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"Some cages weren’t made of iron. Hers was stitched from silk and secrets."

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It arrived on a Tuesday.

The sky over Mumbai was bruised purple, swollen with monsoon rain that refused to fall. Dust clung to the world — streets, cars, throats. It tasted old, like forgotten promises.

Rivya Arora found the envelope on her doorstep, balanced on cool marble like it belonged there.

It didn’t.

It was black. Deep, cruel, beautiful. Wax-sealed with a mark that could turn dinner parties silent in an instant: a rose wound in barbed wire. The insignia of The Standards.

Her maid, Shanta, left it untouched on the console table. Smart girl. No one in their right mind opened such things.

Rivya did. With a single careful nail, she broke the seal. The paper was thick, expensive. The words were simple. Elegant. Deadly.

> “Welcome back, Arora.

The game begins at Ashbourne.

You’re expected.”

Near the corner, a thin smudge of red. Blood. Always blood with them. She almost laughed.

She set it down, exhaled something that wasn’t quite relief or dread. It was closer to acceptance — like a queen stepping onto the gallows, chin high.

---

She was ten. A family wedding. Rivya wore a delicate silver chain with a tiny moon charm — her first real piece of jewelry.

Her mother caught her wrist in the corridor.

> “Beta, give it to Rhea na. Her neckline is empty, and so many people will see her.”

Rhea stood nearby, eyes round and hopeful. Rivya unclasped the chain, pressed it into her sister’s palm. Later, under fairy lights, that moon charm winked at every guest as Rhea laughed and twirled. Rivya’s neck felt painfully bare.

---

Now she packed without hesitation.

Black velvet gloves. A single ruby pendant. Perfume that smelled like thunderstorms.

She didn’t pack softness. No pastels. That girl had been buried long ago.

In the mirror, her storm-grey eyes watched with something almost smug.

> “You chose her, not me.”

She whispered it to the ghost in the glass. The ghost smiled back.

---

The car purred over familiar roads, past estates with iron gates that once shut her out. Rhea sat beside her, nails bitten down, voice cracking.

> “I thought… maybe they’d forgotten, Rivya.”

Rivya didn’t look at her.

> “Power doesn’t forget. It waits.”

Rhea flinched. Turned her face to the window, blinking fast. She still smelled like rosewater and guilt.

---

Fifteen. Their father’s birthday party. Guests laughing downstairs. Rivya smoothed the new emerald lehenga she was so excited to wear, hoping someone would notice.

Their mother swept by, arm looped with Rhea.

> “Come, darling. Everyone’s waiting to see you.”

They never checked if Rivya followed. She gripped the banister so hard her knuckles turned bone-white.

---

Ashbourne was lit up like royalty. Chandeliers poured molten gold over dark secrets. People laughed too loud, drank too carelessly — anything to silence the fear that thrived here.

Rivya stepped out first. The hush wasn’t empty. It was loaded — with recognition, horror, fascination.

Behind her, Rhea gripped her wrist.

> “Just… stay close, Rivya. Please.”

Rivya slipped her hand free.

> “No. You stay close. I’m not the one who needs saving.”

---

Inside, the air choked with perfumes and power. Crystal glasses clinked like tiny judgments. Somewhere a violinist coaxed heartbreak from strings.

She spotted them easily.

Rajvansh Singhania, bored against a pillar, smirk playing at his mouth.

Vihaan Rathore in a corner, eyes scanning for threats.

Reyansh Mehra whispering something to a girl who’d surely regret it.

And at the far end — Shivansh Vardhan. The man whose name was practically religion here. He didn’t look at her. Not yet. But she felt the moment his dark eyes swept the room and found her. Her heart stuttered.

Two older socialites tilted close, emerald silk whispering.

> “Is that… Rivya? The runaway twin?”

> “Hush. She didn’t run. She was sent away. You know why.”

> “The Standards have long memories. Poor thing. She looks thinner.”

Rivya passed them without blinking, but her heart registered every syllable like a bruise.

---

Twelve. Drawing room door cracked open just enough to let cruelty slip through.

> “Rhea will marry well. She’s soft, pliable. Rivya… Rivya is a handful.”

Her father’s voice. Her mother’s sigh.

> “I pray we survive her teenage years.”

Rivya fled to the garden, digging her fingers into dirt that never did anything to her. Scraping until they bled.

---

Someone stepped into her path. Too close. Too sudden.

Rivya’s breath caught, not from fear — from memory.

Rishaan Thakur. Taller now. Broader. Those same eyes that once looked at her like she was the only girl in the world. Now? They burned with something darker.

> “I thought they’d send a ghost,” he murmured, voice low, almost a threat. “But it’s really you.”

Rivya smiled, slow, cruel.

> “Still dramatic, Rishaan? Or is this your new charm?”

His hand shot out, wrapped around her wrist. Tight. Bruising. She didn’t flinch.

> “You left without looking back,” he hissed, slipping into broken Hinglish. “Kya socha tha? Ki main bhool jaunga?”

> “Nahi, Rishaan. Mujhe pata tha tum kabhi nahi bhoologe.”

Their faces were inches apart. His thumb stroked her pulse, then tightened.

> “I hate you for that, My Storm.”

> “I’d hate me too, if I still cared.”

Then he let go — like her skin burned him.

---

A bell rang once, sharp and cruel. The crowd parted.

Shivansh descended the grand staircase. Black suit. Black heart. Eyes locked on hers from the first step. Her pulse lurched.

Rhea whimpered beside her. Rivya didn’t move.

Shivansh stopped in front of her. Said nothing. Just smiled. It was the kind of smile that promised someone wouldn’t survive the night.

> “You’ve grown colder, my rebellion,” h

e finally said, voice quiet enough to be private.

> “Good. I was afraid exile might soften you.”

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"I’m the only rule you couldn’t bend, Shivansh. And this time, I’m not here to be broken."

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