Firdaus Café 5:32 p.m
Firdaus Café always smelled like nostalgia—cardamom tea steeping too long, cinnamon rolls that arrived half-burnt, and the faint trace of cigarette smokes and Hookahs.
They'd taken their usual spot by the window. The sun slanted through the patterned glass, painting Vihaan's scowl in broken amber and Kabir's patience in shadows. Aanya stirred her iced latte in slow circles, the clink of metal against glass punctuating the silence like a metronome.
"Your professor," Vihaan muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "I freakin hate him. He's a bloody dictator."
Tara's fingers wrap tighter around her cup. The porcelain was warm, grounding, though her mind wasn't. It kept circling back to the lecture room, the way he had reprimanded her in a way that felt so wrong but she could not help but feel drawn towards him.
Kabir raised an eyebrow, calm as always. "Dictator? Or just someone doing his job?"
"Oh please," Vihaan shot back frowning. "He humiliates students for the satisfaction of his ego. Do you know what he—" His eyes flicked to Tara, stopped short.
Vihaan leaned forward, elbows on the table, dark eyes sharp. "Exactly. He acts like he owns the campus."
Kabir gave him a pointed look. "And yet you asked him for help."
That shut him up for a moment.
The café's fan whirred overhead, lazy and unreliable. Tara's reflection in the glass pane caught her off guard—cheeks still faintly flushed, eyes darker than they should be. She looked away quickly, before anyone noticed.
The conversation drifted after that—assignments, deadlines, future goals. Still, his name lingered unspoken between them, like smoke that refused to leave even when the match had long burned out.
Firdaus Café had always been their safe corner of the city.
The conversation at the cafe had splintered into background noise—Vihaan ranting about his bootcamp Registration, Aanya laughing at Vihaan's sarcastic comments, Kabir sipping his ginger Tea. Tara on the other hand half-listened, half-drifted, her eyes on the swirl of foam in her coffee.
Tara's phone buzzed against the table making her glance down.
From: Professor Aaryan Rathore
Subject: Summary Submission
"Miss Kapoor, submit a detailed summary of today's lecture by 7:00 p.m, sharp to compensate for your earlier tardiness. No exceptions or any petty excuses."
The words stared back at her from the screen like a blade pressed against her pulsing skin—clean, precise, dangerous in its restraint.
her stomach dipped, heat crawled up the back of her neck. He hadn't given this assignment to anyone else because it was a direct e-mail with no CC.
She locked the phone quickly, slipping it face-down on the table before anyone noticed. But her fingers itched, restless against the ceramic mug.
Why her?
"Everything okay?" Aanya asked, her eyes sharper than her voice.
"Yeah," Tara lied eloquently, forcing a sip of cold coffee that tasted like ash after what she was struck with. "Just... spam mail."
This wasn't just any homework, it was more of a warning and a game that Aaryan wanted to play. He wants power over Tara and he'd go any limit for it.
6:15 p.m.
The cursor blinked at her like mockery. Word document open, page blank, her mind emptier still.
Cognitive Dissonance: The Mind's Civil War. The only thing she remembered scrawled across the board in his sharp handwriting. After that? She was distracted the whole time.
Now the deadline crept closer with the precision of a noose. 7:00 p.m. sharp. His words, etched into her mind.
She ran both hands through her hair, tugging, trying to force memory back. Nothing. Just flashes—the smirk when she stuttered and his addictive husky voice warning her calmly.
Suddenly the door of her room swung open so harshly, the hinges restrained.
"Tara."
her father's voice filled the room before he did, sharp and commanding, a habit honed on podiums and campaign stages. He strode in already dressed in his navy bandhgalas, cufflinks gleaming. "Get ready. We leave in fifteen minutes."
She blinked at him, disoriented. "What?"
"The Award Ceremony for the best top 15 Leaders. Chief Minister's attending. Don't tell me you forgot." His tone left no room for denial. "You represent this family whether you like it or not. Put on something decent."
Her chest constricted. "I can't. I have work—I need to submit—"
"It can wait," he cut in sharply, his brows knitting. "You don't keep the Chief Minister waiting. Do you want the press writing that Raj Kapoor's daughter can't show up on time?"
"It's not about press!" her voice cracked with more desperation than defiance as panic settled inside her knowing that if didn't submit the summary, he wont let that slide.
