1. Deja vù
Moscow, Russia — Smirnova Towers, Level 38
Inside the glass walls of Ahuja Atelier’s Russian headquarters
Shivanya Ahuja didn’t believe in wasting time — especially not on unannounced appointments.
The snow outside Moscow blurred the skyline into white, but inside her office, everything was sharp. Clean. Focused.
Bolted inside glass and steel, the room smelled faintly of paper, espresso, and a hint of oud from her scarf. Her fingers swiped across her tablet, scanning mood boards and fabric contracts stacked back-to-back. Every second counted — in business, in reputation, and in the empire she had built from the ground up.
That’s when the knock came.
A soft, polite knock on the frosted glass door.
Her assistant peeked in — nervous, like she already knew this wasn’t just any meeting.
“Ma’am… there’s someone here for you. He said it’s pre-scheduled.”
Shivanya didn’t look up. “Name?”
“Dr. Ryaan Deshmukh.”
That name.
It sliced through her focus like cold wind through a crack in the window.
She froze. Just for a breath. Then calmly set the tablet down, tucking a stray hair back into her loose bun.
“Send him in.”
She didn’t need to Google him. That name wasn’t new.
He wasn’t just some acclaimed surgeon flown in from India. His name moved differently — not in articles, but in whispers. In closed-door deals. In places where life and death were flipped like currency. A ghost in black scrubs.
Some said he saved lives others had given up on. Others… weren’t sure he saved at all.
And now he was in her building.
The door opened, and in walked silence.
He didn’t storm in. Didn’t smile. Just walked like he belonged — like the room had been waiting for him without knowing it. No white coat. Just a black shirt, sleeves rolled, dark pants. Crisp. Sharp. Unreadable.
Shivanya stood up, instinctively.
He looked around once, as if scanning more than just furniture. His gaze met hers. Calm. Still. Dangerous in that quiet way that never needed to announce itself.
“Ms. Shivanya Ahuja,” he said, voice steady. Controlled.
She reached out and shook his hand. Firm grip. Cold fingers. Nothing hesitant.
“You look… familiar,” she murmured, eyeing him closely. “Have we met before?”
He tilted his head slightly, lips curving just enough to register. “Maybe.”
Maybe.
The word shouldn’t have mattered. But it lingered.
They sat across from each other at the marble table near the corner window. Snowflakes fell softly behind him, but inside, the tension sat heavier than winter.
He didn’t ask small questions. Didn’t compliment the office. Just listened.
She talked — about branding, publishing models, upcoming book campaigns. And he... absorbed. Like someone who wasn’t just listening, but reading her between lines.
And still, she couldn’t figure out why he was there.
He hadn’t pitched anything. Hadn’t flirted. Hadn’t hinted at hidden motives.
He simply existed in the space like he had every right to.
Lunch was served in the adjoining lounge — quiet, minimal, Thai curry in ceramic bowls. No unnecessary pleasantries.
He barely ate. She noticed.
But not once did it feel like a date. Or a pitch. Or anything typical.
He asked one question, near the end.
“Do you design only for brands, or people too?”
“Depends on the person,” she answered.
He nodded like that told him something about her. Something important.
When it was time to leave, Shivanya slipped him a business card. Matte black, with her initials pressed into it like a signature she never needed to explain.
“If ever you need something in this field — publishing, image, identity — reach out. No drama, no PR.”
He took it with a simple nod. “Noted.”
No smile. No thank you. Just presence. And then absence.
He left like he arrived. Quiet. Sure.
And yet, the room didn’t feel the same after he was gone.
She stood there for a few moments longer than necessary.
Something in her gut twisted. Not fear. Not excitement. Just… familiarity. Like he had walked through her past before. Like his voice had once been part of a memory she didn’t know she’d buried.
Why did his voice feel like something I’ve already lived through?
---
That night, the city outside was still frozen, but Shivanya’s studio buzzed with warmth — coffee half-drunk, swatches spread like scattered thoughts, sketches torn and redrawn.
Her phone lit up.
Ma.
She picked it up with a tired smile. “Hey, Ma. What’s going on?”
Her mother’s voice came through the speaker like the comfort of old times. “All good, beta. But listen—Araya’s getting married next month!”
Shivanya froze. “Araya? Wait—our Araya?”
“Yes! And she’s adamant about one thing — you designing her wedding dresses. Bridal and all. She said, ‘If it’s not a Shivanya Ahuja Original, I’m not getting married.’ Her exact words.”
Shivanya laughed. A rare, real laugh — not the kind she gave at press events.
“That drama queen hasn’t changed one bit.”
“And she’s right. It has to be you,” her mom insisted, softer now. “So… will you come home?”
Home.
She stared at her sketchpad. Blank page. So many lines she didn’t want to draw.
Home wasn’t warmth. Not really.
It was cold rooms. Her father’s silence. Expectations stacked like dishes nobody wanted to wash. A place where ambition was something she had to apologize for.
But Araya? Araya had always felt like home inside that home.
“I’ll come,” Shivanya said, quieter than she expected.
There was relief on the other end. “You’re doing the right thing, beta. I’m proud of you.”
When the call ended, Shivanya stared at the empty sketchpad again.
Designing dresses was easy.
Running a business empire? Easier.
But going back to the place you once escaped from?
That takes something more than talent.
That takes strength you don’t always know you have.
And for the first time in years, Shivanya wasn’t sure if she had enough left in her to face what still lived behind those doors.
___________________________
Author’s note:
So… I finally started this story.
Honestly, there are so many stories — some half-written, some stuck in my head, some lying quietly in old diaries waiting to be finished. And for the longest time, this one? It was just another idea I kept pushing aside. But something about it stayed. Constant. Quiet. Like a voice I couldn’t ignore anymore.
I don’t know if it’ll be perfect. Maybe it won’t even go how I planned. But I just had to write it.
Do you like it? I really hope you do.
Because this time, I want to finish what I started.
So yeah… this is chapter one. It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. But it’s real.
And sometimes, real is more powerful than anything else.
If you're still reading — thank you. Like really, thank you.
More’s coming. Many layers. Many emotions.
Let’s see where this goes. Together.
And wait wait wait...
If you related even a tiny bit-hi, you're not alone. Drop a comment, leave a like, or just silently stalk the next chapter (I see you)🥸.
Thanks for reading. See you soon.
- Your lowkey chaotic author❤️
