PROLOGUE
If grief had a sound, mine would be the quiet click of a lighter.
A steady, metallic snap that still echoes in the corners of my mind, replaying itself like a cruel lullaby. I can’t explain why that sound is the loudest memory I have of my sister’s death—not her scream, not the shattering of glass, not the frantic thud of my heart. Just that soft click…click…click… right before the world ended.
Maybe that’s why fire disturbs me now. Small flames. Candle wicks. Cigarette ends. The harmless ones. The ones people stare at while thinking deep thoughts or pretending they’re not broken inside.
I don’t fear the big flames. The dangerous ones. I fear the ones that pretend they’re nothing.
Just like the man who one day became my husband.
Just like Advait Sinha.
But on the night everything changed—long before he walked into my life with his cold eyes and colder terms—I didn’t know his name. I didn’t know his reputation. I didn’t know the faint scent of smoke that clung to him like a shadow would someday bring me to my knees.
I only knew that I was tired.
So tired of feeling like a ghost walking through my own life.
“Wanna come?” he had asked suddenly, his lips brushing mine
“I don’t even know your name,” I blurted.
He paused, turning slightly, and for the first time, the corner of his mouth lifted—not a smile, but the ghost of one.
“You don’t need my name tonight.”
“What will you give me?” I had asked
“Escape.”
My breath hitched.
“You want to forget,” he murmured. “Just for a night.”
And God help me, he was right.
So I let him touch me.
I let him kiss me.
I let him be the distraction I needed, the shelter I didn’t deserve, the sin I didn’t regret.
I didn’t know that night would become the first link in a chain I would never break.
I didn’t know the man touching me was already wrapped in shadows.
I didn’t know his hands—cold, steady, lethal—would someday become the same hands that held my future hostage.
But later I understood the truth:
The quiet flames are always the ones that ruin you.
Just like Advait Sinha.
