Vyaan's pov

I have always found a strange, quiet sanctuary in the color grey.

To the rest of the world, grey is the color of gloom, of indecision, of something fading away. But to me, grey is the only honest shade in existence. It’s the color of the Maangarh sky just before a storm, the color of wet pavement, and the color of the smoke from my mother’s morning prayers. It doesn't demand your joy like the bright, intrusive yellow of the sun, and it doesn't swallow you whole like the black of night. It just is.

I stood by the window of my bedroom, my breath fogging the glass into a pale, milky haze. Outside, the Raheja gardens were meticulously manicured, yet the winter had managed to dull the vibrant greens into something more muted, more tolerable

I leaned closer to the glass, and my reflection stared back.

There they were. The sea-green eyes. They were the only "color" I possessed, and yet they felt like the greyest part of me. They were turbulent and cold, like a winter sea.

I looked at them and felt the familiar, nagging itch of a mystery I couldn't solve till now. I am a Raheja by name, by law, and by the heavy burden of my father’s legacy. But these eyes... they are a ghost. They belong to a story that was buried deep inside my heart.

I watched a single bird fly across the overcast sky. I wondered if it was looking for the sun. It was flying with hope. For hope.

Poor thing, I thought. You’re looking for a lie.

Hope is a vibrant, neon color that burns the eyes. People like my brother, Samarth, wear it like a tailored suit. He walks through these halls with the radiator-warmth of a man who believes the world owes him a sunrise. He believes in the "power of prayer" because his life is a testament to things working out.

But I remember the silence of the prayers that went unanswered. I remember the weight of the hope that I held onto until my fingers bled, only for it to slip away and leave me abandoned in the dark. I looked at the sky and sighed. Winters are about to end and then the spring season will arrive.

I don't want the spring. I don't want the "rebirth" or the blooming flowers that my mother prays for at the altar downstairs. Flowers are just a countdown to decay. I prefer the winter’s stillness. I prefer the cold that numbs the skin until you can’t feel the ache in your chest anymore.

Everyone else welcomes the spring, but for me, spring is a graveyard. Two years ago, the flowers were in bloom when she left. The air was sweet, the sun was bright, and the world was screaming with life, and then, she simply wasn't there anymore. The Spring arrived with its suitcase full of promises and then vanished in the middle of the night, leaving the Winter behind to face the world alone.

Now again, I cling to the cold. In the winter, nothing is expected to grow. In the cold, you don't have to pretend that things are getting better. The ice doesn't lie to you.

The heavy mahogany door of my bedroom felt like a barrier between my sanctuary and the inevitable chaos of being a Raheja. I had spent the last hour staring at the ceiling, lost in the quiet melancholy that usually accompanies a birthday. Nineteen. A bridge between the recklessness of the teens and the weight of adulthood. Was it necessary to celebrate the fact that the clock was ticking louder every year?

A rhythmic rapping against the wood broke my trance. I sighed, the sound heavy in the empty room.

"Enter," I called out, my voice flat.

The door creaked open to reveal Jaidev Uncle, one of our oldest staff members, his face etched with a familiar, respectful kindness. "Sir, the family is waiting for you at the dining table," he said softly.

I offered a small, appreciative nod. "I’ll be down in a minute, Jaidev Uncle."

Standing up, I caught my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. My sea-green eyes, a trait that always seemed to startle strangers, looked back at me with a mixture of boredom and resignation.

I grabbed a sleek black jacket, pulling it over my shoulders to hide the restlessness within, and ran a comb through my hair.

With a deep breath, I adjusted my features, pinning on the practiced, effortless smile that the world expected from Vyaan Raheja.

The dining hall was already filled with the scent of a lavish breakfast and the even louder energy of my family.

"Happy birthday, my baby! Many, many happy returns of the day!"

Before I could even reach my chair, my mother, Dr. Pranjali Raheja, was there. She radiated warmth, her presence a sharp contrast to the cold marble of the mansion. She pressed a tender kiss to my forehead. I immediately softened, bending down to touch her feet, a gesture of respect that felt natural only with her.

