A U T H O R ' S P O V

Rishi steps into the penthouse, the familiar sound of the electronic lock clicking behind him echoing in the silence. Darkness greets him like an old friend, but his body has memorized this place; without hesitation, he drifts toward the switchboard and flicks the light on. A warm glow spreads across the polished interior. Without pausing, he shrugs out of his leather jacket and tosses it carelessly onto the sofa. His long strides carry him toward the bar counter. On the way, he tilts his head from side to side, cracking his neck for relief, the small sound breaking the quiet.

He enters the bar and opens the glass cupboard where rows of expensive wines and liquors rest like treasures. They are rarely touched. Drinking, for them, is not a habit born out of indulgence but a choice reserved for moments when they simply wish to enjoy, not when they need to celebrate a victory. At parties, they almost never drink; intoxication is dangerous in a world where enemies are always watching. To be careless is to invite death.

Three years ago, however, there was no choice. They had to attend a grand party, invited by Mr. Russo, the old man who intended to hand over 55% of the Italian mafia empire to them—the shipments, the businesses, the underground power. For the two best friends, power was never about greed. It meant protection, justice, and the ability to keep their enemies at bay. That night, their presence was non-negotiable.

But what should have been just another night of negotiations turns unforgettable, especially for Abhiraj. Even now, he remembers every detail with unsettling clarity. It feels as though she cast a spell on him.

Yes, a girl.

One who appeared like a fleeting vision and disappeared just as suddenly. No name. No trace. No identity left behind. It is as if she stepped into that night from nowhere and then slipped back into nothingness, leaving behind only the weight of her absence.

And ever since, Abhiraj carries her like a shadow he cannot shake.

Rishi finally selects a fine wine, places the bottle on the counter, and brings down two glasses along with a can of ice cubes. As he arranges everything neatly, a sudden screech of tires outside pulls him from his thoughts. He knows instantly who it is. Abhiraj has arrived.

Moments later, the door opens. Abhiraj walks in, dressed simply in a white t-shirt and black pants, his presence calm yet commanding. Without wasting time, he heads straight to the bar. He has already seen Rishi’s car outside and knows exactly where to find him. Atharv, Rishi’s secretary,  has updated him, which is why Abhiraj had called earlier to say he was coming over.

Abhiraj pulls out a stool and settles onto it with his usual quiet authority. He places the warm pizza box on the counter between them, the faint aroma immediately filling the space.

Rishi glances at him, his lips curving into a mischievous grin. “Hello, sir. You’re looking very handsome tonight. Should I entertain you with a lap dance or perhaps a pole dance?” His tone is playful, designed to irritate, but beneath the joke lies something else. Rishi always resorts to teasing when he senses tension, whether it is Abhiraj’s or his own.

Abhiraj, of course, knows this better than anyone. To the world, Rishi’s easy charm and disarming smile can fool anyone. But Abhiraj has spent years reading past the mask. He knows those jokes are shields, the grin nothing more than a cover for wounds that never healed. He never calls it out. He simply waits, letting Rishi peel back the layers himself when he is ready.

“Shall I break this wine bottle on your stupid head?” Abhiraj mutters dryly, his voice flat with sarcasm as he reaches for the bottle on the counter.

Rishi rolls his eyes in exaggerated fashion. “Fine, don’t be angry.” He drops onto the stool beside him, the leather seat sighing under his weight. He leans an elbow on the counter, intending to tease again, but then his gaze falls on the pizza box.

And just like that, his grin falters. He doesn’t need to open it to understand that…. Abhiraj knows.

A familiar ache stirs in his chest. Whenever Rishi feels broken, he never admits it outright. He hides it behind banter, behind his smile. But somehow, Abhiraj always finds out. And whenever he does, he brings this. 

Pizza. 

No. The pizza didn’t make him emotional but the toppings.

The toppings are Rishi's peculiar favorites: a chaotic mix of double cheese, olives, jalapeños, mushrooms, pineapple, and even a drizzle of chocolate sauce. It is a flavor that makes Rishi feel at home, ridiculous as it may be. 

Rishi’s eyes immediately soften, because he knows. Abhiraj detests this pizza. He has watched him in the past, chewing slowly with an unreadable face, masking every grimace while forcing the bite down. He never says a word against it, never complains. He eats it simply because Rishi loves it, and if Rishi loves it, then Abhiraj will endure every odd flavor clashing on his tongue.

