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fight for your fairytale, will you?

Samaira's POV
[2 years ago]

Sunday mornings felt like a secret the city only shared with those willing to wake up early enough to witness it.

The air was cool, almost shy, like it hadn't yet shaken off the dreams of the night. A soft hush lingered over the streets, broken only by the distant cooing of pigeons and the rhythmic hum of a morning bus. The sky stretched above in pale shades of grey-blue, streaked with lazy clouds, and the light, diffused, gentle, made the buildings look softer, less hurried than they did during the week.

There was something sacred about this stillness. The kind of quiet that made you feel like you could actually hear your own thoughts without them echoing too loud.

And then came the aroma. Oh, God.

Boxes of freshly baked cookies and buttery pastries sat beside me in the passenger seat, their scent curling around the car like a comforting blanket. Each whiff carried with it the promise of warm sugar and flakey crusts, of melt-in-your-mouth chocolate chips and sweet cinnamon swirls. The coffees, were snug in the cardboard tray, lids sealed, warmth seeping through the cups like tiny hearths.

Baker's Street really did have magic. The kind you could bite into.

I smiled. We live life for this moment, I thought. The vivid colors we feel.

It might be metaphorically inept to say that, we feel colors. Practically speaking, it's an invalid statement.

But metaphorically?

Oh, absolutely.
Some colors are warm, sunsets and laughter and the way your name sounds when spoken with affection.

Some are cold, silences, goodbyes, a room you once called home that no longer knows your name.

Some dance in brightness, others hide in shadows.

And some, the rarest of all, come alive only in these small, passing moments, the ones that don't last more than a few seconds, but leave your soul painted for days.

Today, my palette was full of warm colors.

Maybe it was the scent of vanilla and espresso, or the thought of meeting my best friend. Or maybe, maybe it was just this very moment. Fulfilling. Containing. Enough.

With one deep breath, I opened the car door, balancing the coffee tray and pastry boxes with the careful precision of a tightrope walker. The cold nipped at my cheeks, but it was pleasant, refreshing.

The hospital stood ahead, sleek, modern, glass-faced with soft stone accents. It rose tall and clean against the sky, reflective windows catching glimpses of morning clouds. The name gleamed in polished steel above the entrance, like it belonged there, like it knew it was important.

Around it, greenery thrived. A ring of well-kept hedges, trimmed trees, and a row of flowerbeds just beginning to bloom. Even in the middle of a concrete jungle, this place had made space for softness.

The lobby doors slid open with a soft whoosh, welcoming me into cool, sterile air laced with the familiar scent of antiseptic and polished floors. A crisp blend of lemon, detergent, and something clinical yet oddly comforting. It smelled like healing... and like heartbreak.

Like beginnings. And ends.

I took another breath, adjusted the weight of everything in my arms

The general ward was busy, as always.

I glanced around, weaving past patients, visitors, and nurses until I found a corner in the waiting area. With a careful balance, I set down everything Avya had demanded, no, ordered, me to bring: flower bouquets, boxes of baked cookies, trays of pastries, and cups of coffee, all from one of the best bakeries on Baker Street.

I checked my watch and sighed, taking a well-earned sip of my cappuccino. A soft Taylor Swift song was playing from somewhere nearby, Enchanted, maybe. It suited the morning. Dreamy and alive.

Avya appeared minutes later, huffing, her hair slightly disheveled and cheeks flushed from what was clearly an exhausting shift.

"Avya," I called out, arms wide in mock frustration, "C'mon, babes. You make me run across the city on a Sunday morning—"

She gave me a smile but didn't even say hello. Just swooped in and started picking up the bouquets and pastry boxes like she hadn't just made me a glorified delivery girl.

"Wow. Not even a good morning," I clapped dramatically. "Real good. I woke up early, on a Sunday, because you said to pick you up after your shift. And then you made me stand in those ridiculous, never-ending Sunday queues for cookies and coffees-"

I kept ranting as I handed her the boxes, "Seriously, what are these even for—"

But she cut me off before I could spiral further. "C'mon," she said with a grin, handing me back the boxes of cookies and the coffee tray. "Let me show you some magic."

"Magic?" I echoed, one brow raised. But she was already walking ahead, holding the flowers like she was headed to a celebration, not just out of a night shift.

