The Thakral estate was a thing of beauty and fear.

Tall columns, glass walls, luxury marbled into silence—everything about the house screamed power. It wasn't built to be lived in; it was built to be worshipped. The chandeliers could blind a man before he dared look straight into the family's eyes. Even the air felt like it was filtered through centuries of privilege.

But the real chill wasn't in the architecture.

It was in the footsteps of Rajdeep Thakral—the man who built empires with the same meticulous precision he used to break spirits. Men trembled when he entered a boardroom. His victories were carved from other people's failures. His love, when offered, came wrapped in conditions sharp enough to cut.

Upstairs, however, chaos reigned.

"Priya di! Where's my dupatta—the pink one with the tiny sequins that makes me look like an overpriced ladoo?"

"Why would you want that, Ruhani?" Priya called from her walk-in closet, her voice steady and warm. "You are an overpriced ladoo in anything you wear."

"Exactly! So I might as well sparkle while I roll down the halls of St. Cecilia's!"

Ruhani Thakral—eighteen, aggressively powered by iced coffee—twirled before her mirror as if the world were already applauding. Her wild curls were pinned up in a style that probably had no name but deserved one. Eyeliner smudged in that 'I'm-going-to-be-the-main-character' way. Perfume? Enough to cause an evacuation if she sneezed.

Today was her first day at St. Cecilia's College of Arts & Business—the most prestigious college in the city. The kind where senators' kids studied marketing while planning scandals. The kind her father approved of—solely because of its alumni list.

For Ruhani, it was her grand entry. The day she'd walk in slow motion while wind machines conveniently started working indoors.

Downstairs, however, reality waited like an unwelcome guest.

Their father sat in his favorite chair, the business section spread wide as though it were the Bible. He didn't look up when he heard the clack of Ruhani's heels—though the walls definitely did.

Rajdeep Thakral never raised his voice. He didn't need to.

"I've made sure you get into a respectable college," he said, tone flat as polished granite. "You should be grateful."

Ruhani paused near the bottom of the stairs. Priya gently placed a hand at her back—support disguised as guidance.

Rajdeep's eyes finally lifted, locking hers with the chilling accuracy of a man who had never missed a target in his life.

"Because with your face... and that body..." He let his gaze drag, judgment heavy as chains. "If it weren't for the Thakral name, you'd be an outcast the moment you stepped in."

There. The blow. Delivered with the softness of a scalpel—sharp enough to leave invisible scars that bled for years.

Their mother let out an exasperated sigh, twirling the end of her silk saree like a bored empress. "Rajdeep, please. She's a child, not one of your stock reports."

But Ruhani had already begun assembling her armor. A smile—bright, practiced, heartbreakingly flawless—stretched onto her face. If she had to bleed, she'd bleed glitter.

She walked the last step with grace she hadn't been gifted but had fought to own.

"I'll try not to shame the empire, Dad," she said lightly, her voice honey over broken glass.

Priya squeezed her hand—silent sisterhood, the truest kind.

St. Cecilia's College wasn't just a campus—it was a runway disguised as an educational institution. Everywhere Ruhani looked, there were flawless girls gliding past in designer sneakers and curated confidence. Toned midriffs. Sculpted cheekbones. Bags that cost more than any middle-class person's monthly budget. They walked like life was already in their favor and gravity worked extra hard just for them.

Ruhani inhaled the sunshine, squared her shoulders, and stepped onto the courtyard like it was the red carpet of the Filmfare Awards. One hair flip—dramatic, slow, Bollywood heroine style—and she was ON.

The whispers followed instantly, slithering in the air like perfume gone rotten.

"She's the Thakral daughter?"

"God, look at her thighs."

"Rich can't buy you a waistline, I guess."

Ruhani paused. Pivoted and pinpointed the ringleader—a girl whose beauty was second only to her boredom. Perfect contour. Perfect pout. Personality of a soggy biscuit. Ruhani smiled—sugary sweet, deadly sharp.

"You know, darling," she purred, "if you spent more time reading than judging, maybe your personality would grow into your cheekbones."

A beat of silence.... Gasps. Snorts. Suppressed giggles. The wilted biscuit turned beetroot red. Ruhani winked and strutted on, heels clicking a victorious beat.

But inside... oh, inside it hurt.

Because she didn't need them to tell her she didn't belong. Her mirror had always done that job well enough. Her father's voice echoed it every day. A princess in the wrong fairytale. An outcast wrapped in designer labels and loud Bollywood dialogue. A girl who used humor like a shield and glitter like war paint.

By lunchtime, Ruhani had already endured 3 passive-aggressive compliments, 1 absurd body-shaming comment, 2 judgmental elevator looks, and 17 intrusive insecurities.

But she survived—with lip gloss intact.

Then—"RUHANI FREAKING THAKRAL?!"

Ruhani spun—then squealed.

"Siaaaa!"

Sia Mehta, living proof that angels existed among mortals. Doe eyes. Legs like a runway show. Skin that glowed as if the sun paid rent to her.

Ruhani grabbed her in a hug. "You haven't changed! Still glowing like sunscreen sponsored you."

"And you," Sia grinned, "are still dramatic, like you came with your own background score."

They walked to the café—gossiping, laughing, and slipping into old comfort like a favorite hoodie.

Until—the atmosphere shifted.

Students stopped mid-sentence. A hush rolled across the courtyard. Even the wind paused for dramatic effect.

A group of boys filed in—loud, laughing—but one walked like he owned oxygen. Tall. Broad shoulders. Hair in that annoying "effortlessly hot" chaos. A black t-shirt stretched over muscles that shouldn't be legal.

Jawline sculpted by angry gods. Eyes dark enough to convince saints to sin. Ruhani forgot how lungs worked.

"Who... who is THAT?"

Sia didn't bother looking up. "That's Raj Malhotra. Final year. Football captain. Rumored heartbreak collector. Basically—trouble with a jawline."

"He looks like a sin in motion," Ruhani whispered reverently.

Sia snorted. "And Sins like him don't fall for Bollywood girls carrying chocolate in their bags."

But Ruhani wasn't listening anymore. Raj laughed at something, head tipped back, sunshine catching on his smile—and that was it. Her heart didn't just skip a beat. It performed a whole item number, and Ruhani Thakral fell—just a little—for her new crush.

Six Days Later,

Ruhani was drowning... In romance...the unrequited kind.

Six days, four hours, and twenty-three minutes. Not that she was counting. (Okay yes, she was. Aggressively.)

Checklist of a girl in too deep: Stalked every Insta post since 2018, Walked past him "accidentally"—three times a day, Liked his picture and immediately unliked it, imagined their meet-cute in 18 different genres, and ignored her professors because his hair existed.

On video call, Sia stared at her like she was studying a new species of stupid.

"You haven't even spoken to him yet."

Ruhani dropped her phone on her pillow dramatically. "He wore a white shirt today, Sia. Do you KNOW what that does to my soul?"

"I've read your Wattpad drafts," Sia deadpanned. "Too vividly."

"I'm doomed," Ruhani groaned.

"No, baby," Sia said gently, "you're in love."

Ruhani pressed a pillow over her face and screamed.

If only Raj Malhotra would look at her once... Really look.

Maybe he'd see what she desperately hid beneath sequins and sass—a heart that wanted to be chosen..... Loved... Felt seen.