"Maa, I’m telling you, he’s reached the age," a mischievous voice boomed from the staircase. I didn't even have to look up to know it was Samarth. "Just get him married off already. Look at him, he’s practically an old man now."

I straightened up and rolled my eyes with enough force to cause a headache. "Khud 20 saal ke buddhe ho rahe ho aur mujhe bol rahe ho haan? Wake up to reality brother. Maybe if you found a life of your own, you’d stop obsessing over mine."

Samarth stepped into the light, a smirk playing on his lips. He ignored my jab with the practiced ease of an elder brother who lived to annoy.

"Uffo, Samarth! Don’t tease my Cham Cham today, especially not on his birthday," Maa scolded, though her eyes twinkled.

I scrunched my nose in immediate protest. Cham Cham. Her favorite sweet, and her favorite, and most embarrassing, nickname for me. Samarth let out a bark of laughter, clutching his stomach.

"Yeah, sure, Cham Cham ki mummy," he snickered.

That was the final straw. My hand shot out, grabbing a bright red apple from the fruit bowl on the table. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed it at his head, aiming for that smug grin. But fate, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor on my nineteenth birthday.

Samarth ducked.

The apple sailed through the air, hitting the back of my father’s head with a dull thud. Adarsh Raheja froze. The room went silent. My brother’s smirk transformed into a look of pure, evil delight.

"Who is responsible for this childish behavior?" Dad demanded, his voice low and authoritative as he turned around.

I gulped, the bravado vanishing instantly. Before I could stammer an apology, Maa stepped in, grabbing my hand and pulling me behind her like she was shielding a toddler from a storm.

"It was your son who just turned nineteen, Dad," Samarth chirped, leaning against a chair. "The 'birthday boy' himself." I glared at him, silently cursing his future married life to be as miserable as his personality.

"Vyaan-" Dad started, his tone stern.

"Koi Vyaan nahi aap meri baat suniye," Maa interrupted, her voice firm as she wrapped the end of her silk dupatta over my head in a protective, maternal gesture. "Today is my Cham Cham’s birthday. No one says a word to him, or they’ll have to deal with me. You all have bothered my boy enough."

The tension snapped. A genuine smile broke across my face under the fabric of the dupatta.

"Aree, I wasn't going to scold him,"

Dad said, his expression softening into a rare, proud smile. He walked over and patted my shoulder heavily. His dark black eyes searched my sea-green ones, a silent acknowledgement of the man I was becoming. "Happy birthday, beta. May God grant you all the success in the world. Love you."

I nodded, moved by the sincerity, and bent down to touch his feet.

"Oye! Mummy ke Cham Cham!" Samarth shouted, interrupting the moment. "Come here and touch my feet too. I’m the elder. If you don’t, to mai tujhe devdas bana ke ulta nachwaunga sabke saamne."

I looked at my parents, my face a mask of deadpan boredom. "Tell me the truth... of all the children available at the temple that day, did you have to pick this useless one to bring home?"

My parents erupted into laughter, the sound echoing through the mansion. The moment was perfect until a grape, launched with pinpoint accuracy by Samarth, struck me right in the forehead.

"Idiot," I muttered, rubbing the spot. It stung like a bullet, but as I looked at the chaotic, laughing faces of my family.

As we finally sat down, the spread was enough to feed a small army. There was everything from classic parathas dripping with white butter to sophisticated avocado toast that Samarth called "green mush for the weak."

"Eat up, Cham Cham," Maa said, piling a third aloo paratha onto my plate despite my protests. "You need the energy to tolerate your brother today."

"He needs the energy to grow a personality, Maa," Samarth countered, expertly spreading jam on a croissant. He looked at me, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "So, Vyaan, nineteen years. Still no girl in sight? I’m starting to think your only true love is your best friend Avinash and that boring black jacket."

I took a slow, deliberate sip of my orange juice, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. "I’d rather be alone than have a trail of heartbroken disasters behind me like you do, Samarth. How’s that girl from last week? The one who thought 'Prada' was a type of pasta?"

Dad choked on his coffee, trying to hide a laugh behind his napkin. Maa swatted Samarth’s arm.

"Don't listen to him, Vyaan," she said, though she was smiling. "But really, beta, any special friends from college coming over for the party tonight?"