And well, when someone looks at you with that kind of sunshine in their smile, you follow. No questions asked.

We walked through the corridor, and as we passed the nurse station, one of the women greeted her with a bright, "Good morning, Dr. Avya."

"Good morning, Jenny," Avya replied with matching warmth.

"Same as always?" the nurse asked, glancing at the treats in my hands and the bouquets in hers.

Avya simply nodded, her smile growing wider.

"They'll be really happy. Have a good day, sweetheart," Jenny said as we passed, and I tilted my head, a little confused.

What was this all about?

The answer came as soon as we entered one of the general wards.

This one was different.

The air felt lighter somehow, as if the room itself exhaled joy the moment Avya walked in. Every pair of eyes turned toward us, tiny eyes, hopeful eyes, some dulled by exhaustion, others lit with pure curiosity.

"Good morning, everyone!" Avya called out.

And it was like someone flipped a switch.

Every single face, no matter how tired, hollow, confused, angry, or lost, lit up. Radiant. Real.

Smiles bloomed across the room like wildflowers, unstoppable and breathtaking.

Maybe that's what she meant by magic, I thought.

Not spells. Not illusions.

But this, the magic of joy. Of hope. Of small moments that made a big difference.

"This is so delicious, Dr. Avya! Better than last time!" one of the kids beamed, already halfway through a cookie.

"Is it now?" Avya said, mock-pouting. "I'm hurt. You liked mine last week."

She turned to the room, eyes gleaming. "Well, my friend brought them today. This is Samaira. Say thank you!"

A chorus of thank yous and excited giggles echoed through the ward, their voices like tiny bells.

And in that room filled with young fighters, every single one battling cancer, Avya later told me, I felt something shift in me. These kids weren't just patients. They were warriors. Brave beyond their years.

I couldn't help myself. I reached out and hugged her tightly. "You know I'm so proud of you," I whispered, because sometimes, people forget to say it out loud.

She froze for a second, then hugged me back with all her heart. "And thank you, Samaira. I'm proud of you too, for showing up, for waking up early, for bringing the cookies... you're the best."

Then, she pulled back, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Now, where's my coffee?"

I handed her the cold brew. "Here. Though, who drinks cold coffee in the morning, Avya? That's borderline criminal."

She took a sip, completely unfazed. "Only legends," she said with a wink.

We had waved the children goodbye a while ago, and now the two of us walked toward my car, the warmth of that ward still lingering in our hearts.

"Let me drive," Avya asked, casually.

I shot her a look that needed no translation. "Absolutely not. I need my car in working condition. I'm not risking my life on a Sunday morning."

"Whatevaa," she drawled, rolling her eyes as she rounded the car and dropped into the passenger seat with exaggerated drama. The poker-faced reaction I gave her was enough. She knew when to quit.

She sipped her cold coffee as she buckled in, then barely a second after I started the engine, she asked the question.

"Did the man come back? Any news about who he is?"

My hands froze on the wheel.

For a heartbeat, I didn't answer.

Then I shook my head slightly and replied, "No."

No idea who he was.

No idea where he went.

No clue how he came, or why.

Just... a shadow that slipped into my life and left behind questions too heavy to carry.

"I think we should report this to the cops," Avya said, looking out the window now, her voice firm.

"Avya, you know I can't do that," I told her quietly.

She knew. Of all people, she knew exactly how quickly things would spiral. How reporting something like this would eventually reach my father's ears, and once it did, everything would unravel.

There was a pause before she asked her next question.

"Did you tell Vrit?"

My grip on the wheel tightened.

I didn't answer.

She turned to look at me, studying my face, probably reading between the silences.

"You didn't," she concluded. "Why?"

Why.

A small word. Heavy weight.

I kept my face still, but something cracked beneath it. Avya said my name again, softer this time. "Samaira."

I exhaled slowly, then told her what had been sitting on my chest for weeks.

"I don't know if you've noticed it or not... but lately, he's been different. Secretive. With him, it's always the superficial truth. Never the whole thing. I keep sharing everything with him, Avya. Everything. But him? He avoids anything even remotely real. Anything dangerous."

I blinked hard, gripping the wheel tighter as my voice trembled.

"You saw him that day, right? The bruises, the blood, how beaten up he was? He still hasn't explained it. Not really. Just vague reassurances and half-truths. He keeps saying, 'all in good time.' Like time is some magical answer. Like that so-called 'good time' even exists."

