Chapter 1
Kashvi's POV
The sharp ring of my alarm sliced through the quiet of the room at exactly 6:15 a.m., pulling me out of the deepest sleep I’d had in weeks. My hand fumbled toward the phone, slapping blindly until the sound finally stopped. For a moment, I just lay there, cocooned under the covers, trying to hang onto the dream I’d just left behind — a warm, vivid dream where my father was still alive.
He was standing in our old backyard in Bhopal, wearing the faded kurta he always wore on Sundays, holding out a mug of chai, smiling like he had all the time in the world. For a few seconds, I could still smell the lemongrass in the tea, hear the sound of sparrows on the boundary wall, and feel the sunlight flickering through bougainvillaea vines. Then the real world settled in.
The quiet wasn’t the comforting silence of my childhood home; it was the muffled stillness of a shared seventh-floor flat in Delhi — the faint hum of the fridge, a car horn somewhere down the street, and the familiar weight of the city pressing in through the windows. I sat up slowly, wrapping the blanket tighter around myself.
Today was the day. The first day of my first real job. In public relations. At a firm that didn’t have “training” in the subject line or “intern” in brackets beside my name. My eyes flicked to the calendar I’d stuck on my wall — June 12.
The square was covered in pink highlighter and hearts. “First day. Be kind to yourself.”
I’d written it a month ago, in a moment of optimism. My phone screen blinked with no new messages. No missed calls. Still, my thumb hovered over the contact saved as Papa, the one I hadn’t had the heart to delete. The ache rose up again — sharp and familiar.
I pressed the screen off before I let myself spiral. With a deep breath, I kicked off the blanket, stretched, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The tiles were cool under my feet.
The scent of fresh coffee hung in the air like a promise. Sakshi was already there, sitting on the counter in her cactus-printed pajama shorts and a hoodie that said “Not a Morning Person” in large, ironic letters. Her hair was piled into a gravity-defying bun, and she was eating peanut butter straight from the jar with a fork.
“Morning, sunshine,” she mumbled, eyes still glued to her phone.
“You’re up early.”
“I never went to sleep. I was debugging code until 4 a.m. and now I hate my life.”
“Ah. Classic Sakshi.”
She handed me a mug wordlessly. I didn’t ask. I just poured myself a cup of tea and leaned against the counter, cradling the warmth in my hands.
“I’m actually kind of scared,” I said after a moment.
Sakshi finally looked up, studying me.
“You’ll crush it. You always do.”
“But what if I mess up?” I whisper enough loud for her to hear.
“Then you fix it. Then you keep going. You’ve survived worse.”
She looked directly in my eye and said it with so much conviction that I believed it. She wasn’t wrong. I smiled, grateful for her bluntness, and carried my tea back to my room. Getting dressed was its own small ritual. I took my time with it — choosing a soft ivory blouse with delicate pleats along the collar, navy trousers that actually fit well for once, and my gold bracelet that my mother got for me after I got this job. I straigthen my wavy hair and added a swipe of mascara, blush and my favourite lipstick.
Professional, but still me. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for a few seconds. I didn’t feel powerful. I felt like a girl playing dress-up. But I stood straighter anyway. Before leaving, I called my mother and told heer that I am leaving for the office and after I hung up, I reached for the small framed photo of Papa that sat on my nightstand.
“Wish me luck,” I whispered.
My phone buzzed with a reminder: “Eat. You’re not invincible.”
Right. Breakfast. I quickly made some Poha for me and my friends because I was sure as hell if I don’t cook they will either make maggie or remain hungry.
Outside the window, Delhi was already awake — autos honking, delivery scooters zooming past, a neighbor yelling at his dog from the balcony below, everything was chaaotic.
By 8:10 a.m., I was out the door. The Metro was its usual chaos — jammed compartments, elbow wars, someone’s backpack nearly knocking my phone out of my hand.
I clung to the metal pole and tried to breathe steadily, Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” blasting in my ears like a personal anthem. The firm’s building was one of those glass-and-steel high-rises that made you feel small just by standing in the lobby.
I signed in at the reception, collected a visitor badge, because HR didn’t gave me my permanent ID yet so. I got in the lift with three people in suits and one lady muttering about the market crash. On the 11th floor, the doors opened to a flurry of noise. Phones rang. Someone shouted across the hall about a last-minute press release.
The whole floor buzzed like a machine mid-function — loud, polished, efficient. A woman in a crisp green kurta and the most intimidating eyeliner I’d ever seen greeted me with a nod.
“Kashvi Gupta? You’re with me. I’m Nisha. We’re already behind schedule.” I barely had time to respond before she swept me through the floor, pointing out cubicles and departments at lightning speed.
“Digital’s on the left, strategy sits here, legal liaison in that corner. Don’t get between Arun and his lunch or he’ll quit.”
