Chapter 1
The morning sky was heavy with clouds, a silent promise of rain. The soft scent of wet soil lingered in the air — the first signs of monsoon in Udaipur.
It was Kiara’s ninth birthday
Kiara descended the staircase, her school uniform crisp and perfect, her twin braids tied neatly with soft pink ribbons that brushed against her shoulders. Each step was slow, uncertain, as her gaze fell on her mother below —
Ishita stood near the dining table, her hands busy taming Adhyaa’s messy curls into neat ponytails. “Every day, Adhyaa! The same story. Late again, and now your hair’s a bird’s nest.”
“Mummaaa…” Adhyaa’s whine was half complaint, half charm, her pout perfectly practiced. “You always pull so hard.”
“Then wake up early and I won’t have to pull,” Ishita said, tying the last ribbon with a sigh.
“But I did wake up early!” Adhyaa insisted.
Ishita arched an eyebrow. “Early? The sun was tired of waiting for you, Adhyaa.”
The little girl giggled, earning a helpless smile from her mother. “Now go,” Ishita said, brushing her hair off her shoulders, “eat your breakfast before your Rey bhai gets late because of you.”
Something twisted softly inside Kiara’s chest. That smile… she’d never seen it directed at her.
Her mother’s tone was always calmer, warmer when it came to Adhyaa — but with her, it turned sharp, distant, like every word was a scolding waiting to happen.
Kiara’s lips pressed together, her little hands tightening around the railing.
She didn’t understand why her mother never looked at her the same way — why her laughter seemed to fade when their eyes met.
For a moment, she wished she could be Adhyaa… just so her mother would smile at her like that.
She descended the stairs slowly, her eyes fixed on the scene, her voice caught somewhere between admiration and ache.
Just as she reached the last step, two familiar voices echoed behind her.
“Move aside, troublemaker!” Reyansh teased, walking down with his bag slung over one shoulder. He reached out and ruffled her hair as he passed.
Kiara’s nose scrunched instantly. “Don’t touch my hair!” she pouted, stepping back and smoothing her braids with both hands.
Reyansh chuckled. “Still as dramatic as ever.”
Before Kiara could reply, a calm voice called from the staircase.
“Reyansh.”
It was Advik. His tone carried quiet warning — firm, protective.
Reyansh froze mid-step, then turned with a grin. “I didn’t do anything, bhai,” he said quickly, hands raised in mock defense before slipping into his chair. “Just saying good morning to our little troublemaker.”
Advik didn’t respond, just gave him that look — the one that said enough. Then, with a faint sigh, he walked past and reached Kiara’s side.
He crouched beside her, tying the lace of her shoes with an easy smile.
“Happy birthday, little one,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek before lifting her into his arms and carrying her to the dining table.
Kiara was still blinking in surprise as Advik gently placed her on the chair. The dining hall smelled of toasted bread, fresh parathas, and cardamom chai. The morning light spilled through the large windows, painting everything gold.
Her chachi, swrna, moved gracefully around the table, her dupatta tucked neatly at her waist as she served breakfast. “Reyansh, at least today eat something healthy,” she said, placing a bowl of fruits in front of him.
Before anyone could reply, the heavy sound of leather shoes echoed across the marble floor.
The room fell quiet.
Her father — Vikrant Rathore — stepped in, his tall frame commanding instant respect. Behind him walked Manish, his younger brother, still mid-conversation about a business deal.
“…yes, the meeting with Khanna will need to be shifted. I’ll handle the paperwork,” Manish said as Vikrant gave a short nod, moving straight toward the head of the table.
The tension in the room rose automatically. Even Reyansh sat straighter.
“Good morning,” Vikrant said, his voice calm but clipped. His eyes flicked over everyone — sharp, assessing — before settling briefly on Kiara.
“Good morning, Papa,” the children chorused, though Kiara’s was softer, almost hesitant.
He began buttering his toast, speaking without looking up.
“Kiara,” he said flatly, “try to do better in your exams this time. I don’t want to see low marks again.”
Her heart gave a small jolt.