Before I could answer, a small, green projectile hit my cheek. Then another. Samarth was flicking grapes at me with his spoon like a professional catapult operator.

"Answer the Queen, Vyaan Raheja! Or is the 'Sea-Green-Eyed Prince' too shy?"

"Stop it, Samarth!" I hissed, catching one of the grapes mid-air, a move that I hoped looked cool but mostly just felt desperate.

I looked at Dad for support. "Dad, tell your first-born that if he doesn't stop, I’m going to 'accidentally' delete his save files on the PlayStation."

Dad raised his hands in a gesture of neutrality. "On the battlefield of the breakfast table, every man is for himself. Besides, your mother is the Supreme Court here."

Maa was busy talking to Jaidev Uncle about the evening arrangements, leaving us to our own devices. I saw my opening. While Samarth was busy laughing at his own joke, I reached for the bowl of extra-thick Greek yogurt.

With the precision of a surgeon, I dipped a spoon in and, with a sudden "look over there!" distraction, I flicked a dollop of cold, white cream right onto the tip of Samarth’s nose.

The table went silent for a heartbeat.

Samarth froze, his eyes crossing as he stared at the white blob on his face.

"You... you little brat," he whispered, his voice rising in mock fury.

"Happy birthday to me," I chirped, finally taking a satisfied bite of my paratha.

"That’s it! War!" Samarth yelled, grabbing a napkin to wipe his face while simultaneously reaching for a bowl of cherry tomatoes.

"Samarth! Vyaan! Sit down this instant!" Maa’s voice cracked like a whip, though her lips were twitching.

"You are nineteen and twenty, not nine and ten! Adarsh, do something!"

Dad looked up from his iPad, took a long look at Samarth’s yogurt-covered nose and my smug face, and simply picked up a piece of toast. "I think they’re bonding, Pranjali. It’s a Raheja tradition."

The breakfast ended in a truce, mostly because Samarth ran out of ammunition and I ran out of plate space. Despite the bickering and the embarrassing nicknames, the weight I had felt earlier that morning had lifted.

As I got up to head to my room to prepare for the long day of "acting like an adult" ahead, Samarth tripped me as I passed by. I stumbled, caught myself, and kicked his shin.

" Aww birthday baby got hurt." He teased me.

"Love you too, loser," I muttered.

"Whatever, Cham Cham," he yelled back, but his grin was wider than mine.

.

The sanctuary of my room felt different the moment the door clicked shut. The laughter of the dining hall was a distant echo, replaced by the low hum of the air conditioner and the weight of my own thoughts.

I tossed my black jacket onto the leather couch, a mindless gesture, and flipped open my laptop.

Assignments. The mundane reality of a nineteen-year-old.

Once, I had dreamt of the screech of sneakers on a hardwood court and the rhythmic pulse of a basketball against my palm. I thought it was my calling, my passion. But as the years bled into one another, I realized it was just a fragment of my childhood I was clinging to. Now, my path was paved with balance sheets and corporate strategy. Graduate, MBA, and then the mahogany desk next to my father’s.

My brother, the future ACP, had already made his choice. He wanted to chase justice in a world where justice was often just another commodity for people with surnames like ours. I didn't have his fire, nor his idealism.

So, I chose the business. It was safe. It was expected.

My phone vibrated against the desk, the screen illuminating a name that made me huff a dry laugh. Avinash.

Finally, he remembered I existed.

"Bhonkiye" I greeted him, my voice laced with the kind of affectionate sarcasm only best friends understand.

Avi’s laughter crackled through the speaker. "Happy birthday, Janeman! Jug jug jiyo. Dudho nahao, puto phalo!"

I winced at the absurd, traditional blessings he was showering me with. "Done? Because I’m hanging up now."

"Aree, aree! I’m sorry, Vyaan," he said, his tone shifting to something more earnest. "Semesters have been a nightmare. But look, I’m free now. All for my baby."

I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "How is everything going between you two?"

A heavy sigh followed. "She’s furious. I missed a text, and now I’m in the doghouse. I have to pacify her over a video call later. Right now, she’s at badminton practice."

"I'm proud of her," I said softly, and I meant it. She was out there, living, competing, breathing.

