ISHIKA
The car waits outside like it belongs to another world.
That’s the first thing that hits me when he unlocks it and the headlights blink softly, almost politely, as if announcing themselves. It’s sleek in that understated way rich things are—no loud colors, no unnecessary drama, just quiet confidence. The kind of car that doesn’t need to scream money because it already knows it has it. The paint reflects the streetlights cleanly, no scratches, no dents, no history written on its body. Even the interior smells expensive—leather and something faintly woody, like the idea of calm bottled and sold.
I hesitate for half a second before getting in. It’s stupid. I know it is. It’s just a car. Metal, glass, wheels. But my fingers curl slightly as I grip the door handle, my body remembering something my mind doesn’t want to unpack yet.
I slide into the passenger seat and the door shuts with a soft, solid click. Not the rattly sound I’m used to from autos or cabs that have seen too many lives. This one seals the world out completely. The noise of the street dulls instantly, like someone turned the volume down on reality.
Aryan gets in beside me, relaxed, familiar with the space. He starts the engine and the car hums to life smoothly, effortlessly, like it’s barely trying.
“Nice car,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
He grins. “Thank you. It eats my money very efficiently.”
I snort despite myself and look out the window, watching the building slip past as we pull onto the road. The city at night is different—softer in places, harsher in others. Streetlights blur into long streaks of gold, shops are shutting down, and people move slower, like the day finally let go of them.
Then music fills the car.
Not soft instrumental. Not some generic playlist.
Christmas music.
I blink.
Actual, full-blown Christmas music.
“Is that…Jingle Bell Rock?” I ask slowly, turning to look at him.
He doesn’t even look embarrassed. If anything, he looks proud. “Yes.”
“It’s…October,” I point out.
“Details,” he replies easily. “Don’t judge me. I’m very stressed. A Christmas playlist solves everything. You should give it a try.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. “You’re unbelievable.”
He chuckles. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is,” I say flatly.
He hums along to the song, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel, completely unbothered. There’s something strange about seeing someone so powerful—so in control at work—be this casually ridiculous in private. It doesn’t match the image my brain had built of him.
And maybe that’s what makes it unsettling.
I shift in my seat, suddenly too aware of how long it’s been since I’ve sat in a car like this. Since I’ve sat in a car at all. The thought sneaks up on me, quiet but heavy. I haven’t sat in a car since my parents died.
Not like this.
I sold everything they had. The car went first. Then the furniture. Then anything that felt like it belonged to a life I wasn’t living anymore. I didn’t need it. I couldn’t afford to maintain it. And part of me didn’t want to be reminded of what was gone every time I turned a key.
Still, I never had to worry about my fees. Papa had settled that long before anything went wrong. He was like that—always planning, always preparing, even for things no one wanted to imagine. Because of him, college was covered. My education was safe.
But there were other costs.
Living. Software licenses. Materials. Rent. Food. Survival is expensive in ways people don’t talk about.
And then there was Krishna.