“I—I’ll try, Papa,” she said quickly, her fingers tightening around her spoon.
But he wasn’t done. “Learn something from your sister, Adhyaa. She’s younger than you, yet she manages to get good grades.”
Adhyaa’s lips curved into a proud little smile, basking in the rare praise.
Kiara’s chest tightened. The sound of her spoon clinking against her plate suddenly felt too loud, too sharp. She forced a small nod, swallowing the lump that burned her throat.
“Yes, Papa.”
Vikrant only hummed in response, already turning back to discuss something with Manish.
Across the table, Advik shot her a sideways glance — a mix of sympathy and irritation at their father’s word
----------
Later that day, when Kiara returned home from school, the skies had already begun to weep.
Dark clouds gathered above the mansion, heavy and swollen, ready to burst.
Raindrops trailed down the tall windows, whispering against the glass as thunder rolled far away.
She stepped inside quietly — shoes squeaking against the marble floor — her heart fluttering with a small, foolish hope.
Maybe there’d be a cake waiting.
Maybe a single candle.
Maybe someone remembered.
But the house was silent.
No balloons. No ribbons. No laughter.
Nothing that said today mattered.
She set her school bag down gently and stood there, staring at the emptiness that answered her.
Her chest ached, but no tears came. She’d learned not to cry — it never changed anything.
Then she heard it — her mother’s laughter.
Soft. Bright. So alive it almost hurt to hear.
Kiara turned toward the living room, her heart lifting just a little.
“Mumma?” she whispered, stepping closer.
But her mother wasn’t looking at her.
Ishita was on a video call, her eyes glowing with pride.
“Ishan! Look at you!” she said, smiling at the screen. “You’ve gotten thinner! Are you eating properly?”
Her second brother, Ishan bhai — the golden boy of the family — was speaking from abroad, where he was studying medicine. Everyone adored him, bragged about him, waited for his calls.
Kiara lingered at the doorway, her fingers curling into her skirt.
Maybe her mother would glance her way.
Maybe she’d remember.
Maybe she’d just say the words.
But the laughter continued — warm, full, and meant for someone else.
By the time the call ended, the sky had opened up completely.
Rain lashed against the windows, drowning the world in silver streaks.
And Kiara turned away, the quiet in her chest heavier than before.
That’s when Adhyaa came running, barefoot and breathless, her laughter cutting through the storm.
“Kiara! The cat’s here again!” she exclaimed, eyes wide with excitement.
Sure enough, the small white cat had sneaked in again, padding gracefully across the hallway.
“Let’s catch her!” Adhyaa giggled, darting after it.
“Adhyaa, no!” Kiara called out, startled. “Chachi said not to run inside— the floor’s wet—”
But Adhyaa didn’t listen. Her laughter echoed up the staircase as the cat bounded higher, tail flicking.
“Wait!” Kiara shouted, running after her.
The cat jumped. Adhyaa followed — one step, two — her foot catching the slick marble.
A scream.
A fall.
A sound that split the storm in half.
“Adhyaa!” Kiara shrieked, racing forward — but it was too late.
Adhyaa body lay still at the bottom of the stairs, the white marble blooming red beneath her head.
The rain outside beat harder, matching the thundering of Kiara’s pulse.
Her breath hitched. Her world tilted.
Within seconds, the mansion was chaos.
Footsteps pounded. Voices screamed — her mother, her chachi, her brothers.
And when they reached the staircase…
all they saw was Kiara, frozen at the top — trembling —
and Adhyaa lying lifeless below.
---------------
In the hospital, the air was heavy — thick with antiseptic, fear, and silence.
Adhyaa was still in surgery. The red light above the operation theatre blinked like a heartbeat refusing to die.
Kiara sat on the cold metal bench, her uniform still damp from the rain. Her fingers trembled as she twisted them together, trying to stay still, trying to breathe.
No one looked at her.
Not Reyansh bhaiya, who always shared his chocolates.
Not even Advik bhaiya, her quiet protector — the one who used to tie her shoelaces when she tripped.
