Sunday mornings in the Sharma house always began the same way — the smell of over-brewed chai, the clatter of plates, and the sound of judgment disguised as conversation.
I sat at the dining table, pretending to scroll through my phone while my mother's voice droned on in the background.
"Prerna, you're twenty-three. You can't keep running around with these hopeless cases. Look at your cousin, Neha — married, settled, already expecting. You could learn something from her."
I took a slow sip of my tea, my jaw tight. "I'm not interested in learning about her husband, Ma."
My father didn't even look up from his newspaper. "No, but you could learn how to make something of yourself. All these years of law, and what do you have? Late nights, a tired face, and a reputation for arguing too much."
The words landed like they always did — soft enough to sound casual, sharp enough to cut deep.
Across the table, Nain sat silently, pushing her toast around her plate. Her eyes flickered toward me — that same quiet admiration she'd had since she was little.
The kind that felt like both a gift and a curse.
I forced a small smile at her, but my voice came out tight. "Don't look at me like that, Nain."
She blinked, confused. "Like what?"
"Like I'm something to look up to." I set the cup down with a little too much force. "I'm not. Find someone else."
The room went still. My mother frowned, my father sighed — that tired, disappointed sound that filled every corner of this house.
Nain's lower lip trembled, and guilt prickled somewhere deep in my chest, but I didn't take it back.
I couldn't.
Because the truth was — I was tired. Tired of being the one they blamed when things went wrong. Tired of being the 'responsible' one who never got to want anything.
Tired of pretending their approval didn't matter when it always, always did.
I stood up, ignoring the half-eaten food and the heavy silence that followed.
"I have work," I muttered, grabbing my keys.
"It's Sunday," my mother snapped.
"I know.
I didn't wait for her reply. The door shut behind me, muffling the noise of the only place that ever made me feel small.
As I walked down the steps, the morning sun hit my face — warm and blinding — but all I could feel was the chill inside.
Maybe Daivik Raichand had been right about one thing.
Maybe morality and righteousness were just cages we built for ourselves.
And maybe... mine had been built by my own family.
The air smelled of parathas and incense, but it couldn't mask the bitterness sitting at the dining table.
"Prerna," my mother started, not even looking up from serving breakfast, "since you're going out, bring the groceries on your way back, okay? We're out of rice and milk."
Before I could nod, my father folded his newspaper and added, "And pay the electricity bill. It's due today."
"Also..." Nain piped up softly from beside me, her voice uncertain. "Can you come home early? I have my economics paper tomorrow. You promised you'd help me revise."
Three requests. Three expectations. All thrown at me before I'd even finished my tea.
I pressed my thumb against the rim of the cup, feeling the ceramic bite into my skin. "Right," I said, flatly. "Groceries. Bills. Tutoring. Anything else?"
My father gave me a sharp look. "Don't start that tone, Prerna. We all have responsibilities."
I laughed under my breath — a short, bitter sound. "Of course we do. Mine just seem to multiply every morning."
My mother frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," I said quietly, setting my cup down, "that maybe, just once, I'd like to wake up without feeling like the entire house will collapse if I breathe wrong."
The silence that followed was thick — offended, confused, judgmental. I stood, ignoring the way my father's disapproval followed me like a shadow.
I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and turned toward the door.
As I reached for my keys, Nain's voice stopped me.
"Didi?"
I paused, eyes closing for a brief moment.
"Yes?"
She hesitated. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know," I cut her off gently. "You never do."
Her face fell, and guilt twisted in my chest, but I couldn't fix it right now. Not today.
The moment I stepped outside, the Sharma house faded behind me — along with the endless cycle of expectations I'd never asked for.
The air was sharp, the sun too bright, but for the first time all morning, I could finally breathe.
Still, the words I'd thrown at Nain echoed in my head.
Find someone else to look up to.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter when I got into the car. Because no matter how hard I tried to drive away from it — from them — that line never stopped following me.
By the time I reached the car, my hands were trembling. Not from rage, but from the weight of everything everyone needed me to be.
A lawyer. A provider. A sister. A daughter.
Everyone's something.
No one's peace.
I started the engine, letting the low hum fill the silence that had built inside me.
Maybe that was why I didn't realize where I was driving — or why the roads I took led me nowhere near the grocery store, the mechanic, or the electricity office.
