Chapter 1
DISCLAIMER
CHAPTER ONE
She ran on the busy road on Monday morning. She was still in her pajamas, her bare feet stung by the rough asphalt, yet she cared nothing for it. Horns blared, people shouted, but to her, they were distant echoes. Her lungs burned, her hair clung damp to her face, but she kept running.
Her eyes widened with every passing face, every car that rushed by, every building towering over her. It all felt familiar. Not in the way one remembers a childhood street, but in the unsettling way of déjà vu—like she had walked this exact path before, lived this moment before… only she couldn’t remember when.
Her mind was fogging, a thousand pieces of a shattered memory refusing to align. The only clear command echoing inside her head was: Run. Run for what? For whom? She did not know.
Her knees trembled as she stumbled near the crossing, her heart pounding like it would rip out of her chest. She caught her reflection in a glass window—disheveled, pale, frightened—and for a moment, she didn’t recognize the girl staring back. Then her blood froze.
Behind her reflection, there was someone else.
A man. Standing perfectly still while the crowd surged around him like a river divided by stone. His sharp gaze was locked on her, piercing, unyielding, almost… hungry. His face was half-hidden by shadow, but his presence was undeniable. She could feel it like a storm pressing down on her lungs.
She gasped and spun around— But he was gone.
The ground beneath her feet seemed to sway, as though reality itself had grown unstable. Her mind screamed at her to keep moving, to flee, but something deeper, something she didn’t understand, whispered the opposite: Find him.
Her breath caught. Somewhere in the back of her skull, a memory flickered. A voice. Low, tender, dangerous.
“When the time comes, you will run. And when you run, I will find you.”
Her hands trembled. That voice— She knew it.
The street blurred around her. The honking, the chatter, the footsteps—all melted into a hollow silence. And then, for the briefest second, the world shifted. She wasn’t standing on asphalt anymore—she was standing on cobblestones slick with rain, under a sky painted with strange constellations. Her chest tightened as the phantom image wrapped around her senses. A different city. A different time. A life she had lived before… or a life stolen from her?
Someone brushed past her shoulder and snapped her back to the present. She stumbled, her heart hammering as the vision dissolved. But she knew one thing now.
She wasn’t just running aimlessly. She was running toward a truth buried deep in her soul. And whoever that man was—whoever he had been to her— He was the reason her world was unraveling.
She collapsed to the ground, her legs no longer obeying her. For a moment, she just sat there in the middle of the road, her chest heaving, eyes glazed as though she had run not for minutes but for centuries.
Then it came— A sharp blast of a car horn, cutting through her daze.
She flinched, lifting her head. A sleek black luxury car stood inches away, its polished surface gleaming like liquid night. The sound was impatient, demanding.
The driver’s door opened, and a woman stepped out.
She was tall, poised, draped in clothes that spoke not just of wealth but of power. A fitted blazer the color of midnight, heels clicking like gunfire against the asphalt, every inch of her radiating authority. Her diamond earrings caught the weak sunlight as if mocking the world around her. People on the sidewalks slowed, whispering her name—though the girl sitting on the road couldn’t process what they said.
The woman removed her sunglasses with a slow precision, revealing eyes cold enough to freeze fire.
“Get up,” she said, not in anger but in command. Her voice carried a weight that silenced the city for a heartbeat. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“At least not in front of my car,” she spoke, her voice warm. She smiled at the people who stopped to watch the drama and made her sit in her car. She was confused—she remembered it, she felt familiar with this woman who was tightening her seat belt like she knew her.As she started the car with a smile, that smile faltered too. “So tf you’re doing there?” she yelled, her voice sharp now. “Tumhe marna hai kya bhen? Tumhe kya meri hi gaadi mili thi marne ke liye?”
Her tone was fiery, yet her hands trembled faintly on the wheel. She let out a half-laugh, half-sigh before adding, “Tum meri shikayat toh nahi karogi na? Main pehle hi jail jaane wali hu T_T.”
The girl stayed quiet, her gaze fixed on the woman beside her. She couldn’t answer, couldn’t even think clearly. All she knew was this strange pull—this sense of familiarity, as if she had known this woman in another time, another life. Yet her mind remained a blank page.
“Krati Pandya, just speak the hell!” she heard the woman’s sharp voice cut through the silence.
Her lips parted, but no words came. Krati Pandya. The name echoed inside her head like a bell in an empty cathedral. Was it… her name?
She blinked rapidly, her throat dry. “Krati… Pandya?” she whispered to herself, tasting the syllables like they belonged to someone else.
The woman glanced at her, eyes narrowing. “Haan, tumhara hi naam hai. Bhool gayi kya?” she scoffed, her tone hiding something softer beneath the edge of irritation.
Krati clutched the seatbelt over her chest, her heart racing faster than the car. She didn’t remember. Not the streets, not the running, not the man watching her reflection… nothing. But hearing that name sent a shiver down her spine, as though pieces of a puzzle were trying to force themselves back into place.
Two days later, Krati finally learned the truth.
The woman in front of her—the one who had yelled, smiled, and dragged her into this strange mess—was none other than Taria Sharma. A name whispered like trouble itself. The kind of woman people described with a shake of the head and a “bas, isse door hi rehna.”
And Krati could see why.
The last forty-eight hours had been nothing short of chaos. Taria was either glued to her phone or pacing around like a restless spirit. Half her calls were with strangers, the other half with Ria Kaushik, her younger cousin—the glamorous business tycoon of cosmetics, “the youngest woman to run a successful empire.”
And yet here was Taria.Not an empire-builder, but a clumsy chicken.For two days straight, Taria begged Krati not to report her to the police.
