Chosen Blood

Chapter 11 - Destiny starts

The ballroom shimmered beneath a canopy of chandeliers, each crystal refracting light into a thousand scattered diamonds. Laughter rippled through the air — polite, poised, but edged with rivalry. Every word was a performance, every smile a weapon.

Hima entered with quiet command, flanked by Aya, Abi, and Lila.

Where others sparkled in sweeping gowns and glittering jewelry, Hima wore a fitted black suit — sleek, sharp, and impossible to ignore. A silver tie glinted under the light, subtle but deliberate. She didn’t need ornamentation; her presence was armor enough. The crowd parted instinctively, as though some unspoken gravity drew them aside.

Aya, radiant in emerald silk, moved with composed elegance. Abi, all confidence and wry charm, wore a midnight-blue suit that matched her smirk. And Lila, soft in blush pink, stayed close — a quiet warmth amidst the polished coldness of the evening.

Then, the lights dimmed.

The stage came alive, a single spotlight illuminating a figure that drew every gaze to her.

Aria.

Her voice cut through the silence — smooth, strong, unflinching. She didn’t simply sing; she commanded the air itself, each note laced with fire and longing. The audience leaned forward, spellbound.

But for Hima, it wasn’t the song that stole her breath. It was the woman herself — that effortless control, that dangerous grace. She felt something deep and unyielding stir within her, like gravity shifting its pull.

Her hands clenched into fists inside her pockets — the only sign she’d been moved.

Abi leaned toward Aya, her whisper slicing through the hush. “Well, someone just turned into a statue.”

Aya’s lips curved in amusement. “That’s Aria, Lila. The woman Hima’s been quietly worshipping for years.”

Lila blinked. “Wait — that Aria? The one?”

“Enough,” Hima muttered, but Abi’s grin only widened.

“Confirmed.”

Onstage, Aria’s gaze swept across the audience — and for one fleeting second, her eyes found Hima’s. The song didn’t falter, but something subtle shifted in her expression. A flicker of recognition, curiosity, maybe even intrigue. Then she looked away, as if breaking the spell herself.

Later, the music gave way to chatter and champagne. Businessmen traded smiles like contracts. Heiresses posed in glittering clusters.

Hima, weary of pleasantries, slipped away to the balcony — her solitude as deliberate as her power.

That’s when she saw her again.

Aria stood by the railing, away from the crowd, wrestling discreetly with the clasp of her gown. She was alone, her handlers momentarily absent. A waiter rushed past, tray wobbling, a glass of champagne teetering dangerously toward her.

Hima moved before she could think.

One swift motion — her hand caught the tray, steadying it before disaster struck. Clean. Precise. Controlled.

Aria turned, startled.

For a breath, neither spoke. The world shrank to two heartbeats and the quiet hum of the city below.

“Thank you,” Aria said at last, her voice softer than it had been in song — human, unguarded.

Hima adjusted the tray in the waiter’s trembling hands and fixed him with a look sharp enough to make him stammer an apology before retreating. Only then did she answer, tone calm and edged with quiet warning.

“Crowds can be dangerous if you don’t watch your back.”

Aria’s lips curved faintly. There was something about Hima — that quiet authority, the voice low and steady, protective without pretense — that drew her in. She opened her mouth to reply, but one of her handlers called from across the room.

And just like that, the moment dissolved.

Back at their table, Abi was practically vibrating.

“You did not just play knight in shining armor. You totally did. You’re a walking cliché, Hima.”

Aya hid a smile behind her glass. “It suits her.”

Lila leaned forward, eyes wide with awe. “She looked at you. Like, really looked at you. Don’t even deny it.”

Hima sat back, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “It was nothing.”

But her clenched fists beneath the table told a different story.

Across the ballroom, Aria glanced back one last time — her gaze sweeping the crowd, searching for the dark-suited stranger whose steady hand had stopped her world, if only for a heartbeat.

The apartment was unusually loud that afternoon. Aya’s laptop chimed with endless hospital alerts, her brow furrowed as she typed with surgeon-level precision. Abi, sprawled across the couch, was buried under digital drafts and schematic blueprints. The entire room thrummed with responsibility.

“Groceries,” Aya muttered, pushing her glasses up her nose. “We’re out. Again.”

Abi didn’t even look up. “Order in.”

Aya shot her a glare. “We can’t eat takeout forever. Lila, you said you wanted to learn how to cook, didn’t you?”

Lila perked up from the floor. “I did! But we don’t even have ingredients. No eggs, no vegetables, nothing.”

Abi waved lazily at the shopping list. “Then someone else gets them. Volunteers?”

Aya’s hands were full. Abi’s brain was fried. Slowly, the room turned toward Hima — who was quietly adjusting the strap of her wristwatch in silence.

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Lila jumped to her feet, eyes bright. “I’ll come with you!”

The automatic doors whooshed open, letting in the hum of fluorescent lights. Aisles gleamed beneath polished linoleum, the air thick with the smell of bread and detergent. Carts rattled. Families drifted by in soft chatter.