Setting the box on the counter, Abhiraj speaks with deliberate casualness. “You went to the basement. I thought maybe you got tired of all the noise, so I brought this. In case you get hungry.”

The words are plain, but the gesture is loud. And like always, it is enough to break something inside Rishi. His smile wavers, his throat burns, and his eyes blur, because only he knows how much love hides behind something as strange as this pizza.

“Abhi,” Rishi calls out softly. His voice trembles, and the single word makes Abhiraj’s chest tighten. He doesn’t like the way it sounds, doesn’t like the weight it carries. He waits for Rishi to finish, even though every part of him already dreads the reason behind that tone.

“She… forgot about me,” Rishi whispers, his eyes lowering as if he’s ashamed of his own thoughts. “Am I that replaceable?”

The words stab through Abhiraj like knives. He doesn’t hate Rishi’s insecurities because of the effort it takes to deal with them. He hates them because they hurt Rishi. They twist him up, break him down, make him believe lies about himself. And Abhiraj despises anything that dares to hurt the person he swore to protect.

“If you were that replaceable, Rishiraj, you would have been gone the very first day,” Abhiraj says, his tone flat, cold, but steady as he pours wine into their glasses. “I don’t keep garbage lying around in my life. When something is useless, I throw it out without thinking twice. Do you see me throwing you out?”

He leans forward, eyes sharp and unwavering, and passes a glass to Rishi. His voice never wavers.
“You think you’re easy to forget? Then explain why you’ve been sitting in my life all these years while everything else, everyone else, came and went. People change, faces fade, but somehow you’re still here. Still standing in front of me. Still annoying me more than anyone else ever could.”

The words are blunt, almost cruel in delivery, but the weight of truth in them is undeniable.
“Replaceable things don’t last. Replaceable things don’t matter. You’re still here. And if you still can’t understand what that means, then you’re dumber than the bricks in these walls.”

He takes a sip from his glass, his final words cutting through the silence like a blade.
“And about her….let her forget. Let her replace you. That only proves her weakness. But you… you are not weak. You are not replaceable. Not to me. Not ever.”

The harshness lands exactly where it is meant to. Rishi feels it, not as a wound, but as an anchor. His chest warms, his throat tightens, and for the first time tonight, he can breathe. Only Abhiraj can make him feel this way, pulling him out of the dark not with sugarcoated comfort, but with raw, unshakable truth.

Rishi lets out a shaky laugh, wiping the corner of his eye before it betrays him. “As you say, my love. I will forget her and only remember you.”

The teasing words make Abhiraj shake his head, but behind the gesture is a faint curve of his lips. Because he knows the joke hides something genuine. 

And in that moment, Rishi knows….she may have forgotten him, but he is not alone. He has his family. He has his empire. And most of all, he has Abhiraj, who will never, under any circumstances, let him go.

“Cheers to my new beginning.” Rishi raises his glass, toasting the air dramatically. Abhiraj bumps his glass against Rishi’s, and both take slow sips of the wine. Rishi sets his glass down and immediately dives into his unique pizza, devouring it with childlike glee.

“I am getting engaged this week,” Abhiraj says casually, dropping the bomb as if it were nothing.

The words freeze Rishi mid-bite. Cheese dangles helplessly between his slice and his mouth as he stares at Abhiraj. “No. Don’t tell me that. You are actually going to marry that… Anabelle?” His voice rises in pure disbelief as he throws the half-eaten slice back into the box.

Abhiraj chuckles, leaning back in his stool. “Oh God, Rishi. She is one of the top models in India, and you’re calling her Anabelle? Seriously?”

“So what if she is a top model? She is still Anabelle,” Rishi shoots back with a loud gasp. “Don’t tell me you actually like her, and now your heart is aching because I called her that!”

Abhiraj shakes his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You know me. Words like like and love don’t exist in my dictionary. And I am not getting hurt. She is just a friend. We’ve known each other since childhood.”

Rishi waves his hand dismissively. “So what? There’s no rule saying you must marry your childhood friend. Then you could have just married me instead!” His tone is exaggerated, his face dead serious, as if he’s presenting the most logical solution in the world.

“Shut up,” Abhiraj mutters, unable to stop a faint smile. “Everyone keeps pushing me to settle down. They’ve chosen Raisha for me, and I don’t mind. She doesn’t want romance, only a legal marriage on paper. And most importantly, she already knows about my underground life. That means I don’t have to waste time hiding anything.”