"Vyaan?" Avi’s voice dropped an octave, the playful banter completely gone.

"Hmm?"

"Did she text you? I mean... did she wish you?"

The air in the room suddenly felt thin. A sad, ghost of a smile touched my face, the kind that never reaches the eyes. "The person who hasn't sent me a single word in two years... why do you think she would suddenly call me today?"

The silence on the other end was deafening. It was a silence filled with pity, and I hated it.

"Let her be, Avi. I’ll call you tonight. Bye."

I stared at the laptop screen, but the black text blurred into a haze. My mind was no longer on my assignment; it was trapped in a loop.

Deep brown eyes. That specific, fleeting smile. The urge hit me like a physical blow. It was a reckless, desperate hunger just to hear a sound. Should I call? No, she wouldn't pick up. What if I used a private number? I’d look like a stalker. But I won’t speak. I’ll just listen her voice.

My pulse was a frantic drum in my chest as I pulled my secondary phone from the drawer. I set the ID to private, my fingers trembling slightly as I dialed the number I had memorized long ago, the number I had promised myself I’d forget.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Every second felt like an eternity. On the final ring, the line clicked open. The silence on the other end was heavy, expectant.

"Yes? Who’s this?"

The world stopped. Her voice. It had matured, lost some of its high-pitched girlishness, but it still held that same soft, melodic edge that used to be my favorite sound. My breath hitched in my throat. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even breathe. I was afraid that if I made a sound, my heart would literally shatter against my ribs.

"Hello?" she prompted again, a hint of impatience creeping in.

I remained silent, a ghost on the other end of the line.

"Wrong number," she said flatly, and the line went dead.

I pulled the phone away from my ear, exhaling a breath I didn't know I was holding. "But the right person," I whispered to the empty room.

I collapsed back onto my bed, the ceiling blurring. But the relief was short-lived. Like a predatory bird, a memory swooped down and clawed at me.

> "Trusting you was the biggest mistake of my life. I hate you, Vyaan Raheja."

I opened WhatsApp, scrolling back through a graveyard of old chats until I reached that final message. The words burned as much today as they did the day she sent them.

The self-loathing set in instantly. Why did I do that? Why am I so desperate? I was Vyaan Raheja. I was supposed to be composed. I was supposed to be moving on.

With a frustrated groan, I reached out and switched off both phones, plunging my digital world into darkness. I cranked the AC down until the room was freezing, then crawled under my heavy duvet, pulling it over my head. I closed my eyes tight, praying for sleep to come and drown out the sound of her voice and the stinging memory of her hate.

.

The sun dipped below the horizon, giving way to an evening draped in luxury and expectations. Inside my room, the transformation began. I stepped into a tailored grey suit that hugged my frame perfectly, a color that made my sea-green eyes pop with a cold, sharp brilliance.

I gelled my hair into a precise, effortless style and finished with a few sprays of my signature sandalwood-and-oud perfume. I snapped my watch onto my wrist, checking my reflection. I looked every bit the Raheja heir, polished, untouchable, and handsome.

"Oye, Birthday wali Dulhan, shall we head down? Everyone is waiting," Samarth called out, leaning against the doorframe.

I offered a dry smile and a nod. Giving my reflection one last glance, I adjusted my cuffs and stepped out. As we descended the grand staircase, the mansion felt alive. My parents stood at the base, looking at me with a pride that felt heavy. Below them, my university friends had already begun to turn the elegant hall into a high-energy lounge.

Soon, the house transitioned into a blur of neon lights and heavy bass. The music throbbed through the floorboards, and as the "Center of Attraction," I was pulled into the center of the dance floor.

But as the beat dropped, a ghost surfaced.

A memory, sharp and uninvited, hit me: Me in a maroon suit, her in a sea-green bodycon dress that matched my eyes. Her hair was a wild, beautiful silk, and her face was partially hidden behind an intricate party mask. We had danced just like this on my birthday, two years ago.

The world had felt small then, just the space between our heartbeats.

A sharp nudge from Samarth’s elbow jolted me back to the present. I forced myself to move, to laugh, and to play the part. We moved to the cake-cutting ceremony. The massive, tiered cake was a masterpiece, but I handled it with clinical precision.

