Episode 27 – "Veils and Shadows"
911 Words
(Veer’s POV)
Revenge.
That’s all I’ve been breathing for the past six weeks.
Not air. Not hope. Not life.
Just revenge.
The night Sanchit’s car was dragged into the ER still replays in my head like a nightmare on loop. The smell of blood, the sound of machines beeping, the sterile white of hospital walls that mocked me every time I begged him to wake up. His body—my brother, my shadow—torn apart, bones bent wrong, skin pale.
He wasn’t supposed to be like that. He was the light. The dreamer. The boy who could find laughter in ashes.
And when the detective handed me those pictures, something inside me burned to dust.
Her.
Always her.
The girl in those photographs—Neha—smiling like the world existed only for her, glowing like she belonged to him. I saw her laughing in his arms, his bracelet circling her wrist like vermilion on a bride’s forehead.
And then I saw Sanchit’s reality—machines keeping him alive.
That’s when my purpose crystallized into something sharper than steel.
Neha was the reason.
Neha was the shadow.
Neha was the poison.
And now… she walks inside my mansion like she belongs here.
I watch her. The way her hands adjust her dupatta nervously, the way her eyes widen at the marble halls, the chandeliers. That smile—so open, so naive. Her voice carries no guilt, only softness.
It makes me sick.
But I have to be patient. I have to stay calm. Smile when she smiles. Pretend to care when she talks. Pull her close, just close enough that she trusts me.
That’s why I bribed the academy manager. That’s why I offered her a car, a salary too tempting to refuse. She thinks she’s here to teach dance. She thinks she’s starting over.
But the truth?
She’s already on stage.
And I’m the one pulling the strings.
Every twirl, every step, every innocent laugh—she’s dancing on the edge of a blade.
And when the music stops… she’ll fall.
Still—something unsettles me.
She doesn’t flinch when I stand too close. She doesn’t look away when my gaze hardens. She doesn’t hide anything—except pain. Deep, raw pain that flickers in her eyes when she thinks no one is looking.
Could someone so fragile really be the reason behind Sanchit’s downfall?
Damn it. No. I can’t let softness cloud me. I can’t afford doubt.
I’ve made up my mind.
If she truly is guilty—if she really played with Sanchit’s heart—I’ll make her bleed. Not with fists, not with blades. But with truth. With regret. With agony so deep she’ll choke on it.
Neha will never see me coming.
And when she finally realizes… it’ll be too late.
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(Ruhani’s POV)
She entered like a breeze—soft, unsure, gentle.
But all I could see was the storm she left behind.
Neha.
The name Veer spits out like venom. The name that’s been carved into his sleepless nights, the ghost haunting his every thought. The girl in the photographs.
I didn’t need those pictures to know this was her. I saw it instantly—the way Veer’s eyes hardened when she walked in, the way his jaw clenched with every smile she offered. He wanted to crush her. Break her until nothing was left.
And truth be told—I want that too.
I still remember the day they wheeled Sanchit into the ICU. His body mangled, tubes running from everywhere, his face swollen and lifeless. The boy who once teased me endlessly, who called me “little sister” even when I hated it—now silent.
Something in me froze that day.
I wanted someone to blame. Someone to carry the weight of my fury. And then there she was. Neha.
The girl who loved him, yet somehow wasn’t the one lying broken in that hospital bed.
Why wasn’t it her?
Why did he have to suffer while she still breathed?
So yes—I wanted her to suffer.
I wanted her lungs to fill with guilt until she couldn’t breathe.
I wanted tears to carve rivers down her cheeks until she drowned in them.
But then… she touched me.
Not with love. With something else.
She guided my shoulders into the right posture as she taught me dance—her fingers light, trembling slightly. Her voice soft, encouraging, almost motherly.
And in that moment, I felt it.
Her pain.
It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t an act. She carried it like a second skin, like a wound she couldn’t hide. The way her eyes drifted when she thought no one was watching, the way her smile faded into nothing when she was left alone—it wasn’t the face of a villain.
It was the face of someone already bleeding inside.
And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.
What if she’s not the villain?
What if she’s just another piece in this twisted, cruel game none of us understand yet?
No.
I can’t think like that. Not now.
I will keep her close. I will let her believe I’m her friend, her confidante. I will laugh with her, cry with her, dance with her.
And when the truth comes out—when the veil finally lifts—
I will make her pay.
I will make her cry the tears I’ve been swallowing every day since the night Sanchit was taken from us.
- Writer