Before Rishi can retort, Abhiraj grabs the half-eaten slice and shoves it straight into Rishi’s mouth, effectively silencing him. Rishi flails his arms, glaring, but Abhiraj’s smirk only widens.

But Rishi being Rishi, silence never lasts. Even with his cheeks stuffed full of pizza, he chews noisily, trying to speak around the mouthful. His words come out garbled, but still perfectly understandable. And then, true to form, he asks the one question Abhiraj wishes he wouldn’t.

“What about Krystal?”

Abhiraj’s body reacts before his face does. His shoulders go rigid, his hand freezes mid-movement, and for a moment he does not even blink. The silence that follows is thick, so heavy that Rishi almost regrets speaking at all. Almost.

When Abhiraj finally answers, his voice carries no warmth. “She is nothing but an imagination for me now. And I have moved on from that.” The words are sharp, final, like a blade pressed too close.

He does not let the silence linger again. He takes his glass, tilts it back, and drains every last drop of wine in one steady motion. The glass lands back on the counter with a dull sound, his jaw set in a cold, unyielding line. He turns to Rishi, his expression carved from stone. “Eat your food and sleep here tonight. You know how you get after drinking. I will not allow you to drive like this. If Aunty sees you in that condition, she will worry herself more.”

Rishi only nods. He does not crack a joke this time, does not flash a smile to cover his own storm. He knows Abhiraj too well. That clipped tone, that rigid posture, the way his eyes do not meet his. Abhiraj is hiding something. He always hides behind that coldness, behind that wall of control.

But Rishi is stubborn in his own way. He listens quietly, but inside his mind a decision takes root. If Abhiraj refuses to speak of her, then he will find her himself. He will dig through every shadow, chase down every whisper, and uncover about her.

Abhiraj stands suddenly, steps closer, and leans down. For a brief second, the mask slips. He presses a kiss to Rishi’s forehead, the gesture quick but grounding. To the world, Rishi may be irritating, reckless, impossible to contain. To Abhiraj, he is different. He is a brother without any blood relation, a brother he swore to protect.

Rishi gives him a goofy grin, as if the heaviness never touched him, as if that single kiss is enough to erase the weight in his chest. Abhiraj only shakes his head lightly, then turns and leaves the penthouse. His footsteps fade into the hallway, and the sound of the door clicking shut leaves the space hollow.

As soon as the silence settles, Rishi’s smile drops. His chest feels tight, his thoughts racing with determination. He pulls out his phone, his hands trembling slightly from the wine but steady in their purpose. He dials a number without hesitation.

“Sir,” Atharv answers almost immediately, his voice clear and alert, like he has been waiting for this call.

“I need the CCTV footage from the Russo couple’s party. The one Abhiraj and I attended three years ago. I want every second of it, and I want it within this week,” Rishi orders, his tone clipped, his resolve unmistakable.

“Yes, sir. I will begin the work right away,” Atharv replies without question.

Rishi ends the call and sinks back against the stool, staring at the untouched slice of pizza. His mind spins faster than the wine can blur his vision.

But what Rishi does not know is that he is already chasing a shadow. Somewhere, someone has wiped her away from existence. Her name, her face, her past, all carefully erased as if she never breathed in this world. No one can find her, no matter how hard they search, until the day she chooses to step forward herself.

Until then, she remains untouchable. A secret hidden in plain sight. A memory powerful enough to haunt, yet fragile enough to vanish like smoke the moment you try to hold it.

……………….

The next morning is a fresh start for Diya. 

Her life follows a rhythm that is not shaken by nightmares or haunted memories. Whatever she has faced in the past, whatever shadows creep into her sleep, she never allows them to distract her from the one thing she holds above all else, the calling of her heart, which is to treat people.

 It is not duty alone, it is instinct.

No matter how heavy the night, no matter how late the hours, she rises with the dawn, and by seven she is always at the hospital. This discipline is not a burden to her, it is a choice she makes again and again, and it defines the essence of her life. 

In the hospital she is known not only for her skill but also for her tireless nature. She rarely takes rest during her hours of service, she often skips breakfast and sometimes even lunch, yet she carries a warmth that comforts both patients and staff. Her sacrifice is not hidden. They notice the hollow in her cheeks, the faint fatigue in her eyes, and they respond with affection. Many invite her to share a little food with them, knowing that while she heals bodies, she forgets her own.

 In their small gestures is a reminder that care must flow both ways, for even those who seem strongest are human too.

