The moment I shut my bedroom door, my shoulders slumped, and the strength I had been clinging to all night crumbled.
I exhaled sharply, pressing my forehead against the cold wood of the door, my fingers trembling by my sides.
One week.
One damn week, and I would no longer be Avni RajputâI would be Avni Singhania
I let out a bitter chuckle, shaking my head as I pushed away from the door. My room was dark, the only source of light coming from the faint glow of the city beyond my balcony.
The laughter and music from the wedding still echoed in my ears, but inside my room, it was silent.
Too silent.
I walked toward my dresser, my fingers ghosting over the edge of the wooden surface before stopping at the small drawer in the corner.
I hesitated.
I hadn't opened it in months.
But tonight... tonight, the weight in my chest was too heavy to ignore. With a slow breath, I pulled it open.
Inside, neatly stacked, were photographs. Some old, some slightly faded. I reached for the one on top, my fingers brushing over the glossy surface as I picked it up.
It was a picture of me, barely seven years old, sitting on my mother's lap. I swallowed hard, my throat tightening.
She had the warmest smile, the kind that made everything feel okay. Her arms wrapped around me protectively, her bindi sitting perfectly on her forehead, her eyes crinkling with love as she looked at me.
I remembered that day.
It was my birthday. She had baked a cake herself, even though we had chefs to do it. She had insisted.
I could still hear her laugh, the soft melody of her voice as she scolded me for licking the frosting before she had finished decorating it.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
She had been my everything. My anchor. My safe place.
And then, one day, she was gone. Just like that.
I sucked in a shaky breath, setting the photo down carefully before reaching for another.
This one was of her and my father. A rare moment of them together, smiling. He had been different back thenâsofter, warmer. Before business consumed him. Before power and deals took priority over family.
Before he decided that my life was just another chess piece to be moved at his convenience. A tear slipped down my cheek, but I wiped it away quickly.
I wouldn't cry. Not for the past, not for my stolen future. I stared at the photographs, my chest aching with a longing I hadn't allowed myself to feel in years.
Would she have let this happen if she were still here? Would she have fought for me?
Would she have reminded my father that I was his daughter, not some bargaining chip for his business empire? I clenched my fists.
She would have. She would have never let this happen. But she wasn't here. And I was on my own.
I took one last look at the pictures before carefully placing them back in the drawer, my fingers lingering over the edges before I slid it shut. Then, I turned to the mirror, staring at my reflection.
I saw the exhaustion in my eyes, the tightness in my jaw, the storm brewing behind my carefully composed face.
I wasn't the little girl in those pictures anymore. I was Avni Rajput.
With that thought, I turned off the lights and climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling as the reality of what was to come settled over me.
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