I let out a humorless laugh, dry and low. "In reality, he never intended to tell me. Not the whole truth. He thinks by keeping me in the dark, he's keeping me safe. But the truth is... he's hurting me more this way."

I placed my palm against my chest, right where the pain always simmered beneath the surface. "I love him, Avya," my voice cracked, but I kept going. "I love him. Despite the secrets, secrets I don't even understand, secrets I can't gauge the depth or danger of, I still love him."

A pause. The car was silent except for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional slosh of the coffee cup in her hands.

"And I know he loves me too. I can feel it, every time he's near. Every time he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world that makes sense."

I exhaled sharply, trying to find my balance, but the emotions were rising too fast.

"I can feel my palette full of colors when I'm with him, Avya, colors of love, admiration, care, respect. So many shades I never knew I could feel."

"But trust..." I trailed off.

I looked at her, eyes burning with the truth I had only now found the words for.

"Trust is the canvas, Avya. And what use is a palette full of vibrant colors... if I don't have a canvas to paint the picture?"

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Present

In the end, in search of a canvas, I lost the colors.

The palette that once held them, vibrant and full of promise, slipped from my grasp too.

And now, all I was left with... was imagination.

Imagination of what the painting could've been, should've been.
The tragedy of an artist: mourning a masterpiece that never made it past the first brushstroke.

But perhaps the cruelest curse of all...
Is when the artist, in her hollow grief, finds herself standing in awe of someone else's masterpiece.

A legacy she's beginning to resent.

The Rajvansh Mansion.

Even the name echoed power.

The very air around it felt heavy, thick with whispers of history, of opulence, of unshakable dominion.

It stood tall, nestled behind towering iron gates and age-old trees that had likely seen generations come and go. The architecture was a mesmerizing marriage of ancient grandeur and modern refinement. Domes with intricate jharokhas, carved sandstone pillars, latticed windows that danced with sunlight, and marble so polished it reflected the sky.

Inside, the vastness swallowed us whole.

Vaulted ceilings crowned with crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes in regal tones of wine and gold, corridors lined with portraits of men with piercing eyes and women with poised grace, the Rajvansh bloodline, frozen in time. The air itself seemed scented with legacy, of sandalwood, old books, and power.

It reeked of it.

Of mystery.

Of secrets buried in silk and stone.

The moment we stepped through the main doors, an army of servants lined both sides of the hall. Perfectly dressed, trained in stillness, heads bowed. At beck and call.

And along the walls, stationed with precise symmetry, were guards in all-black suits and dark goggles, expressionless and silent. Watching.

My gaze instinctively darted to Vrit.

He hadn't said much since yesterday. Since the truth had come to light. And honestly, neither had I.

I was still angry.

And judging by the tension in his jaw, so was he.

Most of it directed at the man walking in front of us, Hridhaan Rajvansh. His elder brother. The same man who kept stealing glances at Avya beside him, frustrated ones, intense ones. Like he was trying to decipher her silence but hated himself for even looking.

Avya, of course, switched between shock, confusion, and an unnervingly well-practiced poker face. But I could tell, beneath that was a storm brewing.

My eyes caught the way the staff kept looking at us. At me. I could feel it, the weight of every stare. 

And Vrit, he noticed it too. But his silence was louder than anything he could've said.

"Welcome," a commanding voice broke through the hush, filled with grandeur and theatre, "to the Rajvansh Mansion."

All heads turned toward the voice—

Abhimanyu Singh Rajvansh.

Vrit's grandfather.

The moment he spoke, every single servant and guard bowed low in perfect unison. The hall echoed with silence.

Even I frowned. This wasn't just discipline.

This was reverence. 

The only ones who werent surprised were the two women standing apart: Taranya Rajvansh, Vrit's grandmother, ice in her bones, her eyes distant, face carved in emotionless marble, and Nayantara Rajvansh, his aunt, who stood with her hands folded, her gaze scanning the room with a quiet intensity.

Abhimanyu Singh Rajvansh stepped forward.

"Inform the media," he said, voice booming, laced with years of command. "Let the city know. Let the country know."

He paused, the silence like a drumroll. His next words were meant to echo beyond the walls.

"Let the world bear witness..."
He raised his hand.

