Vanya Samar Malhotra walked out of the studio, her chest heaving from the storm she had just weathered. The walls, painted in the soft hues of art and ambition, now felt like strangers to her grief. Her fingers were trembling, her palm still warm from the act that had drained something invisible from her the act of throwing money at a man who had once owned her heart.
Rivaan Kapoor.
She had slammed the crisp bundle of currency against his palm, her gaze sharp, unyielding. "It's for the car," she had said her voice calm, but her eyes burning with hurt. “The damage you priced so high. The debt you claimed I couldn’t repay in six months. I did it in six days.”
He had stood motionless, the bundle of notes heavy in his hands, not because of their value, but the meaning behind them. Her
