Chapter One
The scent of vanilla and dark chocolate wrapped around Advika like a warm embrace as she piped delicate sugar flowers onto the five-tier wedding cake before her. Her hands moved with practiced precision, each petal a perfect replica of the last. This was her sanctuary—Sinfully Sweet, her bakery, her kingdom of flour and fondant where she reigned supreme.
"Beautiful work, as always," Meera, her assistant, said from across the counter where she was boxing up the day's last batch of macarons.
Advika smiled, stepping back to admire her creation. The cake was a masterpiece—ivory fondant adorned with cascading champagne-colored roses, edible gold leaf catching the warm light from the pendant lamps overhead. Every detail was perfect, from the hand-painted lace pattern on the bottom tier to the crystallized sugar teardrops suspended between layers.
"Mrs. Kapoor is going to cry when she sees this," Advika murmured, already imagining the bride's reaction.
This was what she lived for. Not the money, not the recognition—though Sinfully Sweet had gained quite a reputation in the city's elite circles—but the joy of creation. The satisfaction of building something beautiful with her own hands in a world that had given her so little.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
Advika frowned, wiping her hands on her apron before checking the screen. Her heart sank.
Father: Come to the estate. Now.
Father: This is not a request.
Father: You have one hour.
The use of the word "father" on her phone was a cruel joke. Yash Pradhan had never been a father to her—not in any way that mattered. He was a name, a monthly allowance deposited into her account, a shadow that loomed over her life but never touched it with warmth.
"Everything okay?" Meera asked, concern etching lines across her forehead.
"I have to go." Advika untied her apron, her movements mechanical. The joy that had filled her moments ago evaporated like morning mist. "Can you finish the final touches and schedule the delivery for tomorrow?"
"Of course, but—"
"I'll be back tomorrow." Advika forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Promise."
She grabbed her purse and jacket, casting one last look at her haven. The exposed brick walls, the vintage display cases filled with her creations, the chalkboard menu written in her own hand—everything here was hers. She'd built this from nothing, funded by her mother's life insurance and her own relentless determination.
The drive to the Pradhan Estate took thirty minutes, each one filled with mounting dread. The city lights gave way to manicured lawns and towering gates. The contrast was stark—Sinfully Sweet with its warm lighting and the smell of cinnamon versus the cold, imposing mansion that rose before her like a fortress.
Or a prison.
The gates swung open automatically, recognizing her car. The guards nodded as she passed, their faces carefully blank. Everyone knew who she was. The illegitimate daughter. The dirty secret hidden in plain sight.
Advika parked in the circular driveway, her beat-up sedan looking pathetically out of place among the luxury vehicles. Her half-brothers' cars were here—Abhishek's sleek Porsche and Rahul's Mercedes. Whatever this was about, it was a family affair.
Except she'd never been family. Not really.
The butler, Sharma, opened the door before she could knock. His weathered face held a hint of sympathy that made her stomach twist.
"Miss Advika. They're waiting in the study."
She followed him through the marble-floored foyer, past the grand staircase she'd been forbidden to use as a child, past the family portraits that featured everyone except her. The walls seemed to close in with each step, heavy with the weight of old resentments and older secrets.
Sharma paused outside the mahogany doors of her father's study. "Good luck, miss."
That can't be good.
Advika straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and pushed the doors open.
The study was exactly as she remembered—dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the massive desk that Yash Pradhan sat behind like a king on his throne. The smell of expensive cigars and older money permeated the air.
Yash looked up as she entered, his steel-gray eyes assessing her with the same indifference he'd shown her entire life. He was in his late fifties, still handsome in a harsh way, his hair more salt than pepper now. A man who'd built an empire on blood and fear, though the world saw only the legitimate businessman.