"I'll get into trouble if I don't finish this."
His eyes narrowed, sharp as glass. "Trouble from whom? A professor? Let him scold. Politics is about appearances, Tara. Learn to prioritise."
"You don't understand," she whispered desperately, clutching the laptop like it might shield her.
"No," he said flatly. "You don't understand. Fifteen minutes. No excuses." He turned, coat tails snapping, and the door slammed shut behind him.
She sat frozen, heartbeat rioting, screen still blank and the clock on her desk glared—6:23. Time dissolving into sand between her fingers.
She shoved her laptop aside, chest rising and falling too fast, like the air itself had turned heavy. Unsteady, she stumbled toward her closet. Sarees, Crop tops, Body-con dresses, Kurti sets, Fabrics and colors blurred together as her fingers rifled through them impatiently.
She finally pulled out a wine-red corset blouse and a milky white silk saree, its edges traced with intricate red embroidery—dramatic, striking, impossible to ignore. Exactly the kind of thing Tara would choose—Flashy. Bold. Audacious.
Her hands trembled as she pulled the pieces out. The silk slid through her fingers like water, smooth and elusive, refusing to stay still long enough for her to hold onto it.
Mascara smudged as she tried to apply it with trembling fingers, Earrings refused to clasp, every mirror in the room reflected panic dressed up in silk.
By the time she slipped on her high heels, the clock read 6:35. her pulse beat louder than the ticking second hand.
twenty five minutes until the deadline but she was forced to appear the event no matter what because she is Raj Kapoor's only daughter and heir.
As she fastened the last bangle, a sick thought coiled tight in her chest—
Professor Rathore would not forgive this. And he would make sure she remembered it.
Tara pulled the door open, still fumbling with the clasp of her bangle, and nearly collided with her mother.
Vaani Kapoor stood radiant in the hallway, draped in an emerald silk saree that shimmered under the chandelier light. Her hair was pinned into a sleek bun, diamonds at her ears, every inch of her carved for the evening's cameras.
Her eyes swept over Tara in one sharp glance. And just like that, her lips thinned with disapproval.
"What is this, Tara?" she hissed, low enough so the staff downstairs couldn't hear. "Don't you ever have anything decent to wear? These events are elite and this is what you are wearing? you want to shame our family!?"
Heat rushed to Tara's cheeks. "Ma, I didn't have time—"
"You never have time," she cut in, adjusting the pleats of her saree with a practiced flick. "Go change into something appropriate. A chikankari suit, or the navy anarkali—anything but this."
The walls felt too close, her throat too tight. She curled her fingers into a fist fighting the urge to have a meltdown right then and there. she was about to turn back to her room when Raj's voice bellowed from below.
"We are late! In the car—everyone in 2 minutes!"
they both froze. His footsteps were already storming up the staircase, impatience vibrating in every thud. "If you want to ruin your impression, fine. But don't ruin mine. We're leaving now."
Vaani pressed her lips together, visibly displeased but unwilling to argue in the face of his fury. She tugged at Tara's sleeve once, muttering, "You look cheap in this."
Then she turned, gliding downstairs as though her words hadn't landed like glass splinters under her skin.
she swallowed hard, blinking fast, and followed. Each step down the stairs was heavier than the last—the silk clinging to her and heart drumming against her ribs, the clock still ticking inside her skull.
There was no time to change or to do the assignment—Just the suffocating perfume of politics and the certainty that she was walking further away from her deadline.
─── ⋆⋅🎀⋅⋆ ───
The moment they stepped through the carved wooden doors, the air changed.
The grand hall glittered like a jewel box—crystal chandeliers dripping light onto velvet drapes, polished marble floors alive with the hush of sarees and the click of polished shoes. Waiters wove through the crowd with trays of wine glasses, their silver rims catching the golden glow.
Raj Kapoor adjusted his cufflinks, shoulders squared, his voice already booming warm greetings. In a matter of seconds, he was surrounded with politicians, journalists, and men who carried themselves with authority. His smile was sharp and rehearsed.
Vaani Kapoor slid seamlessly into her role, exchanging pleasantries with wives of ministers, her laughter soft but pointed, her eyes darting like a chess player's. She belonged here, glowing like the emerald on her wrist.
And Tara kapoor?
She hovered at the edge, every glance at her seemed to linger, a few whispering to each other, eyeing Tara critically. Her grip on her clutch tightened with unease, nails digging into its embroidered surface.
