MISTAKEN LOVE

Isha’s POV "No! I—trust me, please... I beg you, just trust me once! And I woke up. Gasping. Heart pounding like it wanted to break out of my chest. It was 6 in the morning. I was in my bed. Safe. Breathing. Alive. But the weight on my chest said otherwise. It was again that nightmare. The same one that’s haunted me every single night for the past six years. I pressed my hand against my forehead, already damp with sweat. My palms trembled. My throat felt dry. I looked around the room—sunlight slowly filtering in through the curtains—but inside me, it was still dark. No matter how many times I wake up... I never really escape it. But there’s nothing normal about waking up to your own voice begging for trust... and seeing the same cold, heartless eyes staring back at you. Eyes that once looked at me like I was the center of his world. The man I once loved more than life itself. Now, they only haunt me in the dark. I sat up, curling my knees to my chest, trying not to break all over again. It’s been six years, two months, and eleven days... and I still feel his hatred burning on my skin like fresh wounds. They say success changes people. Maybe it does. Or maybe… it just helps you hide your pain better. "I built Ayka from scratch from one rented room to a national brand. I'm not just the CEO. I'm the damn founder but no this isn't one of those tragic stories where I build my empire from scratch. I slipped out of bed, stretched briefly, and walked into my walk-in wardrobe. Neatly lined blazers, heels, handbags my armor. Today, I picked a white silk blouse, a beige pencil skirt, and nude pumps. Professional. Sharp. Elegant. Within twenty minutes, I was dressed, hair Open, light nude lipstick, and diamond studs. I didn’t need much to make a statement. I was the statement. Walking down the staircase of our modern duplex home, I already smelled fresh toast and coffee. “Perfect timing,” bhaiya said from the table, flipping through his tablet. Bhabhi looked up with a smile. “Good morning, madam CEO.” I gave them both a soft smile. “Good morning. What’s the gossip over breakfast today?” Bhaiya chuckled. “Your stock’s up. Again. I’m starting to think you might actually run the world.” I poured myself some coffee, calm and poised. “I don’t need to run the world,” I said, sipping. “Just enough of it to keep things interesting.” They laughed. I joined them. But somewhere inside… A part of me still knew. Even perfect mornings… don’t last forever. I took another sip of coffee, letting the silence linger for a second before casually asking, “Where’s Ruhi?” Bhabhi rolled her eyes dramatically. “Still sleeping. I’ve tried waking her up at least five times. Her school’s already running late but she refuses to move.” “She didn’t sleep on time again?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Of course not. She was watching those dance videos all night. Said she was ‘learning the steps,’” bhabhi huffed. I smiled. “She’s twelve. She doesn’t need choreography.” “She needs a miracle,” bhaiya added, without even looking up from his tablet. I set my coffee down and stood up, adjusting the cuff of my blouse. “It’s okay. I’ll go wake her.” Bhabhi looked relieved. “Good luck. If anyone can convince that stubborn little panda to get out of bed, it’s you.” I smirked slightly and walked toward the staircase. Strong-willed girls run in the family, after all. I walked upstairs, my heels soft against the wooden floor, and gently pushed open Ruhi’s bedroom door. The moment I stepped in, I felt it. That familiar tightness in my chest. I knew what it was. His face was the first thing I saw framed perfectly on her wall. Messy hair, that arrogant smirk, his guitar slung over one shoulder like it belonged there. Kabir Oberoi. He was everywhere. One poster had him in sunglasses, laughing mid-performance. Another shirt unbuttoned just enough to make every teenage heart skip. A third him on stage, head tilted, lost in music. And then more by the dresser, on the cupboard, even a sticker on her study lamp. I swallowed hard. He hadn’t changed much. Still the same face. Still the same fire. But the world saw magic in him. I had seen the madness. Ruhi lay curled under her blanket, one hand clutching a pillow, her small frame rising and falling gently with each breath. Completely unaware of how her little shrine was slowly choking the air out of me. I took a quiet step closer, my eyes still on one particular photo of him the one where he was smiling. Not his stage smile. The real one. God. It had been years since I last saw that smile in person. I closed my eyes, just for a second, steadying myself. He doesn’t matter anymore. But my chest knew I was lying. I shook the thought off. This wasn’t the time. I bent down beside Ruhi’s bed, brushing a few strands of hair off her face. “Ruhi…” I whispered gently. No response. Just a soft snore and her pulling the blanket tighter. I smiled. “Sleeping Beauty, your kingdom awaits,” I said, tapping her nose. Still nothing. Okay, challenge accepted. I leaned in closer. “Ruhi Mehra… do you know your school bus has left, your friends are probably already eating tiffin, and Kabir Oberoi just announced he’s picking one lucky fan to call today—only early risers eligible.” Her eyes flew open instantly. “WHAT?! That’s not fair! I always wake up early—except today!” I burst out laughing. “You’re up now, aren’t you?” She sat up, looking utterly betrayed. “That was mean. You used Kabir against me.” “But good to know that works better than ten alarms.” Ruhi crossed her arms with an exaggerated pout. “Not fair, bua. Kabir is the love of my life.” I raised an eyebrow. “You’re twelve.” “So what? Age is just a number.” I rolled my eyes. “God help the world when you turn fifteen.” She giggled and threw her arms around me. “You’re evil.” I hugged her back. Tight. And for a second just a second I forgot what his face looked like on the posters. Because this Ruhi, safe in my arms was what mattered. 