Noted. She dropped a thick folder into my hands.
“Your first client. Naaz, a jewellery brand.” I caught it, surprised by the weight—and the weight of what it meant.
“They’re based in Noida,” she continued, flipping the first page open with practiced ease.
“A young but rapidly growing label that’s turning heads in the handcrafted jewellery space. Their aesthetic is deeply rooted in traditional Indian design—not Mughal, not minimal—but unapologetically desi. We’re talking kundan, temple work, meenakari, jaali patterns… except they’re adapting it for modern wear.” I nodded, scanning the photographs—richly detailed jhumkas, chokers that looked like heirlooms, but styled with crisp kurtas and linen saris.
“They launched just over two years ago. The founder, Aditi Suri, left a high paying fintech job to start this from her home studio. She’s fierce, focused, and she knows her brand. You’ll need to match her energy.” I looked up.
“What’s the brief?” “Comprehensive PR strategy for their upcoming collection: Riwaayat. It drops in three weeks. You’ll craft their press kit, reach out to lifestyle editors, coordinate influencer gifting, and prep for their Delhi launch showcase.” My eyebrows rose.
“All of it?”
“All of it,” she said simply.
“You’ll coordinate with their internal marketing team, and the founder will want weekly check-ins. She’s particular—so be sharp.” I flipped to a page marked
“Upcoming Campaign Vision.” The tagline caught my eye: Naaz: Rooted in Heritage, Worn in the Now. My chest stirred.
“Start ideating on campaign angles—especially anything tied to Raksha Bandhan or Independence Day. The timing is perfect. They’re looking for a story, not just product visibility.” I nodded slowly, adrenaline kicking in. She gave me one final look before turning back to her screen.
“Welcome to PR, Deeksha. Let’s see what you’ve got.” The folder was still open on my desk, its glossy pages splayed out like a dare.
I had read through the Naaz brief twice, highlighted everything from founder quotes to collection inspirations. My laptop screen was filled with tabs—Pinterest boards of jewellery styling, past campaign case studies, a half-written list of pitch angles that all felt... bland. Across the floor, someone laughed over speakerphone.
Phones rang, heels clicked on tiles, and the espresso machine hissed in the pantry behind me. And I just sat there. I should’ve been brimming with ideas.
It was my first solo campaign. A chance to prove I could own something. But the pressure sat heavy in my chest. Every angle I thought of felt too done, too vague, or too formal. Modern tradition. Redefining heritage. The jewellery that tells a story. Meh. Every tagline sounded like it had been recycled from a shaadi.com ad.
I tapped my pen against the folder and muttered under my breath, “I’m going to crash and burn.” A voice startled me.
“Sorry?” I looked up. My manager had passed by.
“Nothing!” I gave a quick, fake smile. She raised an eyebrow and kept walking. I sighed and sank back in my seat.
No amount of staring was going to fix this.
By the time I got home, the sky had turned a soft pink and the flat smelled like burnt toast and chai. Navya was watering our dying balcony plants, Bhavya was playing some kind of game on his laptop, and Shrey was camped on our beanbag, arguing with Kiran about whether Gen-Z trends had ruined sherwanis.
I dumped my bag on the chair and headed straight for the fridge.
“No one eat the dessert box labelled ‘DO NOT TOUCH’. It’s bribery for a client.”
“Oh?” Sakshi called from the living room.
“Who’s your first victim?”
“Naaz,” I said, grabbing a bottle of cold water.
“Jewellery brand. Traditional designs, new-age twist. Big campaign.”
“Ooh, they’re trending like crazy,” Bhavya chimed in.
“That viral reel of the bride dancing in jhumkas? That was Naaz.”
“Exactly,” I groaned.
“And I have to come up with a fresh story, a press plan, influencer ideas, and everything else by next week. I’m completely blank.”
“Okay but first—eat,” Shrey tossed me a biscuit.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I stared at the folder again. Naaz—their collection rooted in tradition, but aiming for a fresh, everyday vibe. I wanted to get it right.
But the words felt flat, the ideas stale.
Who could help me crack this?
Anshul.
He wasn’t just any friend. He ran his own gold jewellery brand, crafting bold, modern pieces with traditional craftsmanship. He lived and breathed this world— design, launches, influencer tie-ups.
While I was new to PR, he knew the jewellery market inside out. If anyone could help me find a fresh angle, it was him.
I hit dial.
“Hey,” Anshul answered, voice warm.
“Hey,” I said, settling onto my bed.
“I need your brain. Naaz is traditional Indian jewellery but for modern wear. I’m stuck on ideas.”
He chuckled. “Of course you are. You called the right guy” I smiled.
“That’s why I’m calling. You get it. I don’t want the usual clichés.” “Alright, let’s get to work.