Hima pushed the cart with calm precision, black shirt neatly pressed, sleeves rolled up. Even in the most mundane places, her composure felt deliberate — like she could turn a supermarket aisle into a boardroom. Lila trailed beside her, peppering her with questions about recipes and ingredients, voice bubbling like a soundtrack.

But somewhere between the condiments and the bakery section, they got separated.

Lila, distracted by a pastry display, slipped into another aisle. Hima didn’t notice at first — her focus was fixed on the shopping list in her hand.

When she looked up, Lila was gone.

“Lila?” Her tone was calm, but sharp enough to draw glances from nearby shoppers. Not panic — just instinct. Always alert, always scanning.

She turned a corner — and froze.

Aria.

Not wrapped in designer gowns or stage lights this time. Just a simple hoodie, hair tied in a loose bun, a basket hooked in one arm. She was staring at a row of pasta sauces, biting her lip in quiet concentration.

For a second, the world seemed smaller.

Aria noticed the stillness, then looked up. Her eyes widened slightly. Recognition flickered — faint, but there.

“You.”

Her voice wasn’t cold, just curious — like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

Hima’s hand tightened on the cart handle. She nodded once, composed as ever.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Aria chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Believe it or not, I do buy my own groceries. Celebrities are human too.”

There was a pause — a comfortable one, somehow. Aria’s gaze lingered, studying her, as if trying to recall exactly where she’d seen those eyes before.

“You were at the gala,” she said after a beat. “On the balcony. You caught that tray.”

Hima didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up one of the jars Aria had been debating over and dropped it gently into her basket.

“This one’s better. Less sugar.”

Aria blinked — then smiled, small but genuine. “Thanks. You have good timing.”

Before Hima could reply, a familiar voice cut through the aisle.

“Hima! I found the eggs!”

Lila appeared, beaming — until her jaw dropped. “Wait… is that— oh my god, that’s Aria! Hi— I mean— wow— hi!”

Aria laughed, graceful as always. “Hi. You must be her friend.”

Hima shot Lila a look sharp enough to silence a room. But Aria’s gaze didn’t waver. It lingered, thoughtful, as if there was more she wanted to say.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” Aria said at last, and turned away, her perfume trailing behind like a memory that refused to fade.

At the checkout, Lila couldn’t stop whispering.

“Hima. That was her. Her. And she talked to you like she remembered you. You’re living a romance drama!”

Hima stacked the groceries neatly, face unreadable.

“Focus on the eggs.”

But inside, a quiet current stirred — subtle, steady, undeniable.

She had been noticed again.

The ballroom shimmered beneath a canopy of chandeliers, each crystal refracting light into a thousand scattered diamonds. Laughter rippled through the air — polite, poised, but edged with rivalry. Every word was a performance, every smile a weapon.

Hima entered with quiet command, flanked by Aya, Abi, and Lila.

Where others sparkled in sweeping gowns and glittering jewelry, Hima wore a fitted black suit — sleek, sharp, and impossible to ignore. A silver tie glinted under the light, subtle but deliberate. She didn’t need ornamentation; her presence was armor enough. The crowd parted instinctively, as though some unspoken gravity drew them aside.

Aya, radiant in emerald silk, moved with composed elegance. Abi, all confidence and wry charm, wore a midnight-blue suit that matched her smirk. And Lila, soft in blush pink, stayed close — a quiet warmth amidst the polished coldness of the evening.

Then, the lights dimmed.

The stage came alive, a single spotlight illuminating a figure that drew every gaze to her.

Aria.

Her voice cut through the silence — smooth, strong, unflinching. She didn’t simply sing; she commanded the air itself, each note laced with fire and longing. The audience leaned forward, spellbound.

But for Hima, it wasn’t the song that stole her breath. It was the woman herself — that effortless control, that dangerous grace. She felt something deep and unyielding stir within her, like gravity shifting its pull.

Her hands clenched into fists inside her pockets — the only sign she’d been moved.

Abi leaned toward Aya, her whisper slicing through the hush. “Well, someone just turned into a statue.”

Aya’s lips curved in amusement. “That’s Aria, Lila. The woman Hima’s been quietly worshipping for years.”

Lila blinked. “Wait — that Aria? The one?”

“Enough,” Hima muttered, but Abi’s grin only widened.

“Confirmed.”

Onstage, Aria’s gaze swept across the audience — and for one fleeting second, her eyes found Hima’s. The song didn’t falter, but something subtle shifted in her expression. A flicker of recognition, curiosity, maybe even intrigue. Then she looked away, as if breaking the spell herself.

Later, the music gave way to chatter and champagne. Businessmen traded smiles like contracts. Heiresses posed in glittering clusters.

Hima, weary of pleasantries, slipped away to the balcony — her solitude as deliberate as her power.

That’s when she saw her again.

Aria stood by the railing, away from the crowd, wrestling discreetly with the clasp of her gown. She was alone, her handlers momentarily absent. A waiter rushed past, tray wobbling, a glass of champagne teetering dangerously toward her.

Hima moved before she could think.

