it would be incredibly romantic," Ridima wheezed.

"THAT IS NOT ROMANTIC, THAT IS A TIER-ONE CODE RED STALKING FELONY!"

Amrita gave a slow, authoritative nod from the background. "Correct."

"Thank you!" Araadhna gasped, clutching her chest. "Thank you, Amrita. Finally, a sane legal mind."

"That scenario is deeply, profoundly concerning," Amrita finished, her voice entirely flat.

"THANK YOU!"

"For him."

Araadhna froze solid mid-breath.

A loud, uninhibited burst of laughter tore out of my chest, echoing through my empty hotel suite. Ridima completely lost all physical stability, falling backward onto the sofa cushions, her legs kicking in the air as she wheezed. Amrita actually smiled-a genuine, real, corner-of-the-mouth smile. A phenomenon so exceptionally rare it deserved to be officially documented in state archives.

Araadhna pointed a shaking finger at both Valekar sisters. "The two of you need severe, long-term psychological therapy."

Ridima gasped dramatically from the depths of the cushions, waving her juice box. "I AM THE THERAPY!"

The silence that followed that absolute declaration lasted for exactly one breathtaking second. And then, the entire system completely lost it. Even Amrita broke out into loud, genuine laughter, and once Amrita Valekar started laughing, all structural discipline was officially over.

Araadhna looked around her screen, looking entirely, comprehensively betrayed by her inner circle. "Fine." She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her eyes narrowing into two vengeful slits. "Let's systematically imagine your hypothetical psycho then, Ridima."

Ridima immediately sat back up, her smile vanishing into a look of sheer panic. "No."

"Oh, yes."

"Absolutely no."

"Oh, absolutely yes."

"No!"

Amrita abruptly stood up from her chair, smoothing down her formal trousers. "I am leaving this operational jurisdiction."

"Amrita, you literally live here," Ridima pointed out, tracking her sister's movement.

"Then I am leaving the conversation emotionally," Amrita fired back smoothly, walking entirely out of the camera frame.

I laughed so hard tears were actively streaming down my cheeks, my abdominal muscles aching from the sheer force of it.

Somewhere during the course of the next five consecutive minutes, the frantic multi-city conversation somehow evolved into a sprawling, chaotic debate outlining:

The Chaos Committee's Official Directives

Item 1: A comprehensive, legally binding manifesto on why Ridima should never under any circumstances be allowed to write contemporary romance novels.

Item 2: A formal resolution dictating why Araadhna should be permanently barred from selecting romantic partners for any living human being.

Item 3: A deep, silent psychological evaluation regarding why Amrita was actively reconsidering her alignment with both friendships.

And as the three of them continued to bicker, interrupt, and dramatically object across the glowing grid of my smartphone, a profound, hilarious reality suddenly settled over me.

For three highly intelligent, elite professional women-a licensed clinical psychologist, a ruthless criminal defense lawyer, and a senior investigative CBI officer-they collectively possessed the impulse control and basic decision-making skills of three highly caffeinated raccoons digging through a trash bin.

Which was exactly, precisely why I loved them more than life itself.

To Be Continued...