I fed Maa first, then Dad, then a smiling Samarth, followed by my friends. I had issued a strict warning earlier: no cake-smearing. I couldn't stand the wastage of food, or perhaps I just didn't want anything ruining the mask I had worked so hard to put on.

As the night matured, the house felt claustrophobic. My friends suggested moving the party to a high-end club in the city. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed the keys to my black Mercedes, the engine roaring to life as a symbol of my need to outrun my own thoughts.

The club was a sensory overload of strobe lights and expensive spirits. Being who I was, I was a magnet for attention. People drifted toward me like moths to a flame, looking for a connection or a favor. I navigated them with a polite, cold efficiency, denying every advance with a practiced tilt of my head.

Then, a slow, romantic song began to filter through the speakers. The shift in mood felt like a physical weight. I excused myself from the group and headed toward the bar, desperate for something to numb the sudden ache in my chest.

A girl in a striking red dress intercepted me. She was beautiful, her smile soft and inviting. "Umm... can you be my dance partner?" she asked, her voice barely audible over the music.

I looked at her, but I didn't see her. I saw deep brown eyes. I saw a girl who hated me.

"I’m sorry," I said, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears. "I don’t know how to dance. But my friend over there, he’s excellent. You should ask him."

She offered a disappointed smile and drifted away.

Alone at the bar, something snapped. The restraint I had maintained all day, the calm Vyaan who did his assignments and smiled for his mother, shattered. I signaled the bartender.

One shot. Then another. The burning liquid was the only thing that felt real. I wanted to drown the memory of that "Wrong Number" call. I wanted to erase the "I hate you" that was burned into my retinas.

Shot after shot, the world began to tilt. The edges of the room blurred into a kaleidoscope of grey and neon. My friends’ voices became a distant, underwater murmur. I remember the feeling of the cold glass in my hand, and then... nothing.

The rest was a fragmented montage,  the feeling of the night air hitting my face, the sensation of being carried, the muffled sound of Samarth’s voice, unusually quiet and devoid of jokes. I felt the familiar softness of my own bed, the weight of the duvet being pulled over me, and Samarth’s hand briefly resting on my shoulder before the darkness finally, mercifully, engulfed me.

The morning sun was a personal enemy. It filtered through the heavy curtains like golden needles, piercing through my eyelids and straight into my throbbing brain. My mouth felt like I had swallowed a handful of dry sand, and every time my heart beat, a drum echoed in my skull.

I groaned, rolling over to bury my face in a pillow, but the door to my room swung open with a bang that sounded like a gunshot.

"Rise and shine, Cham Cham! Or should I say, bewdo ke favourite Maharaj?"

I didn't even need to open my eyes. That voice, dripping with mock cheerfulness and sadistic delight, could only belong to Samarth. I heard the distinct clack of a tray being set down on my bedside table, followed by the agonizingly loud sound of curtains being ripped open.

"Stop," I croaked, my voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. "Samarth, I will kill you. Close the curtains."

"Oh? You’ll kill me?" I heard the bed dip as he sat on the edge, far too close for my liking. "With what? Your breath? Because honestly, Vyaan, you currently smell like a brewery that had a tragic accident."

I finally forced my eyes open, squinting against the glare. Samarth was sitting there, looking annoyingly fresh in a crisp black shirt, a smug grin plastered across his face. He held a glass of lemon water in one hand and his phone in the other.

"You know," he started, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper, "I’ve seen a lot of things in my twenty years. I’ve seen you cry when you lost your first basketball. I’ve seen you fail a math test. But watching the 'Sophisticated Vyaan Raheja' try to propose to a potted palm tree in the VIP lounge? That was a cinematic masterpiece."

My heart skipped a beat. "I did what?"

"Oh, you didn't just talk to it," Samarth chuckled, his shoulders shaking. "You told the plant that its 'deep brown eyes' were haunted and that you were sorry for the 'mistake.' bechare hamare bhole bhale guards darr gaye the ki kahi tujhme koi aatma toh nahi aa gayi. I told him you were just allergic to being nineteen."

