The wind was sharp against my face.
My toes curled over the edge of the rooftop, the city lights below blurring into a sea of gold and red. One step forward, and it would all be over.
"Naina! Please stop!"
The voice ripped through the night.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned my head.
He was there—eyes wide, chest heaving—calling my name like it was the only word he'd ever learned.
And just like that, the memories came rushing back.
Three Years Ago
Back then, my world was perfect. Or at least, I thought it was.
I was Naina Sharma, twenty years old, daughter of Kishor Sharma—the man who built the number one company in Bangalore, Sharma Group. My mother, Sunita Sharma, was the warmth in our home. My twin sister, Maya, was my mirror in everything but personality. And Arun, my little brother, was the one I swore I'd always protect.
We were the Sharmas. Unshakable. Untouchable.
Or so I believed.
My father wanted me to study business management in the UK. I wanted to be a painter. But dreams were luxuries. I couldn't afford it—not when he looked at me with so much pride and expectation.
During holidays, I'd fly home to Bangalore. We'd have long dinners, late-night talks, and endless laughter. I thought those moments would last forever.
I was wrong.
It started with a phone call.
"Sharma Group has gone bankrupt."
I dropped everything and flew home. My father told me it was fraud, but we didn't tell Maya or Arun. No need to break their hearts too. We found proof linked to a boy and girl who were friends of Maya's—but I didn't know them. Not yet.
Then came the worst day of my life.
I was at home, papers spread across my desk, building our case for court. My parents and Arun had gone to the temple. Maya had gone to meet a friend who would testify for us.
The phone rang.
"Your parents and brother... there's been an accident."
My world stopped.
By the time I reached the hospital, it was too late. All that was left of them was my father's watch and my mother's necklace. The fire had taken everything else.
I didn't even have time to grieve. That night, I worked until 2 a.m., clinging to the only thing I could still save—our name.
Then I remembered Maya. She still hadn't come home.
Her room was empty.
On her desk, there was a letter.
She hadn't gone to meet our witness. She'd gone to meet a boy from Instagram—a stranger.
I called her again and again. No answer.
In a single day, my entire family was gone.
I left the house after that. The walls were suffocating me. I stayed with my uncle and aunt, trying to piece together a life that no longer made sense.
Two years later, fate found a new way to break me.
I was running.
A white bridal gown clung to me as my feet pounded against the pavement. Men were chasing me—shouting, closing in.
A black car screeched to a halt in front of me. The door opened, and he stepped out.
Manik Oberoi.
I froze.
He strode toward me, eyes dark, mouth set in a cruel smile. His hand wrapped around mine like a steel trap.
"You are my bride," he said. "I bought you for ten lakh rupees."
The words punched the air from my lungs.
I tried to pull away, tears burning my eyes.
He didn't let go.
Minutes later, I was inside Oberoi Villa.
And I knew... my nightmare had only just begun.