“Dekho Krati ji, meri kasam, tum bas ek kaam kar do—police ko mat bolna!” she would say at random intervals, in between doing her “things.”
And by “things,” Krati had learned that meant absolute chaos.
Thing 1 — Leg Massage
Krati was quietly sitting on the sofa, sipping her chai, when suddenly Taria dropped on the floor in front of her like some overdramatic filmi naukrani.
“Krati ji please!” Taria caught hold of her ankle. “Police ko mat bolna… main waise hi already list mein hoon. Ek aur complaint gayi toh seedha jail!”
Before Krati could react, Taria had started massaging her legs with full devotion.
“Aah, yeh toh bohot stress liye hue lag rahe hain,” she muttered like a fake physiotherapist. “Main hoon na, Krati ji. Main free mein therapy karti hoon. Bas ek promise karo… thana-police mat bulaana.”
Krati nearly spit out her tea. “What are you doing?!”
Taria looked up with puppy eyes. “Tumhare pair daba rahi hoon. Tumhari insaaniyat ko jagane ki koshish kar rahi hoon. Tumhe lagta hai police pair dabayegi? Nahi na? Toh mujhe hi karna padega!”
She pressed harder, making weird noises: “Aaaah… dekha? Service toh 5-star level ki hai. Complaint withdraw karo bas.”
Krati pulled her leg back, completely bewildered. “Tum pagal ho kya?”
Taria clutched her heart dramatically. “Pagal toh duniya bolegi jab tum meri shikayat kar dogi. Tab main seedha ‘Krati ne mera dil toda’ bolke jail jaungi.”
Thing 2 : Complimenting
In the evening, she leaned against the doorway, trying to look casual but still fidgeting.
“Waise… tum bohot khoobsurat ho,” she blurted.
Krati blinked. “ ji?”
“Sachhi!” Taria nodded vigorously. “Agar main ladka hoti na, toh abhi ke abhi tumhe propose kar deti. But don’t tell the police this, warna woh mujhe flirting ka case bhi daal denge.”
Krati looked away, Taria tilted her head and grinned. “Bas ek problem hai.”
“Kya?” Krati asked flatly.
“Tum bohot khoobsurat ho… main bhi hoon. Dono ek saath ghoomenge toh police confuse ho jaayegi ki heroine kaun hai aur criminal kaun.”Krati just gave her a look. “Tum normal ho bhi?”
Taria slapped her chest, pretending to faint. “Normal insaan toh jail nahi jaata, Krati ji. Main toh already ek walking FIR hoon.”
Thing 3 — Kitchen Kaand
Early morning, Krati walked into the kitchen only to find Taria battling with the gas stove like it was her sworn enemy. Hair tied in a messy bun, sleeves rolled up, she was flipping rotis like frisbees.
“Tum… cooking kar rahi ho?” Krati asked, stunned.
“Cooking nahi, seva,” Taria declared proudly, half-burning a roti in the process. “Meri Krati ji ko khilayenge toh police ki yaad hi nahi aayegi. Na complaint, na thana!”
The roti caught a little fire. Krati panicked. “Yeh—yeh jal raha hai!”
Taria waved it around like a flag. “Arre tension mat lo! Yeh toh flame grilled special edition hai. McDonald’s bhi jal ke banata hai, bas unke paas AC hota hai.”
She tossed the roti on a plate, completely charred on one side and raw on the other. “Dekho… two-in-one. Half fry, half alive. Pure innovation.”
Krati raised an eyebrow. “Yeh khane ka hai ya museum mein rakhegi?”
“Bas!” Taria slapped her own forehead. “Tumne police ko report kiya toh theek hai… lekin mere khane ko insult mat karna, warna main apni hi complaint likhwa ke jail chali jaungi.”
Then she pushed the plate toward Krati with puppy eyes. “Please ek bite le lo. Waise bhi, agar tum marr gayi toh mujhe attempt-to-murder ke case mein pakad lenge. At least witness toh tum hi ho!”
Krati just stared at her… and for the first time in two days, burst out laughing.From the corner of her eye, I kept watching her. Taria Sharma.
I don’t remember who I am. I don’t remember what my life was before this. But this woman… she definitely knows me. The way she hovers around me, begging me not to call the police, cooking for me, massaging my legs like some overgrown clumsy servant—there’s no doubt. She knows something about me.
And there’s no doubt about something else, either. She’s in trouble.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Taria,” I asked slowly, carefully, “tumhe kyun lagta hai ki tum jail jaogi?”
She looked up at me and shrugged. Shrugged. Like I had just asked why she didn’t like pineapple on pizza.
“Arre, mere penthouse mein aag lag gayi thi,” she said casually, tightening her ponytail. “Kafi log mar gaye. Ab main zinda hu toh logo se dekha nahi jaa raha.”
I froze. “...WHAT?”
She tasted the dal, frowned, and added more namak. “Arre kuch nahi… bas log jala diye penthouse mein.”
Bas. Log jala diye.
Like she was talking about overcooked popcorn.
I sat frozen, chai cup halfway to my lips. “You… you burned people alive?”
She turned to me, tilting her head with mock innocence. “Aag lagi thi, Krati ji. Main ab chulha bhi jalaun toh logo ko lagta hai main shaadi ka hall uda dungi. Ab main kya karu?”
I just gaped at her, pulse racing, mouth dry. Meanwhile, she calmly blew on the dal, muttered, “Thoda mirch aur daalna chahiye tha,” and went back to cooking like we were discussing recipes instead of mass murder.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I sat there wondering is she serious?