🕊️ By 10:15 a.m., I was in the glass elevator of Ayka Towers 29 floors above the city and exactly where I belonged. The moment the doors opened on the executive floor, the atmosphere shifted. Phones rang softly. Heels clicked on marble. People straightened their postures the second they saw me. “Good morning, ma’am,” someone greeted. I nodded once. Not cold just efficient. “Your 10:30 with the Singh group has been shifted to 11,” my assistant, Naina, said, falling into step beside me. “Legal sent the revised MOU draft. Finance is waiting for your approval on the quarterly proposal.” “Send the legal draft to my desk. I’ll sign the finance papers after the call,” I replied, already unlocking my office with the fingerprint scanner. Inside, it was all clean lines glass, black leather, chrome. Minimalist. Intentional. I placed my bag on the desk, slipped off my blazer, and sat down in my chair—the one with a panoramic view of the city I’d built my name in. “I’ll be in back-to-back meetings till one,” I told Naina without looking up. “No interruptions unless someone’s dying. Or unless it’s the minister’s office.” She nodded and closed the door behind her. And just like that, I was in work mode. No emotions. No past. No Kabir Oberoi. Just Isha Mehra. The woman everyone respected. The woman no one messed with. 🕊️ The conference room was full. CEOs. Directors. Investors. Every seat around the polished oak table was occupied. All eyes turned toward me as I walked in. No smile. No apology for being the last to enter. I wasn’t late. I was expected. “Good morning,” I said, placing the file on the table as I took my seat at the head. “Let’s begin.” One of the men—Mr. Arora, head of a retail chain—cleared his throat. “Miss Mehra, we’ve gone through the preliminary proposal but we’d love to hear it from you directly… What is Ayka really offering in this collaboration?” I looked around the room. Not a single weak player here. All of them had built empires. But none like mine. I clicked the remote and the screen behind me lit up with Ayka’s signature logo—elegant, gold, timeless. “Ayka,” I began, “isn’t just a jewelry brand. It’s a legacy. We don’t sell products. We sell emotion. Story. Power.” The screen shifted to visuals—women across generations wearing Ayka pieces, from bridal collections to global red carpets. “Our craftsmanship is heritage-backed. Every piece we make is handcrafted, sketched, polished, and detailed by experts who’ve spent decades perfecting their art. Ayka isn’t about quantity. It’s about legacy. Every design holds a story, and every story holds weight.” I looked up. “This collaboration isn’t about expanding reach. It’s about expanding meaning. We don’t need louder markets. We need deeper roots.” A quiet pause. Then— “Well said,” murmured Mr. Sharma from the opposite end. “Brilliantly put,” added Mrs. Bedi, head of a luxury retail group. “I’ve seen CEOs talk numbers. Rarely do I see them talk soul.” There were nods around the room. And I stayed silent. Because I didn’t need to say more. Ayka spoke for itself. As the screen dimmed and the presentation ended, the air in the room still held that rare silence—the kind that follows impact. One of the youngest CEOs at the table, from a rising fashion startup, leaned forward. “Miss Mehra… if I may say so, you’ve completely redefined how we look at heritage branding. This... this is visionary.” I offered a polite nod. “Heritage means nothing if you can’t evolve with time. At Ayka, we honor the past, but we design for the future.” Mrs. Bedi smiled, clearly impressed. “And that’s why your brand doesn’t just survive in luxury it leads it.” I glanced at my watch. “If no one has further questions, I’d suggest we move on to the logistics discussion.” A few heads shook. One of the men chuckled softly, “No questions. Just admiration.” I allowed myself the faintest smile, then turned to Naina, who was seated beside me taking notes. “Circulate the updated proposal file by end of day. We’ll proceed with phase one next month.” “Yes, ma’am,” she replied immediately. I stood up. The others followed. And as I stepped out of the room, I didn’t need applause or handshakes. Power doesn't demand attention. It commands it. 🕊️ I was reviewing the logistics report when a soft knock echoed through my office. “Come in,” I said, eyes still on the screen. The door opened quietly, and Naina stepped in sharp as always, tablet in hand, posture perfect. “Ma’am, Mr. Roy would like to meet you,” she said. I glanced up. “Sure. Let him in.” A moment later, the door opened again—this time with a bit more confidence. “Hello, Isha.” Arnav Roy walked in with his usual calm charm, tailored in a navy suit and that signature half-smile that made everyone think he wasn’t dangerous. He was. Just not with me. “You killed it,” he said, leaning against the back of the chair across from me. “The way you handled that boardroom… damn.” I leaned back in my chair, a faint smirk playing on my lips. “You were there?” “No but I’m always watching when you pitch,” he said casually, like it was obvious. “It’s