The music was light and classical but—couldn't drown the ticking in her head. 6:50. Ten minutes left.
"Ah, Tara!" someone exclaimed, a man in a Sap Green bandhgala who's breath reeked of cigars and whiskey. "All grown up. Which stream are you in now?" The man remarked smirking at her
"Psychology," she answered automatically, voice cold and distant as she noticed the man's demeanour
The main stepped closer to her, closer than necessary making her back away. The man's eyes swept over her making her skin crawl in disgust and resentment.
"you know... I'm a really good friend of your father, we could perhaps get along pretty well" he murmurs suggestively.
Tara’s lips curved slowly, sharp and dangerous.
“Funny,” she said sweetly, eyes raking over him once like he was something she feels sorry for, “my father’s friends usually know what personal space is."
She leaned in closer just enough to make him stiffen.
“And trust me,” her voice dropped, icy and precise, “if we were ever to get along, you’d already know. This?” A pointed glance between them. “This is just you embarrassing yourself .”
The man forced out a laugh, short and offended, the kind of laugh men use when their ego just tripped down the stairs.
“Feisty,” he muttered bitterly, straightening his bandhgala like it could fix his dignity—if he had one.
Tara didn’t move or blink, simply glared at him unflinchingly
“Is that what you call women who don’t flirt back?” she asked lightly. “Interesting. Says more about your expectations than my personality.”
A couple of heads turned towards then and Whispers bloomed enough to spark a gossip.
The man lowered his voice. “You should be careful, little girl. People talk.”
She smiled again sharply
“Oh, I know,” she said. “That’s why I make sure they talk about something that's worth talking about.”
Then she stepped past him, shoulder brushing his just enough to reclaim the space he thought he owned—leaving him standing there with his wounded pride, while Tara walked away rolling her eyes at his audacity.
Vaani Kapoor on the other hand was engrossed in a conversation with Rai Enterprises CEO's wife, Mrs Rai.
The woman behind Vaani didn’t even bother lowering her voice as she comments bitterly,
“These girls nowadays,” she scoffed, clicking her tongue dramatically,
“no shame, no sanskaar. Look at the way she talks to elders. Tight Blouse, sharp tongue—you can tell what kind of girl she is.” the woman in a red saree with a big bindi on her forehead commented pointedly to the other woman beside her while eyeing Tara critically.
Another woman giggled. “Exactly. If she were raised properly, she wouldn’t need to behave like that.”
That made Mrs Kapoor freeze, her face flushed with humiliation and anger towards Tara and her behaviour.
The first woman leaned in, voice dropping into that syrupy, poisonous whisper.
“Honestly,” she said, rolling her eyes, “girls like her invite attention. Then they act shocked when people stare. If you dress decently, men won’t even look at you.”
The second woman nodded eagerly. “And the attitude—uff. So much ego. Talking back to elders like that. Education is fine, but too much education ruins girls making them forget their place.”
“Mark my words,” the first woman continued, lips pursed, “this is how bad reputations start. Today sharp tongue, tomorrow who knows what. Families suffer because of one uncontrollable daughter.”
The giggle returned, sharper this time. “Poor parents,” she sighed theatrically. “They must be so embarrassed. Imagine raising a daughter for years only for her to behave like this in public.”
Their eyes flicked toward Tara—openly now. Unapologetic. Measuring.
“She walks as if she built this place,” one of them added. “No softness. No modesty. Men don’t respect girls like that.”
The words stacked up, one on top of another, until Tara wasn’t a person anymore—just a cautionary tale and a problem which can't be solved by anyone.
And somewhere behind them, her mother heard every single word.
Vaani stood up from her chair violently, almost knocking over the chair drawing everyones attention as she storms over to Tara who is standing by the desert table eating Gulaab Jamun with Ice Cream.
Vaani snatches the bowl from her hands putting it back on the table and wraps her hand around her wrist tightly making her wince in pain and confusion. She yanks Tara into a corner, infuriated
"M- Ma? what's wrong—", Her words die down with a sharp slap across her face, the voice of the slap echoing and ringing her ear.
Tara's breath hitches as she turns her face back to her mother who is glaring at her with wide red eyes, raging. She swallows hard choking back her tears.
Vaani's voice shook—not with hurt, but with fury sharpened by humiliation.
