The scent of haldi and judgment filled the kitchen.
"You're wasting your brain, Zara," Ammi said without even looking up from the cutting board. Her voice was steady, like this conversation wasn't the hundredth version of the same argument. "You could've been a doctor. You had the grades. But no-you want to strut around in backless blouses and click photos?"
I clenched my jaw, gripping the edge of the counter to ground myself.
"I'm not strutting, Ammi. I'm working. Modelling is a profession-"
"Profession?" She dropped the knife with a thud. "Is this what you think of when your father works overtime just to pay your tuition? Makeup, photoshoots, and useless parties?"
"It's not useless," I said, trying to hold my voice steady. "I just finished 12th this year, I'm still figuring it out-"
"And while you're 'figuring it out,' your sister is preparing for her second NEET attempt and your cousin Alina is already in her second year of MBBS. They have goals, beta. You have... Instagram."
I bit the inside of my cheek.
They always said that. That I had "Instagram" like it was a disease.
Her words hit like slow poison. Not fast enough to knock me down, but enough to burn with every breath.
"Doctor," she whispered, voice suddenly softer, like she was mourning. "I just wanted to say my daughter is a doctor. Is that so wrong?"
"Maybe I just wanted to say my mother is proud. Is that so wrong?"
Silence.
Her eyes darted toward me, glassy and sharp all at once. Then she turned her back and picked up the knife again, like that was the end of it.
But it wasn't. Not for me.
In College
The day was slipping into golden hour when Zara flopped onto the grassy bench outside her college's main gate, her tote bag thudding beside her. She had just wrapped up a low-budget, last-minute shoot for an upcoming local brand. Nothing major—just a couple of cotton kurtas and a moody sky—but she felt oddly satisfied. Her face was flushed from the heat, her eyeliner slightly smudged, and she looked like the kind of girl who was too tired to care, but just pretty enough to pull it off.
Nidhi slid in next to her, phone already in hand, eyes gleaming with gossip.
“You have to see this guy,” she said, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Another one?” Zara smirked. “Do you ever rest?”
“I do. But not when God sends men like this to Earth.”
Zara snorted and took a sip of her warm iced coffee. Nidhi turned her screen toward her.
There he was.
Adrian.
Instagram: @adrianthorne
The profile picture was intentionally mysterious—a black-and-white shot of him from the side, head slightly turned away, a sliver of jawline and nose. Clean, sharp. He looked like someone who probably had a playlist called “Midnight Gym Sadness” and a second account he didn’t tell anyone about.
“Who is this?” Zara asked, brows raising despite herself.
“Adrian Thorne. Half-Indian, half-some-kind-of-foreign, I think. He was considered as the best basketball player in school. He is studying Architect in France and belongs to a real estate tycoon. He’s hot. I’m obsessed. Don’t judge me.”
Zara raised her hands in mock surrender. “I’m not judging. I’m just... confused. How do you know so much?”
Nidhi beamed. “We have one mutual friend. Aarav from school. He posted a group pic last week. I went down the rabbit hole. And I am never coming out.”
Zara scrolled for a second.
There were game clips—Adrian cutting through defenders like they were air, the crowd a blur behind him. There were mirror selfies in sleek locker rooms, some blurry rooftop shots with soft captions like “Some nights hit different.” His aesthetic was clean, minimal, but curated enough to feel calculated. His vibe wasn’t just “hot guy who plays ball.” It was “hot guy who knows he could wreck your life but chooses not to.”
“He looks... expensive,” Zara muttered, then quickly added, “In an emotionally unavailable kind of way.”
Nidhi laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone.
“You’re literally so dramatic,” she said. “And you so noticed how sharp his jawline is.”
Zara shrugged. “Maybe.”
They let it go after that. Nidhi drifted back into her latest crush daydreams. Zara pushed the profile from her mind—or tried to. But something about him lingered, like a fragrance you don’t realize you’ve absorbed until hours later.
---
Later That Evening - Aanya's Room
"I'm going insane, yaar," I muttered, my head buried in Aanya's pillow while she painted her nails like my whole emotional breakdown wasn't happening two feet away.
"Let it out, drama queen. You know I live for this."
"I'm not being dramatic. Every single person in my family is either studying medicine or worshipping someone who is. I swear, if one more person brings up my cousin Alina's white coat or Sana's NEET rank, I'm gonna scream."
She handed me a tissue like I was clockwork. "Zee, you passed 12th with killer grades. You just didn't want what they wanted."
"I wanted me. But apparently, that's not good enough."
My throat tightened. "I wake up to taunts. I sleep to cold shoulders. And in between, I pretend that I'm okay with losing my family's respect just to chase something that actually makes me feel alive."
Aanya looked at me for a second, then hugged me. "You don't owe anyone your soul, Zara. Just your truth."
I smiled, watery and weak. "Remind me to write that down and use it for my Instagram caption."
---
Night - My Room
The fairy lights blinked above me like my dreams-pretty, fragile, and always flickering.
The book on my nightstand was open to chapter fourteen. The love interest had just said: "I'd burn the world if it meant keeping you warm."
Fictional men ruined real-life standards.
Ping.
Instagram. Just a story update.
I unlocked my phone with zero expectation... until the username hit me:
@adrianthorne
The same profile popped up on my feed.
I tapped on his story.
A black-and-white photo of a Paris bridge. Cool tones. Artistic. Aloof. Like him.
Then I checked his profile.
Monochrome grid. Minimalist bio. Architecture shots. Gym clips. And that one sinful mirror selfie where his jawline looked like it could slice through heartbreak.
I scrolled down to the most dangerous line:
250K followers. 200 following.
Not a single girl. Not even his mother, probably.
I blinked, smirked... then stared.
Because I didn't know it yet, but tonight was the prologue.
And he?
He was about to bec
ome my favorite plot twist.
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