Prologue
Sana
Bangalore
Escape—I crave it. I need it. Desperately.
This pain is so damn suffocating that it’s pressing down on my chest. I try to take a deep breath, but it comes out shaky and unsteady. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles paling under the strain. Through tear-blurred eyes, I stare at the stark white building ahead—a harsh reminder of why I’m here. I’m here to meet our family lawyer, who’s waiting to revisit a truth I’m not ready to accept, no matter how many times I’ve screamed at myself to come to terms with it, but still refuse to believe.My father is gone.
I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s been two weeks since I lost him, and nothing has lessened the pain that still pierces my heart. It feels like my world has fallen apart and my anchor is gone, leaving me lost in a deep, dark place.
But it is what it is. This ache, this hollowness—it isn’t fleeting. It’s a scar, deep and permanent, etched into my soul by his absence. A wound that I know even time will never be able to heal.
I force my eyes open, trying to pull myself together, but my chest shudders with ragged breaths and sweat clings to my skin as my body teeters between numbness and all-consuming despair. God, I just want to shut out this pain. I want to be a coward and hide in this car forever. But a voice inside me screams, reminding me that I can’t. I just can’t escape the world, no matter how much I want to.
With one last deep breath, I wipe my face, summoning every ounce of strength I have left, as I force myself to unfasten my seatbelt, grab my purse from the passenger seat, and step out of the car.
“I have to face this reality,”I whisper, giving myself a quiet pep talk, even though every fibre of my being screams at me to get back in the car and drive far, far away. Reluctantly, with slow, heavy steps, I move toward the building, enter the elevator, and press the button for the fifth floor.
As the doors close, a knot tightens in my stomach, my pulse quickening with each passing floor. My fingers grip the railing at my side as I fight to keep myself from falling apart.
After what feels like an eternity, the elevator dings and opens on the fifth floor. With another push, I hold back the rising tide of anxiety as I make my way towards the reception desk. A young woman, dressed in a crisp grey pantsuit, greets me with a polite smile.
“Hello, Miss Sana Arora,” she greets me, gesturing towards the door on her right. “You can go in now. Mr. Deshmukh is expecting you and asked me to send you in the moment you arrive.”
“Thank you,” I murmur with a nod. Then, I turn towards the door she pointed to.
My hands tremble as I knock on the door. When I hear Mr. Deshmukh’s voice inviting me in, I slowly push the door open.
As soon as I step inside, I freeze as memories of coming here with my dad to handle the paperwork resurface. Nothing has changed—the white walls, the polished wooden floor, the neatly organised shelves—they are all the same as before. Only this time, I’m here alone. Without him.
Blinking, my gaze lands on Mr. Deshmukh, sitting at his desk, his eyes fixed on me. Even in his mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and rimmed spectacles perched low on his nose, he carries himself with a certain presence. As I silently continue to study him, emotions tighten in my throat. His white shirt, neatly tucked into black pants, stretches across his midsection, revealing a slight paunch. It floods me with the playful jokes I used to share with my dad about his belly and tucked-in shirts. A joy I’ll never experience again.
“Sana,” Mr. Deshmukh says, his sorrowful eyes meeting mine.
I gulp hard, wishing the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds behind him would simply disappear. I long for darkness to mask how weak and broken I feel in this moment. No matter how many times I’ve told myself these past few days that I need to stay strong—not just for me, but for my mom, for whom this is harder than I can even imagine—I still falter again and again.
Even now, I can’t begin to describe how it takes every ounce of my willpower not to break down into sobs. I’m struggling, yet I manage to force a weak smile as I approach his desk.
“Hello, Uncle.”
“Please, sit down, dear,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite him.
With a nod, I sit in the brown leather chair, my heart pounding in my chest.
“How is your mom?” he asks gently.
“She’s holding up,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
He nods slowly, his gaze distant. “I still can’t believe your father is no more. The sudden heartache was so cruel. At sixty, he was still full of life, with so much more to give. It’s just too soon for any of us to accept.”
“I know,” I murmur, the words barely leaving my lips as I glance down, trying to keep my emotions in check. “It feels like we are robbed of so much.”
He clears his throat, and I look up, meeting his gaze as he now adopts a formal tone. “As part of my duties, I need to read the will to you.”
I nod. “I understand.” My mom was also supposed to be here for this, but she didn’t want to come. She asked me to attend on her behalf, and I didn’t push her, knowing how hard this is for her. Mr. Deshmukh was understanding about it and explained that since the will was prepared in her presence and she was already aware of its contents, her formal presence wasn’t necessary today.
He folds his hands over the file on his desk, his sympathetic gaze never leaving mine. “Your father, Keshav Arora, was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes. He’s left the house to your mother, Sumita Arora, ensuring she’s well taken care of.”