And then there is Aakriti, who becomes the unseen guardian of Diya’s well-being. Every morning, Diya leaves the house quietly, never wishing to disturb Aakriti’s sleep. But love does not need alarms to awaken. Aakriti senses the absence beside her as if some part of her spirit tugs her awake. She rises, prepares a light breakfast with simple slices of fruit, and hurries to the hospital to make sure that Diya eats. This daily act may appear ordinary, but in truth it carries the weight of devotion. It is proof that sometimes the greatest care does not come from medicine or authority, but from a hand that insists you take a bite of food when you would rather go hungry.

And today is no different.

Diya steps out of her warm bath, droplets still clinging to her skin, her mind cleared of yesterday’s troubles. She walks into the room wrapped in her bathrobe and pauses when her gaze falls on Aakriti. She is sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling gently, her arms wrapped around the pillow as if holding on to a comfort that only she understands. Diya watches for a moment, a smile spreading softly across her lips. In that simple sight she finds a kind of rest that no sleep ever gives her. She turns then, walks toward the wardrobe, and begins preparing herself for another day of service.

She opened the wardrobe, carefully picking out her crisp white kurta and neatly ironed trousers. Dressing had always been less about fashion for her and more about function, about presenting herself in a way that calmed her patients before she even spoke. Once ready, she tied her damp hair into a neat bun, slipped on her shoes, and took one last look at Aakriti before leaving the room.

The morning air outside is cool, the streets just waking up with the sound of vendors setting up their stalls and children rushing to school. For Diya, the walk to the hospital is not just a commute but a silent preparation. She clears her thoughts and begins lining up the cases she will see today. By the time she steps through the hospital gates at exactly seven, her mind is sharp, her heart steady, and her body ready to serve.

Inside the hospital, life immediately pulls her in. Nurses greet her with warm relief, patients brighten at the sight of her, and even the most tired staff members straighten when she passes. She moves with calm authority, checking charts, listening carefully, speaking words that soothe, and giving instructions with clarity. To watch her work is to witness discipline shaped into compassion. Hours pass like minutes, but for Diya it feels natural, as if caring for others is not a choice but the very instinct that defines her.

By late morning, hunger begins to gnaw at her. She ignores it, as she always does, focusing instead on a child’s fever that needs monitoring and an elderly patient whose medicines must be adjusted. She is about to move on to the next ward when the door creaks open.

Aakriti enters, holding a tray with toast, fruit, and a flask of coffee. Her cheeks are flushed from hurrying, her eyes determined. The ward notices immediately, and a ripple of amusement spreads through the patients and nurses.

“Your savior has come again, Doctor Diya,” one of the elderly patients teases with a toothless smile.

Another adds, “If she was not here, we would have to force you to eat.”

The nurses chuckle softly, and even the tired faces of the patients lighten with joy at the sight. For them, the scene is more than playful; it is a reminder that even those who give everything must be cared for in return.

Diya turns, surprised for a second, but her stern expression quickly melts. “Aakriti,” she says gently, her voice filled with a mixture of affection and helplessness.

“Do not even think of refusing,” Aakriti replies firmly as she walks closer. “You can heal the whole world, but someone has to make sure you do not fall before your patients do.”

Diya sits on the stool, finally surrendering to the insistence, and takes the slice of toast. The staff exchange knowing smiles while Aakriti quietly stands by, her eyes soft but unyielding. When Diya takes a small bite, the ward fills with a silent satisfaction, as if everyone has witnessed a victory greater than medicine.

This moment, simple yet powerful, becomes a lesson. The healer too must be healed. The one who carries the burdens of many cannot walk endlessly without rest. In Aakriti’s small act of bringing breakfast, there is a truth that even the strongest need someone to remind them of their humanity. The patients watch with gentle admiration, learning that care is not one-sided but a circle. Today, it is Diya’s turn to be looked after, and the love that surrounds her is as vital as any medicine she prescribes.

After a few minutes, Aakriti leaves quietly ordering Diya to take care of herself and the cardiology ward slowly comes alive again. 

Diya adjusts her white coat, checks the stethoscope around her neck, and moves through the busy corridor with measured, confident steps. She has already begun organizing the rounds, reviewing patient charts, delegating tasks, and confirming orders with the nursing staff. Patients line up one by one, some anxious, some curious, all looking to her with quiet hope. She reviews each patient’s history carefully, noting medications, previous ECGs, echocardiograms, lab results, and allergies. Her tone is calm but authoritative as she speaks with nurses, clarifying doses, verifying vitals, and explaining procedures in precise terms, instilling confidence in both staff and patients.

