"Then your bakery burns." Abhishek pushed off from the bookshelf, his smile vicious. "Tragic accident. Faulty wiring, perhaps. These old buildings, you know how they are."
"You wouldn't—"
"Try me,sister." The way he said the word made it sound like a curse.
Yash's expression remained neutral, but he didn't contradict his son. The threat hung in the air between them, as real as the oxygen she struggled to breathe.
Sinfully Sweet. Her sanctuary. Her life's work. Everything she'd built with her own hands, the only thing in this world that was truly hers.
They'd destroy it without a second thought.
"You're a monster," Advika whispered, staring at the man who shared her blood but nothing else.
"I'm a businessman," Yash corrected. "And this is business. You have two months to prepare. A car will collect you the night before the wedding and bring you to the venue. Don't embarrass me, Advika. For once in your life, be what the family needs."
Dismissed. That's what his tone said. The audience was over.
Advika's legs felt like lead as she turned and walked toward the door. Each step was agony, pride warring with practicality, rage battling with helplessness.
"Oh, and Advika?" Anjana's voice stopped her at the threshold. "Do try to look presentable. The Singhanias have standards, after all."
Advika didn't trust herself to speak. She fled, practically running through the mansion, past Sharma's sympathetic gaze, past thejudging portraits, out into the night air that did nothing to ease the suffocation in her chest.
She made it to her car before the tears came. Great, heaving sobs that shook her entire body. She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel, her carefully constructed walls crumbling.
Two months.
The drive back to Sinfully Sweet passed in a blur. Advika's hands gripped the wheel too tight, her knuckles white, her vision blurred by tears she refused to let fall again. She wouldn't give them that satisfaction. Wouldn't break any more than she already had.
The bakery was dark when she pulled into the alley behind it. Meera had locked up and gone home. Advika let herself in through the back entrance, the familiar smells offering no comfort tonight.
Her apartment above the bakery was small—a studio with a kitchenette, a bathroom, and just enough space for a bed and a small sitting area. But it was hers. Every piece of furniture, every decoration, every book on the shelf—she'd chosen it all.
Or she had thought it was hers. But her father's words echoed in her mind:You live in this city under my protection. Everything you have exists because I permit it.
Even this sanctuary was an illusion.
Advika sank onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars she'd put up years ago mocked her with their artificial light. She'd been such a fool, thinking she could escape her father's world. Thinking she could be normal.
You've finally found your purpose,Anjana had said.
The illegitimate daughter, finally useful.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Unknown: I look forward to meeting you, Advika Pradhan. - R.S.
Her blood ran cold. He already had her number. Already knew about the arrangement. While she'd been having her world shattered, Sidharth Singhania had been... what? Celebrating? Planning?
With shaking hands, Advika opened her laptop. If she was going to be sold off to this man, she needed to know who he was. What he was.
She started with the basics—news articles, public records, society pages. Sidharth Singhania, 33, billionaire businessman, heir to the Singhania empire. The public face was impeccable: handsome in a devastating way, always photographed in designer suits, attending galas and charity events. There were pictures of him with politicians, celebrities, other business moguls.
But Advika knew how to read between the lines. The companies he owned were fronts. The charities he supported were strategic. Everything about Sidharth Singhania was calculated, controlled.
She dug deeper, into the darker corners of the internet where rumors thrived. The whispers about his parents' deaths five years ago—murdered by a trusted family friend, the betrayal that had hardened him into something ruthless. The stories about his enemies, the ones who disappeared or ended up in the river. The fear he inspired, the loyalty he commanded.
Then she found the photographs.