“Do you have any idea,” she hissed, fingers tightening around Tara’s wrist, “how you behaved out there? Talking back, standing so close to men, dressing like—like you’re asking for attention?”
Tara laughed bitterly and in disbelief at her own mother's words
“Is that what you heard?” she said softly, eyes blazing as she yanked her hand free. “Or is that what you wanted to hear so you didn’t have to stand up for me?”
Vaani stiffened. “Don’t you dare twist this. People were watching and they were talking.”
“Yeah,” Tara snapped, stepping closer, chin lifted, voice steady despite the stinging burn on her cheek. “They always are. And instead of shutting them up, you slapped me. Congratulations, Ma. You just proved them right.”
“How dare you speak to me like this!” Varnika whispered fiercely. “I raised you better than this.”
Tara let out a slow breath.
For a moment she said nothing, just staring at her mother while the noise of the party hummed faintly in the background—laughter, glasses clinking, someone calling for more dessert.
Then she laughed just once coldly. The kind of laugh that made people uncomfortable.
“Do you want to know what’s actually embarrassing, Ma?”
Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the kind of sharp calm that made people nearby instinctively quiet down.
“It’s not the way I dress. Not my voice. Not the fact that I refused to smile politely while a man old enough to be my father tried to flirt with me.”
Her eyes hardened.
“It’s the fact that the moment a man crosses a line, the entire room immediately starts examining the woman.”
She gestured faintly toward the hall behind them.
“The problem is never him staring. It’s her existing.” Her lips curled slightly.
“If a man drinks, flirts, stares, makes comments—he’s just being a man. Boys will be boys, right?” Her voice dipped with sarcasm.
“But if a woman raises her voice? Suddenly she’s shameless. Characterless. A bad upbringing.”
She let the words hang for a second, then her gaze locked with her mother’s again.
“You slapped me because they were talking about my 'character'.”
A bitter smile tugged at her mouth.
"That girls like me invite attention.”
Her laugh came again, colder this time.
“Funny thing is, men have been staring at women in sarees, burqas, school uniforms, salwar suits, jeans, even toddlers’ frocks for centuries.”
Her eyes flashed with rage at the thought.
“So tell me something, Ma—” She stepped closer.
“Exactly what outfit stops a man from being disgusting?” Tara continued, voice steady but burning now.
“I wasn’t rude or disrespectful to that man who was older than me.” She tilted her head slightly.
“I was clear with my intention.”
“Because men like him survive on women being polite. On us laughing awkwardly. On us pretending we didn’t understand what they meant.”
“And the second a woman refuses to play that game, suddenly she’s the villain.”
Vaani frowns in shock and confusion at Tara's words.
"are you out of your mind Tara? who is teaching you all this? I am just worried about our family's reputatio—"
“Then maybe teach the men in this room how to behave around women.”
Her voice sharpened as she cuts off her mother's sentence.
“Because I’m done shrinking myself so that fragile male egos can feel comfortable.”
Her hand moved to her cheek where the slap had landed.
“Do you know what hurts more than this?”
Her voice dropped.
“The fact that when a room full of people tried to shame your daughter for defending herself…”
Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out anyway.
“…you chose their side.”
There was another pause that was heavy and uncomfortable. Tara’s chin lifted again, proud and unbreakable.
“I am not the shame of this family.”
Her eyes burned with quiet defiance.
“I am the consequence of raising a girl who finally learned she doesn’t have to tolerate disrespect just to be called ‘well-mannered.’”
She adjusted the pallu of her saree over her shoulder.
“Maybe that scares people... but honestly?”
Her lips curved into a dangerous little smile.
“It should.”
Because somewhere in that room, the old rules had just cracked.
She stepped back, leaving Vaani frozen in the corner—while Tara walked away, cheek stinging yet power intact.
Tara sighs heavily already exhausted by everything, especially by the group of Aunties constantly ranting about her in a corner thinking they are being subtle enough.
The chatter, the music, even the glittering chandeliers seemed to dim as her eyes locked on him.
Aaryan Rathore.
He stood near the far end of the hall, flanked by men in tailored suits—politicians, power brokers, men who carried influence yet it wasn't them who drew every eye; it was him.