"The Rajvansh have returned."

Another beat.

"And with them... returns the legacy."

The moment held stillness.

Like time had bowed too.

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Everything that followed after that declaration was a blur.

We were escorted, no, guided, with the kind of precision that made me feel like a pawn on a very well-constructed chessboard. The butlers didn't just walk. They moved in synchrony, no wasted steps, no murmured conversations. Their shoes tapped lightly against the marble, echoing through the silence like a metronome. Not one whispered word. Not a sigh. Not even the creak of an old step.

It was quiet here.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that wasn't peaceful, it was sharp. Controlled. Restrained.

Each floor, they explained, had been assigned to each. Assigned, as if we were part of some orchestrated arrangement. Like pieces of a script being played out in the house of legacy.

We climbed the grand staircase that spiraled like a serpent toward the upper floors. The handrails were carved with the Rajvansh insignia, an ancient emblem that looked like a cross between a crown and a dagger. The walls were obsidian-black with streaks of silver threading through the paneling like veins. There was no warmth in the golds here. Only power. Cold, unbending power.

Oil paintings lined the hall. The kind that didn't smile back. Men with eyes that seemed to follow you. Women who looked more like statues than real people. If this was heritage, it came wrapped in intimidation.

And then the butler opened the door to our room.

I stepped inside, and for a moment, forgot how to breathe.

It wasn't just a room.

It was a damn statement.

The entrance opened into a drawing room. Grand, yet minimal. A matte obsidian-finished table stood in the center, surrounded by deep charcoal velvet couches, trimmed in antique gold. The chandeliers were golden crystal, subtle, sophisticated, and dark. Walls were paneled in deep walnut, polished to perfection. Not a single speck of dust. Every corner was sharp, calculated.

To the left was the master bedroom.

A king-sized bed sat on a raised platform, headboard made of textured black leather, towering over us like a silent guard. The bedding was monochrome, layers of greys and inky blues, with an almost intimidating precision in how it was laid out. No wrinkles. No misalignment.

A tall arched window led to a private balcony, hidden behind drapes that moved slightly with the breeze. I stepped out for a second. The view stretched into the Rajvansh estate, acres of land, manicured to military precision, lights illuminating paths like a runway leading into the unknown.

Even the air here felt like it had rules.

The butler finally left, without saying a single unnecessary word, and then, we were on our own.

But not for long.

The first sound to break the tension wasn't from me.

It was from him.

Vrit.

He stormed across the room, his footsteps loud against the polished marble floor, and shoved the heavy double doors open with more force than necessary.

"Vrit—" I called out, the syllable barely past my lips.

But he was already gone, his words like the slam of a war drum.

"I'm meeting that damn brother of mine." His voice echoed back into the space. "Liar. It's about time he starts speaking the truth or I don't fucking care, I'm walking out of this fuckery with you and Avya. This family is a mess already."

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Unknown

"We found his location, sir," one of the detectives informed, voice clipped and professional.

Ekansh didn't respond. He simply waited, gaze fixed on the rain-streaked windshield of his car.

"He's a professor at one of the city's most reputed hospitals. Married now, to a woman working in the same facility. It's been years since. His record is spotless but-"

The detective hesitated.

Ekansh's eyes narrowed, lips curling slightly. "But?"

"It's not that his record was never blotched," the man admitted. "It's spotless because it's been cleaned, again and again. Bleached. Sanitized. Someone's been working very hard to keep his past buried. There are loopholes, buried files, too many skeletons in the closet. I'll need time to uncover it all."

A pause.

"Time is what we don't have," Ekansh said coldly. His voice was low, dangerous, like the hum of a storm before lightning struck. "I heard you were the best, Mr. Ri. Start proving it."

"There's someone protecting him. Someone powerful," the detective continued cautiously. "How long it takes... depends on how high their reach goes."

Ekansh clenched his jaw, knuckles tightening around the steering wheel. His gaze darkened.

"No one," he said, his voice soft but laced with venom, "is more powerful than the Rawals."

He ended the call without another word.

Outside, the clouds thickened, casting the city in a muted, silver gloom. Inside the car, silence stretched, tense, charged.

He pushed his foot down on the accelerator.

Too slow.

Everything was too fucking slow.
And patience had never been one of his virtues.

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Heyaaa

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The unknown at the end???

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