They all stared at the floor, at the clock, at anything but her.
Kiara swallowed hard and finally whispered, “Bhaiya…”
She tugged lightly at Advik’s sleeve. “Is… Adhyaa going to be okay?”
Before he could answer, a sharp voice cut through the silence.
Her mother.
Ishita turned, eyes swollen and wild with grief. “What do you want now?” she snapped. “Haven’t you done enough?”
Kiara froze. “M-Ma, I—”
“You wanted her dead, didn’t you?” The words hit like stones. “You’re always bringing trouble! Always jealous of her! Why, Kiara? What has she ever done to you?”
Kiara’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
Then, in a voice colder than the sterile air around them, Ishita whispered —
“You should’ve died instead.”
Silence fell like glass shattering. Even the machines seemed to hush.
“Ever since you were born, everything has gone wrong,” her mother said, shaking. “Everyone was right… you are cursed. A burden.”
Kiara blinked slowly — once, twice — as the words sank in.
Advik stepped forward, his voice firm, controlled. “Mrs. Rathore, enough. She’s just a child.”
But Kiara didn’t hear him.
Her small world — the only one she’d ever known — had already begun to crumble.
---
That night, Kiara didn’t sleep.
The thunder outside never stopped — and neither did her mother’s words.
You should’ve died instead.
They echoed until the storm bled into morning.
The next morning, her bag was packed.
Her books. Some clothes. A few school supplies.
She was being sent to live with her Maasi.
“Just for a while,” her father said curtly. “Until things settle.”
---
The room went still.
Advik pushed his chair back so hard it screeched across the marble. “Dad, it’s not her fault!” His voice trembled with barely contained anger. “Why are you all blaming her? She’s just a child!”
His father didn’t look up from the suitcase he was closing. “It’s for her own good, Advik. Stop arguing with me.”
“For her own good?” Advik’s voice cracked — fury and disbelief tangled together. “You’re sending her away like she’s some curse you can’t bear to see! She’s your daughter!”
“Enough!” his father snapped, tone sharp and final.
Advik’s fists tightened at his sides. He turned toward Ishita — the woman who wore his mother’s place but never her heart.
“Mrs. Rathore,” he said quietly, his voice trembling, “I never ask for anything… but today, I’m begging you — please, stop this.”
For a second, he saw their mother’s face instead of Kiara’s — that same helplessness, that same silence.
And it burned.
Ishita froze. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes — guilt, maybe — but she turned away, lips pressed tight.
That was it. The breaking point.
Advik’s voice dropped, bitter and cold.
“You know what, Mrs. Rathore?” he said, his gaze hard. “You never became our mother. Not even for a single day.”
She flinched, but he went on, each word heavier than the rain outside.
“You live in this house, wear her jewelry, enjoy every bit of luxury that belonged to my mother — and you dare call yourself Mrs. Rathore?”
He shook his head, voice raw. “Everything you have was hers. You just took it.”
The words hit like thunder.
His father’s eyes blazed. He raised his hand — but Ishita caught his wrist midair.
“Enough,” she whispered, her own voice cracking.
Advik stared at them — the people he’d once called his family — and saw nothing but strangers.
Without another word, he turned and walked out, his heart pounding, anger burning in his veins.
The door slammed behind him, echoing through the silent house.
---
Kiara stood by the doorway, clutching her schoolbag, tears trembling in her lashes.
The rain beat softly against the window — steady, cruel, and cold.
When her Maasi arrived, Kiara ran to Ishita and wrapped her small arms around her.
“Maa, please… I don’t want to go… I didn’t mean to— I didn’t push her…”
Ishita gently removed her arms, her silence sharper than any slap.
Kiara turned toward her brothers, eyes pleading — but no one stepped forward.
Her Maasi took her hand softly. “Come, beta.”
As the gate closed behind them, Kiara looked back one last time.
No one stood there to watch her go.
Only the rain.
The same rain that had taken everything.
She turned once more, hoping someone — anyone — would call her name.
But the house stood still, as if she’d never lived there at all.