A nurse opens the door and escorts an elderly woman. She moves with measured grace, every step deliberate. She is dressed in a richly woven saree, the silk gleaming softly under the fluorescent lights. Subtle gold embroidery traces the border, and her jewelry is minimal : a delicate chain with a pendant, thin bangles on her wrists, and simple stud earrings. Her hair is neatly pinned in a bun, and her posture is upright, regal, almost statuesque. Her eyes are sharp and assessing, scanning the room critically before settling on Dr. Diya.

“I was told Dr. Rashmi would see me personally today,” she says, her voice even but firm, carrying a formal authority. “She assured me yesterday that she would conduct my checkup. Why am I now being attended to by you?”

Dr. Diya meets her gaze steadily, her expression calm and professional. She understands immediately that this is not rudeness, but sharp frustration born of expectation. “Madam,” she says gently, “Dr. Rashmi was called away this morning for an urgent cardiac emergency and cannot attend today. I am Dr. Diya, assistant cardiologist. I will perform your routine cardiovascular assessment under her protocols and guidance. I will document all findings and ensure Dr. Rashmi reviews them as soon as she returns. I will explain each step so you are fully aware and comfortable throughout your examination.”

The elder woman’s brow furrows slightly. “I have known Dr. Rashmi for many years. She understands my cardiac history, my blood pressure fluctuations, and my long-term medication regimen. I do not object to your assistance, but I am careful when someone else handles my care.”

Diya nods calmly. “I understand completely. Today we will begin with a full cardiovascular evaluation. I will measure your blood pressure in both arms, assess your resting heart rate, listen to your heart sounds including S1 and S2, check for murmurs, rubs, or gallops, auscultate your lungs for any crackles indicating pulmonary congestion, and palpate peripheral pulses to assess circulation. I will review your most recent ECG and compare it to prior tracings to identify any ischemic changes. All observations will be documented and shared with Dr. Rashmi. No interventions will be performed without your consent.”

The elder woman exhales slowly, her tone still formal, but her shoulders relax just slightly. “Very well,” she says, “I will allow it.” As she speaks, she listens to Diya’s words with clear comprehension. Her eyes flick briefly to the ECG printouts and the medical equipment, and she notes Diya’s confident technique and precise use of terminology. Though she remains formal and regal, there is a spark of impressed acknowledgment. She has spent years learning enough medical language to understand her own condition and recognize competence when she sees it. Her initial sharpness softens as she realizes Diya’s professionalism matches the standards she has always trusted Dr. Rashmi to maintain.

Diya begins the examination with careful precision. She wraps the sphygmomanometer cuff around the elder woman’s arm, inflates it gently, and listens to the Korotkoff sounds, recording systolic and diastolic pressures. She palpates radial and dorsalis pedis pulses, checks capillary refill, and auscultates the heart and lungs systematically while explaining each step in terms the elder woman can follow. The woman’s hands rest neatly in her lap, her posture still dignified but her eyes tracking every movement, absorbing the professionalism and medical clarity she recognizes.

By the end of the checkup, the elder woman leans back slightly still formal, still regal with a subtle approving nod. She does not smile openly yet there is quiet acknowledgment in her eyes. The examination is thorough, precise and professional exactly as she expects. Yet beneath the calm exterior her mind churns relentlessly.

She adjusts the rich silk of her saree, her fingers tightening briefly before relaxing. Her posture never falters but her thoughts race weaving possibilities, calculating outcomes and weighing the steps she must take next. Every detail she has observed of the doctor’s skill, the efficiency of the ward and the way the young assistant carries herself is cataloged and considered. A quiet plan begins to take shape simmering beneath the surface of her composed exterior.

She rises slowly, the movement deliberate commanding. Every eye in the room notices the effortless grace and the silent authority in her posture. And then the air seems to shift. Her name echoes without a sound.

 SUNETRA BHATI. 

The name alone commands attention, respect, fear and admiration. She is not merely regal in appearance. She is formidable, strategic and utterly unrelenting.

Her head held high, her saree trailing elegantly behind her she steps forward the poise of someone who dominates every space she enters. Inside the fire of determination burns brightly. Sunetra is a woman who once she decides on something will achieve it by hook or crook leaving no obstacle unchallenged, no path unexplored until she gets exactly what she wants.

Now her eyes fix on Diya across the ward, and a faint, mischievous smile curls at her lips. 

And already, in the quiet of her mind, clever plans begin to take shape.