𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐑𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 |18+

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐏𝐎𝐕 ~

SINGHANIA ESTATE

📍JAIPUR

The early morning sun cast a golden hue over the sprawling white mansion, its marble walls gleaming like a palace carved from dreams.

The intricate black gates of the Singhania yard stood tall, proud, and ornate - a symbol of legacy and power.

From the outside, everything appeared perfect.

The garden was trimmed to precision, lamps still warm from the night, and the fountains whispered with luxury. Passersby often paused, their eyes widening in admiration, whispering praises about the empire of Dev Singhania, owner of Singhania Industries - a man known for power, pride, and perfection.

But none of them knew the truth that lay behind those pristine walls.

From the inside, it was a completely different world - quiet, cold, and strangely hollow.

No laughter echoed down the halls. No smell of fresh breakfast wafted through the corridors. No conversations, no warmth.

Just silent rooms with closed doors, each person living in their own bubble, disconnected and distant.

In the center of this grandeur walked a man with slow, careful steps - Dev Singhania.

His once broad shoulders now slightly drooped, and a dull pain shimmered in his eyes. He had built empires from scratch, crushed competitors, and stood unshaken in storms... but today, even walking across the living room felt like a battle.

Stage 1 cancer.

The words rang in his ears every night.

When the doctor confirmed it, Dev didn't cry. He didn't even flinch. Instead, he did what he always did - built walls. Not just around his business, but around his heart. Around his family.

He distanced himself from everyone. His wife Priya - busy in her social circle, too caught up to notice his silence. His son Darsh, away in Boston for his Law degree.

And then, there was Trisha.

His youngest. His soul.

She refused to let him shut her out.

No matter how coldly he spoke. No matter how many times he pushed her away, she stayed. With soft smiles, quiet hugs, and eyes that said "I know the truth, Papa."

Only Trisha knew the truth.

That he wasn't fighting for himself anymore - he was fighting only for her.

He cleared his throat as he reached the end of the hallway where the staff had gathered for the morning instructions. His voice was low, rough from the restless night.

"Did Trisha wake up?"

Isa, the new staff girl, looked up nervously and shook her head.

"No sir, she is still asleep."

Dev's brows pinched slightly in concern. He whispered, "Go and wake her up. If Priya finds out, she'll scold her again."

Isa nodded and rushed toward the staircase.

Left behind, Dev's eyes found their way to the photograph on the mantle. It was framed in gold - a picture from years ago. He stood tall beside Priya, one hand on Darsh's shoulder, the other around little Trisha, who was caught mid-laugh.

They looked like a family - a perfect one.

A bitter smile tugged at his lips.

"Only if we still smiled like this photo..."

He let the silence answer him.

🦢

The soft click of the door echoed lightly as Isa stepped into the room, careful not to disturb anything... at least not yet.

The shift from the cold silence of the mansion into Trisha Singhania's room was like entering a different universe - warm, whimsical, and unapologetically pink.

A soft glow danced around the room, coming from the fairy lights shaped into letters on the far wall, spelling out:

"TRISHA" - delicate, yet bold. Just like the girl herself.

The ceiling twinkled with starlight effects, reflecting off the chandelier that looked like it belonged in a royal ballroom. Crystal beads shimmered as they caught the soft morning rays sneaking past the velvet pink curtains.

But amidst all this elegance... was chaos.

Books - mostly fiction and fantasy - lay in small piles around the floor and desk. Covers featuring witches, vampires, and broken-hearted heroines.

Chocolate wrappers peeked out from under cushions.

A tub of unfinished ice cream sat abandoned on the dresser, next to a floral diary and a half-done sketch.

The walls were pinned with magazine clippings - models, art references, a few quotes about independence and rebellion.

Isa's eyes scanned everything in a mix of amusement and fond exasperation.

And then... her gaze finally landed on the human tornado herself.

Trisha Singhania.

Sprawled diagonally across her plush pink bed, one leg dangling off like she might fall any second, her hair a halo of wild curls covering half her face.

A book was balanced open on her stomach, and a single earbud was still stuck in one ear - playing what Isa assumed was another one of her dramatic audiobooks.

She looked like a royal mess - and yet, like someone the world would stop for.

Isa bit back a laugh and walked over cautiously. She stood beside the bed and gently called out:

"Miss Trisha?"

No response. Of course not.

Isa's voice echoed again, firmer this time, as she gently knocked on the door.

"Miss Trisha, your father requests you to wake up before Priya Ma'am arrives in the dining area."

At the mention of that name, Trisha jolted up-only to tumble off the bed with a soft thud and a painful wince.

"What? Miss Singhania came from Boston?" she croaked, squinting against the harsh light of the morning.

"Yes, she arrived early this morning," Isa replied with a measured tone, though her eyes flickered with something unreadable.

It had been a month since Isa started working at the Singhania estate, and in all those days, she'd never once witnessed a proper conversation between mother and daughter. They existed like strangers. Trisha would vanish before her mother woke up and return only after the house had fallen into silence.

Trisha sat up slowly, brushing hair out of her face. "I'm coming... just need to freshen up."

Isa gave a polite nod before retreating from the room.

Alone again, Trisha sighed deeply, her gaze scanning the room for her phone.

"Yaar, itni door kaun phone rakhta hai?" she muttered under her breath, stretching her leg toward the side table like an exhausted cat. With some awkward maneuvering, she hooked her toes around the phone and dragged it close.

Her thumb hovered over the screen as she opened Instagram. Her eyes quickly darted to her messages, her heart silently hoping for something. For someone.

"Aaj bhi message nahi kiya? Pakka London mein nayi bestfriend bana li hogi," she whispered, lips curving into a pout.

But then-a ping.

> "Good morning, your highness. How are you? I know you won't tell me-typical you. I'm really sorry for my behaviour. Please forgive your only best friend. I love you.