Every detail was deliberate. Black shirt, sleeves rolled just above the elbow, tailored trousers that traced the lines of his body, a coat draped over his shoulders like a shadow. His hair was swept back with careless precision, the stubble along his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. A watch glinted against his wrist, ticking with the rhythm of a predator's heartbeat.
But it wasn't the clothes, or even the perfection of his posture. It was the aura—the way he didn't just enter a room; he claimed it. The air seemed to bend toward him, the crowd parting like water around a rock. Men who normally commanded attention looked smaller and weaker.
And then his eyes found hers.
Two dark flames that burned through the glittering hall and seared straight into her chest.
she realised, in that instant, how small she was. How insignificant. How... exposed even after all the strength she had shown in front of her mother.
Even surrounded by titans of power, he didn't need anyone to enforce his dominance. It radiated from him—magnetic, terrifying and breathtaking. The kind of danger that felt like velvet and steel at the same time.
Her blood ran cold, her fingers clenched the strap of her clutch so tightly her nails bit into the leather.
She wanted nothing more than to disappear.
Shock flickered across his face—quick, fleeting—but enough. Enough to make her panic further.
She quickly turned, weaving toward the side exit. Her heart thundered and her throat tightened with every step—it felt like a prayer. The hum of the grand hall faded behind her, swallowed by the weight of her fear.
She rounded a corner and stumbled into an empty hallway, cool shadows stretching along the walls. Relief—false and fleeting—washed over her. She thought she was safe.
A shadow detached from the far end of the hall, gliding silently. Too fast and deliberate. And then he was there—Aaryan Rathore
Before she could yell, he closed the distance. One hand against the wall, the other gripping her wrist, pinning her between him and the cold plaster. Tara's breath caught and Panic surged as her heart threatened to break free.
"Running won't help, Tara," he murmured, voice low, smooth, edged with danger. The scent of expensive cologne and something darker—something dangerous—hit her like a physical force.
She struggled, but he didn't release her. His body was controlled, taut, every inch of him radiating power. His eyes bore into hers, unreadable yet commanding, two black coals that seemed to see through every lie, every thought, every fear.
"Why are you avoiding me?" His voice was sharp now, each word deliberate, pressing against her chest. "Tell me. Did I frighten you that much?"
She tried to pull her hand free. "L-let go!" she whispered weakly, contradicting the demeanour she had just a few minutes ago, all her boldness drowning away in front of him as panic breaking into tremors.
He leaned closer, the shadow of his coat brushing against her. "You should be scared," he said, almost amused.
She couldn't speak. Her throat was dry, mind blank, every instinct screaming to run—but the walls, the way he loomed over her, the unmistakable command in his presence... she was trapped.
He tilted his head, just slightly, studying her as though weighing her fear against some invisible scale. "Good," he murmured finally, voice low enough to make her knees weak. "Fear... is honest. It tells me more than words ever could."
He didn't release her. His hand still braced against the wall, wrist brushing hers, and that presence—calculated, suffocating—pressed in from every side.
"You didn't submit it," he said, voice low, measured, but laced with an edge that made her stomach churn.
"H—Huh?" her voice cracked. Panic flared hotter than the hallway lights.
"The summary," he repeated, each syllable deliberate. "Today's lecture. I asked for it by seven." His dark eyes burned into hers. "Where is it, Tara?"
She swallowed a lump in her throat, mind blank.
"I—I... I can finish it..." My voice trembled. "I just... I couldn't... recall everything you taught..."
He leaned closer, closer than necessary, his breath brushing her temple making her shiver slightly. "Couldn't recall?" The corner of his mouth tilted—not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. "Do you understand what 'couldn't recall' looks like to me?"
"Yes..." she whispered, barely audible.
He released her wrist slowly, letting it fall, but his gaze didn't waver. "It looks like failure, negligence and disobedience. And I do not tolerate any of that."
Her knees weakened. "I—I'll do it. I swear. Right now."
He stepped back, just enough to let her breathe, but his shadow still fell over her, a storm waiting to break. "By 10:00 p.m.," he said, cold, final. "No excuses. And Miss Kapoor..." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "I will know if you lie to me."
Every muscle in Tara froze, pulse thundered. Every rational thought had fled. She nodded mutely, cheeks burning and heart hammering.
"Good," he said, voice softer now, almost deceptively calm. And with that, he pivoted smoothly, moving back into the shadows of the hall, leaving her trembling.
─── ⋆⋅🎀⋅⋆ ───
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