One swift motion — her hand caught the tray, steadying it before disaster struck. Clean. Precise. Controlled.

Aria turned, startled.

For a breath, neither spoke. The world shrank to two heartbeats and the quiet hum of the city below.

“Thank you,” Aria said at last, her voice softer than it had been in song — human, unguarded.

Hima adjusted the tray in the waiter’s trembling hands and fixed him with a look sharp enough to make him stammer an apology before retreating. Only then did she answer, tone calm and edged with quiet warning.

“Crowds can be dangerous if you don’t watch your back.”

Aria’s lips curved faintly. There was something about Hima — that quiet authority, the voice low and steady, protective without pretense — that drew her in. She opened her mouth to reply, but one of her handlers called from across the room.

And just like that, the moment dissolved.

Back at their table, Abi was practically vibrating.

“You did not just play knight in shining armor. You totally did. You’re a walking cliché, Hima.”

Aya hid a smile behind her glass. “It suits her.”

Lila leaned forward, eyes wide with awe. “She looked at you. Like, really looked at you. Don’t even deny it.”

Hima sat back, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “It was nothing.”

But her clenched fists beneath the table told a different story.

Across the ballroom, Aria glanced back one last time — her gaze sweeping the crowd, searching for the dark-suited stranger whose steady hand had stopped her world, if only for a heartbeat.

The apartment was unusually loud that afternoon. Aya’s laptop chimed with endless hospital alerts, her brow furrowed as she typed with surgeon-level precision. Abi, sprawled across the couch, was buried under digital drafts and schematic blueprints. The entire room thrummed with responsibility.

“Groceries,” Aya muttered, pushing her glasses up her nose. “We’re out. Again.”

Abi didn’t even look up. “Order in.”

Aya shot her a glare. “We can’t eat takeout forever. Lila, you said you wanted to learn how to cook, didn’t you?”

Lila perked up from the floor. “I did! But we don’t even have ingredients. No eggs, no vegetables, nothing.”

Abi waved lazily at the shopping list. “Then someone else gets them. Volunteers?”

Aya’s hands were full. Abi’s brain was fried. Slowly, the room turned toward Hima — who was quietly adjusting the strap of her wristwatch in silence.

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Lila jumped to her feet, eyes bright. “I’ll come with you!”

The automatic doors whooshed open, letting in the hum of fluorescent lights. Aisles gleamed beneath polished linoleum, the air thick with the smell of bread and detergent. Carts rattled. Families drifted by in soft chatter.

Hima pushed the cart with calm precision, black shirt neatly pressed, sleeves rolled up. Even in the most mundane places, her composure felt deliberate — like she could turn a supermarket aisle into a boardroom. Lila trailed beside her, peppering her with questions about recipes and ingredients, voice bubbling like a soundtrack.

But somewhere between the condiments and the bakery section, they got separated.

Lila, distracted by a pastry display, slipped into another aisle. Hima didn’t notice at first — her focus was fixed on the shopping list in her hand.

When she looked up, Lila was gone.

“Lila?” Her tone was calm, but sharp enough to draw glances from nearby shoppers. Not panic — just instinct. Always alert, always scanning.

She turned a corner — and froze.

Aria.

Not wrapped in designer gowns or stage lights this time. Just a simple hoodie, hair tied in a loose bun, a basket hooked in one arm. She was staring at a row of pasta sauces, biting her lip in quiet concentration.

For a second, the world seemed smaller.

Aria noticed the stillness, then looked up. Her eyes widened slightly. Recognition flickered — faint, but there.

“You.”

Her voice wasn’t cold, just curious — like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

Hima’s hand tightened on the cart handle. She nodded once, composed as ever.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Aria chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Believe it or not, I do buy my own groceries. Celebrities are human too.”

There was a pause — a comfortable one, somehow. Aria’s gaze lingered, studying her, as if trying to recall exactly where she’d seen those eyes before.

“You were at the gala,” she said after a beat. “On the balcony. You caught that tray.”

Hima didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up one of the jars Aria had been debating over and dropped it gently into her basket.

“This one’s better. Less sugar.”

Aria blinked — then smiled, small but genuine. “Thanks. You have good timing.”

Before Hima could reply, a familiar voice cut through the aisle.

“Hima! I found the eggs!”

Lila appeared, beaming — until her jaw dropped. “Wait… is that— oh my god, that’s Aria! Hi— I mean— wow— hi!”

Aria laughed, graceful as always. “Hi. You must be her friend.”

Hima shot Lila a look sharp enough to silence a room. But Aria’s gaze didn’t waver. It lingered, thoughtful, as if there was more she wanted to say.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” Aria said at last, and turned away, her perfume trailing behind like a memory that refused to fade.

At the checkout, Lila couldn’t stop whispering.

“Hima. That was her. Her. And she talked to you like she remembered you. You’re living a romance drama!”

Hima stacked the groceries neatly, face unreadable.

“Focus on the eggs.”

But inside, a quiet current stirred — subtle, steady, undeniable.

She had been noticed again.