Your only best friend, Roohi."

A small, genuine smile finally bloomed on Trisha's lips-her first in days.

It had been 2.5 years since Roohi left for London. Left without a word. No goodbye, no closure. Like she never existed. Since then, Trisha had given her the same silence Roohi left her with.

But just one message... and the ice cracked.

She tapped the heart on the message, liking it, but didn't reply. Not yet. Not ready.

Instead, she opened another chat. This time-Veeranshu. Her boyfriend. Or at least, the person she kept calling that for the past 4.5 years.

They had broken up countless times. And made up even more. But the weight of staying was heavier than the pain of leaving. She scrolled up, looking for a sign-a seen tick. Something.

Nothing.

"Didn't even check my message again. Wow," she whispered, lips curling into a hollow chuckle.

Her thumb hesitated before she hit unsend. Again.

It wasn't just the message he ignored-it was her. Every single day, he made her feel like she was invisible. Like she was just... there. Never cherished. Never chosen. Never enough.

She stared at the screen until her vision blurred with unshed tears.

And yet, she couldn't leave him. She didn't know how.

Wiping her eyes quickly with the back of her hand, she tossed the phone onto the bed and stood up. Her shoulders felt heavier than usual-like she was carrying the weight of years she didn't know how to set down.

Another day. Another act.

And with that, she walked toward the washroom, already knowing her day was ruined.

Just like every day.

After a long, hot shower that did nothing to wash off the weight she carried, Trisha stepped out of her room. Her hair was loosely tied into a bun, still damp, the scent of lavender shampoo faintly trailing her steps. The grey sweater she wore clung softly to her skin, her cream-colored trousers crisp and clean. She looked calm-composed. But inside, she was already bracing for impact.

She made her way toward the dining area, expecting to share a quiet meal with her father.

But the moment she reached the hallway and glimpsed the figure sitting at the head of the long, mahogany table, her steps faltered.

Her mother.

Priya Singhania.

CEO of Singhania Enterprises. Known in the media for her poise, her connections, her pristine public image.

But at home, she was an entirely different force-cold, commanding, calculated.

Trisha blinked once. Then muttered under her breath with a tight jaw,

"Waise toh humare saath breakfast karne aati nahi... aaj kaise aa gayi?"

As expected, Priya was surrounded by staff, the housemaids darting around like programmed shadows. She didn't even glance up as they filled her plate with precision.

On the opposite end of the table sat Dev-her father.

Distant, literally.

Because of his condition, he always sat a few feet away from others-an autoimmune illness forced him to keep physical contact minimal.

But emotionally, he had never once distanced himself from Trisha. He was her calm in every storm. Her quiet safety.

"Trisha dear, why are you standing there? Come and have breakfast."

Priya's voice broke the silence, pleasant in tone, but with an edge Trisha knew too well.

She rolled her eyes, forcing herself to walk forward.

Fake warmth. That was Priya's specialty.

"Good morning, Papa," Trisha chirped, slipping behind Dev's chair to hug him softly from behind.

His hand reached up, trembling slightly, to pat her head. His smile-small, but sincere.

Until...

"Trisha, don't go close to him."

Her mother's voice sliced the air like a blade-cold and sharp.

Trisha straightened, turning her gaze to her mother.

"Why, Miss Singhania? He's my father. I can stand close to him... because I'm his daughter," she replied, her voice steady, but laced with defiance. She took the seat beside Dev, her jaw clenched.

Dev let out a slow breath, lifting his hand to silently calm her, but it was too late.

"Is that how you speak to your mother?"

Priya snapped, narrowing her eyes.

"First, you show up late. Then, you throw attitude?"

Trisha opened her mouth, the words already forming, but a soft nudge from Dev beneath the table made her pause. He shook his head, a quiet plea in his eyes.

Let it go.

She exhaled slowly, biting her tongue.

The maids began to serve breakfast.

One of them-Neeti-set a generous portion of poha in front of Trisha.

Before she could even thank her, her mother's voice rang again.

"Neeti, why are you giving her so much? Cut the quantity. Give her less."

Trisha didn't flinch.

She just rolled her eyes again-trained, numb.

She had heard worse.

"Priya, let her eat. Why are you stopping her?" Dev finally spoke, voice gentle but firm.

Priya turned to him with that trademark scoff.

"Dev, can't you see how much poha is on her plate? And look at her-already getting chubby with all the junk food she eats. You know Mr. Kapadia's daughter? Always follows a healthy diet. Have you seen her figure? Perfect. Because she has discipline. Unlike your daughter."

Unlike your daughter.

Those three words echoed in Trisha's head louder than the rest.

She had heard comparisons her whole life-about weight, about clothes, about manners. But it never got easier.

She felt herself shrink inside, her chest tightening.

But her face stayed blank. Numb.

She gently slid her plate away, voice flat.

"Aisa karo, yeh bhi le lo. Mujhe karna hi nahi hai breakfast."

She rose to leave.

"Trisha Singhania, don't you dare walk out of this dining area," her mother snapped, this time fully turning toward her.

"Sit down. Finish your breakfast in five minutes."

Her tone wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

It was cold enough to freeze her where she stood.

Trisha looked at Dev.

He blinked once. A silent request. Please don't make this worse.

So, she sat. Quietly.

Picked up the spoon. And forced herself to eat.

Each bite turned to sand in her mouth. Her throat ached with unshed tears, but she blinked them back. If she cried-if she showed weakness-her mother would only find more to mock.

Across the table, Dev watched her.

He saw her shoulders stiffen, her fingers trembling slightly, knuckles white from how tightly she gripped the spoon.

But he didn't speak again.

Because he knew that in this house, silence was sometimes the only way to protect someone.