Chapter 1: The Swords at the Door

The third year after I faked my death, I truly thought my story had come to an end.

But in India, stories have a way of finding new beginnings—sometimes with a slap, sometimes with a sword. To be honest, here we always say, "Jo hota hai, acche ke liye hota hai," but that day, when fate knocked on my door, I realised some stories refuse to end quietly. Sometimes, the past barges in, shoes muddy, no invitation at all.

That was until I pushed open my front door—and found more than a dozen swords, their steel catching the tube light, sharp as the knives Sharmaji uses at his samosa stall, all pointed straight at me.

For a split second, the only sound in the hallway was the buzzing of the tube light above, flickering as if it too was nervous. My heart beat so loudly, I thought the neighbours in the next flat could hear. Instinctively, my hand flew to my bag, searching for my phone—only to remember I’d left it charging in the kitchen. Panic grounded in the small, stupid details of real life.

The hero, the one I had once stabbed, turned around, gave me a chilling grin, and said, "Long time no see, didi."

My fingers curled tight around the edge of my dupatta, knuckles white. For a heartbeat, my eyes darted to the little Ganesh idol on the shoe rack, as if hoping for strength or a miraculous escape.

He stood there, face lit up by the hall's yellow bulb, his eyes sharp as the edge of his blade. My throat dried up instantly, like I’d swallowed a whole Mirzapur summer.

My legs went weak on the spot. I instinctively took a few steps back, only to be stopped by a hand.

My back hit something solid—a palm, big and warm but cold as winter marble. The scent of expensive attar and government office files hung faintly in the air. His thumb pressed lightly into my shoulder blade, a silent reminder of all the things I owed him. My mind raced, but my body froze, as if my spirit had left me behind.

Trembling, I turned my head. It was my former fiancé—the one I had publicly humiliated.

His eyes met mine, hard as the UP police, lips pressed into a thin line. He looked at me like a broken Ganesh murti after Ganpati visarjan—too sacred to discard, too painful to keep.

Standing beside him was the heroine, whose reputation I had once destroyed.

Priya gritted her teeth, her voice icy and full of hatred.

Her eyes flashed, jaw set as if she’d bitten into a raw amla. Even her shadow, cast by the overhead bulb, looked angry.

"You really are something, aren’t you?" Priya paused, nostrils flaring, then added sharply, "Tere jaise logon ko toh sabak sikhana hi padta hai."

Her words cut sharper than the swords. Somewhere, a pressure cooker hissed in a distant kitchen, the only witness to my undoing.

The distant clang of temple bells floated in through the open window, mixing with the honk of a passing rickshaw. Lucknow itself seemed to hold its breath.