I groaned, pulling the duvet over my head in a desperate attempt to disappear. The memory of the phone call from the afternoon before flashed through my mind, mixing with the shame of my drunken blackout.

"Get out," I muffled into the fabric.

"Not so fast," Samarth said, tugging the duvet back down. He held up his phone. "I have a video of you trying to sing a romantic Arijit Singh song to your own reflection in the car window on the way home. You were hitting notes that don't even exist in the musical scale, Vyaan. It was truly... soul-shattering."

I reached out to grab the phone, but he dodged me.

"Don't worry," he laughed, standing up and heading toward the door. "I won't show it to Maa. She still thinks her 'Cham Cham' is a pure, innocent soul. But Dad? Dad might enjoy the part where you tried to convince me that the Mercedes was actually a spaceship and I was your co-pilot."

He paused at the door, his expression softening for a fraction of a second, though the taunting glint stayed in his eyes.

"Drink the lemon water, idiot. And get cleaned up. You have a lunch meeting with Dad at the office in two hours. Try not to mistake the Board of Directors for a forest of palm trees."

As the door clicked shut behind him, I lay there in the silence, the hangover throbbing in time with my regret. I reached for the lemon water, my hand shaking slightly.

My phone, lying on the nightstand, buzzed. A single notification appeared on the screen. My breath hitched. It wasn't a text.

It was a missed call.

The lemon water sat untouched as I stared at my phone. My heart, already hammering from the hangover, skipped a violent beat when I saw the call log.

A missed call from a private number? No. I scrolled down, my thumb trembling so hard I almost dropped the device. My breath hitched. My stomach did a slow, sickening flip that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

There it was. Outgoing. 1:47 AM.

The duration wasn't a few seconds of silence or a "wrong number" hang-up. The numbers stared back at me, cold and accusatory: 32 minutes, 14 seconds.

My soul didn't just leave my body; it evaporated.

I collapsed back onto the mattress, the ceiling spinning. Thirty-two minutes. I had talked to her, the girl who hated my existence, the girl whose voice I had been desperate to hear for two years, for over half an hour while I was in a state where I couldn't even distinguish a person from a plant.

"No, no, no..." I whispered, clutching my head.

The fragments of the night started to bleed back in like ink on a wet paper. I remembered the burning sensation of the shots. I remembered the cold air of the balcony at the club. I remembered pulling the phone out of my pocket, my vision doubling as I navigated to the keypad.

Then, the hazy sound of her voice.

“Vyaan? Is that you? Why are you calling at this hour?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, and a horrifyingly clear memory surfaced. I hadn't been the "Sea-Green-Eyed Prince" of the Raheja empire. I had been a wreck. I remembered sobbing, actually sobbing, into the speaker.

“I’m sorry... I’m so sorry about that day... about everything... please don’t hate me...” I had blabbered. I could almost feel the phantom sensation of my hot tears.

What else had I said? Had I told her I still looked for her in every crowd? Had I told her that nineteen felt like a hundred because she wasn't there?

Worse yet, she had stayed on the line. For thirty-two minutes, she had listened to me fall apart. The girl who told me trusting me was her biggest mistake had sat through a half-hour of my drunken, pathetic honesty.

A notification pinged. A text message from an unsaved number, the same one from the call.

" I hope you're awake. Don't ever drink that much again, Vyaan. You sound like a ghost when you're drunk. And for the record... I still haven't forgiven you. Go take a shower."

I stared at the screen until the words burned into my brain. She had listened. She had responded. And she still hated me.

The weight of the realization was crushing. I had bared my entire, bruised soul to the one person I was supposed to be dead to, and I didn't even have the dignity of remembering exactly how I'd shamed myself.

A loud knock on the door startled me. "Vyaan! Five minutes or I’m dragging you to the car by your hair! Naukar bana ke rakh diya hai mujhe tum baap bete ne!" Samarth shouted from the hallway.

I looked at the text one last time before shakingly deleting the call log. I had to face the world. I had to face my father. But how was I supposed to build an empire when I was still a prisoner of a thirty-two-minute conversation I couldn't even remember?

🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋

So this was the teaser..I hope you liked it.

Take care lovelies 🩶.