The cell was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every drip of water from the ceiling feel louder than thunder.
One of the cellmates finally spoke, voice low, hesitant.
"Raichand... why did you... I mean... why did you kill him? Your brother?"
I leaned back on my cot, hands behind my head, studying the ceiling like the question was beneath me.
After a moment, I shrugged casually. "Bored," I said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
The man blinked. "Bored? You... killed him because you were bored?"
I laughed softly, amused. " I corrected, eyes glinting. "Me. I was getting bored at home. Too much luxury, too much predictability... not enough chaos."
Another cellmate shuffled uncomfortably. "So... you decided to come here... for... excitement?"
I tilted my head, smirk creeping onto my lips. "Exactly. Prison has its charm. Keeps life interesting. Tests patience. Gives people perspective."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, like it could choke them.
One muttered, voice trembling, "You're insane."
I shrugged again, lazily, as if it was the simplest truth in the world. "Maybe. Or maybe I just don't like being bored. And if a little blood keeps things... lively, then so be it."
They exchanged nervous glances, the same thought written across every face: this man is not normal.
I stretched on the cot, letting the chains rattle softly.
And I let them wonder...
Because that's the fun part.
The cell was dim, the low hum of the prison settling around us like a second skin.
I leaned back against the wall, eyes half-closed, still replaying her sharp glare, the curl of her sarcastic smile.
"She's... arrogant," I muttered to myself, more to break the silence than anything. "I wonder if she even knows what she's walking into. I'm not... ordinary."
One of my cellmates, a wiry man with a nervous twitch, frowned. "Who? Which lawyer? You're talking about that girl... Prerna Sharma?"
I opened my eyes, smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. "Yes. Prerna Sharma. That's her name. And yes, she's walking in thinking she can handle me."
One of my cellmates, a wiry man with a crooked grin, laughed nervously. "Handle you? Ha! Are you serious? She's just a girl. She won't last a day with a man like you."
Another joined in, shaking his head. "Exactly. A girl taking on a Raichand? You're doomed."
I let the chuckles roll over me, amusement flickering in my eyes. "Is that so?" I murmured, letting my gaze linger thoughtfully.
The first cellmate snorted again. "Yeah, man. Don't get me wrong — she might look tough on paper, but in here? You'll crush her. She can't handle someone like you."
Another chuckle escaped the first cellmate, louder this time. "Survive you? That's rich. A little girl in a lawyer's coat... handling you? Ha!"
And just as the laughter faded into the tense silence of anticipation...
The metal door creaked open
I turned, eyes narrowing.
There she was.
Prerna Sharma.
Every ounce of arrogance, every hint of sarcastic fire, radiating off her like heat from a furnace.
She looked at me, unblinking, unshaken, unafraid.
The cellmates froze mid-chuckle, realizing immediately — this wasn't going to be a joke anymore.
And in that moment, I knew the game had officially begun.
"If you doubt me that much, Mr. Raichand, get someone else." She says it clean, even, the words like a blade. "I'm not interested in helping murderers who think arrogance is a personality."
Her stare snaps to him like a physical thing. The smile melts off his face.
"You can keep your commentary," Prerna tells the other prisoners, slow and cold. "If I wanted to, I could arrange to get every one of you to death sentence right now. So your opinions about whether I can handle a case are... irrelevant."
Silence crashes down. The men shift; sweat beads at the temples of the loudest mocker. He swallows, shrinking three inches right in front of me.
Daivik watches, amusement and something sharper flickering across his features. He doesn't intervene. Of course he doesn't. He's enjoying it — the way I disturb the room, make the small men uncomfortable. He's studying how I move, how I use my voice, how easily I unmake their jokes.
"You speak like someone who's used to being listened to," he says finally, quiet enough that only I hear. There's a folded smile there, as if he's been handed a toy he didn't know he wanted.
Prerna walked out of the cell, head high, voice steady. But just as the door clicked shut behind her, a single tear formed at the corner of her eye — a fragment of the exhaustion she refused to show.
No one noticed. No one, that is, except Daivik Raichand, whose dark eyes lingered on her just a moment too long.
He saw. And for the first time, the carefully constructed mask she wore began to feel... vulnerable, fragile, human.
A part of him was intrigued, the other part calculating — how to push, how to unravel, how to make her strength meet his darkness.
And though she walked away, the echo of his gaze followed her like a shadow.
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