good for my ego to be reminded I’m not the smartest person in the room.” I chuckled softly. “You’re not even the second smartest.” He grinned. “Touché.” He was uninvited but welcome. That’s how it had always been with us—uncomplicated, honest, and far too rare in this world. “You should’ve joined the panel, Arnav,” I said, crossing one leg over the other. “Would’ve been nice to have at least one intelligent person on the opposite side.” He laughed. “And get slaughtered by the queen of boardrooms? No, thanks. I like my reputation intact.” “You mean what’s left of it?” I teased. He placed a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “You wound me, Mehra.” I leaned forward slightly, playful. “Good. Keeps you humble.” We both smiled—one of those rare, real smiles that don’t need words. Arnav was one of the few people I didn’t need to pretend around. He didn’t care about the titles or the press. He’d known me since my early days at Ayka before I had a cabin with a skyline view. After a pause, he straightened up slightly, tone shifting just a bit. “Actually, I did want to talk to you about something serious.” I tilted my head. “Go on.” He pulled out a sleek black folder from his briefcase and slid it across the table. “I’ve partnered with a few agencies on a high-profile campaign for one of my new divisions—music branding meets luxury product curation,” he said. “We’re planning a limited-edition jewelry line for artists… edgy, bold, performance-driven pieces.” “Interesting…” I said, flipping through the concept deck. “But what does this have to do with Ayka?” “We want to collaborate with your design team for the exclusive pieces,” he replied. “The campaign needs that Ayka soul. That elegance with an edge.” I looked up. “And the artist?” He hesitated for just a second. “He’s... kind of a big deal. We’re keeping the announcement under wraps right now, but trust me—he’s headline-worthy.” I narrowed my eyes slightly. “Name?” Arnav gave a tiny shrug, playful but vague. “You’ll know soon enough. Just say yes to the collab. I’ll handle the drama.” Drama? I raised a brow. But before I could ask further, he added— “Besides, you said it yourself—Ayka isn’t about reach. It’s about meaning. And this project might bring you more meaning than you expect.” There was something in his voice I couldn’t quite read. But I let it go. For now. I closed the folder Arnav had handed me and looked up at him. He wasn’t selling. He wasn’t pushing. He was simply waiting. And that was the thing about Arnav Roy—he never needed to convince me. He earned my trust long before people started calling me ma’am. I tapped my fingers lightly against the desk. “It’s a bold concept,” I said. “Not Ayka’s usual route. High-risk.” He tilted his head slightly. “And high reward.” There was a pause. Then I nodded once. “I’m in.” His smile widened—real and rare. “I knew you’d say that.” “I’m saying yes because it’s you,” I added. “Don’t make me regret it.” He raised both hands. “Never. I promise you—it’ll be a beautiful storm.” I didn’t catch it then— The way he’d said storm. Maybe because I thought I’d already survived mine. 🕊️ I reached home later than usual. As always. But unlike most nights, the house wasn’t quiet. Lights were still on. Laughter echoed faintly from the living room. The comforting sound of people I loved… waiting. I dropped my bag on the console near the door and slipped off my heels. My mom spotted me first, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and a disapproving look that had no real heat behind it. “You ate anything?” she asked, voice firm. I shook my head. “No.” “Then sit. Now. Quietly.” I didn’t argue. You don’t argue with her. Not when she’s wearing that look. I walked toward the dining table and took my seat. A fresh plate was already waiting. Still warm. Still home. I was halfway through the first bite when I heard footsteps—fast, wild, too energetic for the hour. Then— “Buaaaaa!!” I looked up just in time to see Ruhi running toward me, her eyes shining, cheeks flushed, hair bouncing with every step. “Whoa, whoa—what happened?” I asked, startled by her excitement. She was breathless, but beaming. Her entire body practically vibrating with joy. “He’s coming!” she squealed. I blinked. “Who’s coming?” “Kabir!” she shouted, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Kabir Oberoi is coming to our city!! He’s performing next weekend!! A concert! A real one!!” I froze. The spoon in my hand stopped halfway to my mouth. For a moment, I couldn’t feel anything except the ringing in my ears. “What?” I whispered. Ruhi bounced up and down beside me. “I just saw the announcement on his page! It’s official! Kabir Oberoi live in concert, right here—in our city!! Bua, can you believe it?!” A single name. A thousand wounds My stomach turned. But I kept my face still. I had to. For her. “That’s… exciting,” I managed, though the words felt foreign in my mouth. Exciting wasn’t the right word. Not when your past… just walked back into your city. Ruhi was still buzzing with energy, practically bouncing beside me as I forced myself to finish another bite. “Bua,” she said, tugging at my arm, “let’s book the tickets, na? Kabir’s concert tickets sell out so fast! We should book them now!” I didn’t answer. She didn’t notice. She was too caught up in her world—a world filled with posters and playlists and a man she adored… …without knowing a thing about the storm he once left behind. And just like that, the past I had buried so carefully… …started knocking again. Hard.