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Aarna's POV

Have you ever felt like your whole life is just... a disguise?

Yeah. Same.

I mean, look at me. Sitting cross-legged on the hardwood bench of the university corridor with a whole avalanche of readings spilling off my lap.

If you walked past me which you probably would, without even slowing down you'd think of me as just another sleep-deprived, overworked psych student trying to survive another semester without completely losing her mind.

And you'd be... right. Mostly.

But also? Not even close.

Because under the way I keep my eyes down when someone walks by like maybe invisibility is a superpower there's... another me.

Aarna Banerjee from what I was named.

Daughter of that Banerjee family.

Yeah, you heard right. Those Banerjees.

Mafia royalty.

Even thinking that phrase makes me want to laugh and barf at the same time but mostly barf.

One would think having your father's name spoken in hushed tones all over the city would feel like power, right? You'd think it would feel like you're untouchable. As if walking around with a crown made of gold and maybe just a little bit of blood is an inherent grandeur.

But it isn't.

Not for me.

Because to me it is equal to having a choking chain wound tightly around my neck. Gold-plated, sure, because we Banerjees never skimp on appearances. But still a damn chain nonetheless because every time I take a breath, it reminds me I'm only breathing because someone else allows me to.

And don't even get me started on how everyone thinks my life must be so glamorous with the weekly lavish parties, silk dresses, an army of guards and the whole world bending to your family's will.

Yeah. Except nobody wants to see the rules. The way even your own house starts to feel like a glass cage where the guards aren't just for show but also to watch you and keep you in line.

I've spent my whole life learning how to keep my head down. How to keep quiet. How to smile when my mother calls me "soft" like it's a curse. How to act like the gossip about me doesn't slice me open every single time.

And I'm good at it.

Too good that sometimes I even forget who I am under all that.

People always assume I'm safe and nobody sees me as a threat. But they can't perceive how much it hurts to never, ever be seen as anything else either.

So, yeah. I hide here every other day, pretending to be nothing more than a girl with a thesis to finish. And every time someone glances my way and their eyes just... slide right past me? I almost feel like I've won.

Because at least here? Nobody expects me to be anything I'm not.

I'm not the perfect daughter.
I'm not the heir.
I'm not anyone's prize to parade around.

I'm just... Aarna.

For a few hours every day, at least.

Until the phone in my bag buzzes and my stomach awfully sinks because I know exactly who it is before I even check.

And, sure enough.

Baba.

I stare at it for a second or five deluding myself to believe that maybe if I stare hard enough it'll stop ringing on its own. Or maybe the universe will magically do me a solid and drop a blackout or an earthquake or, hell, a well-placed lightning strike right through my phone so I don't have to actually y'know pick up.

The phone buzzes a little more aggressively in my hand making me press my palm into my face.

Fine. Fine, Aarna. Just get it over with.

I jab the green button harder than necessary and mutter, "Hello."

"You pick up my call after three rings now? Is this what I raised you for? To waste my time?"

Ouch.

I blink a few times, swallowing down the thousand things I want to say. Mostly because I already know how that would go.

I adjust my glasses with my free hand and mumble, "Sorry, Baba. I was- I was just outside my classroom, I didn't see right away-"

"You didn't see?" He cuts in, with this little scoff of disbelief. "You're telling me your eyes don't work now? Do I need to have them checked? Or are you simply that... careless?"

Wow. Okay. Nice to know my first crime of the day is apparently having late reflexes.

I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out except this awkward sound before he exhales sharply on the other end and I can practically picture the disappointed shake of his head.

My nails dig into my palm as I force out the words, "It won't happen again."

That's my favorite choice of lie.

But what else am I supposed to say? What am I actually thinking?

Things like sorry I didn't drop everything in the universe to answer you immediately, Baba. Sorry I didn't throw my work into the air and knock over three classmates just so I could grovel on the first ring. Sorry I'm still not the kind of daughter you wanted, one who wears chiffon and glides down the stairs all thin and elegant and perfect like Ma. Sorry I was born... me.

But of course, all that just sits unsaid behind my teeth.

The silence on the line stretches for a second before he says clipped and cold, "I expect you home before dinner. We have... things to do."

My stomach drops further because nothing good ever follows his things to do.

He doesn't even wait for me to respond before the line goes dead leaving me to stare at my blank phone screen, trying not to let my expression crack too much because I can feel a few people glancing at me as they walk by.

I close my eyes and take long, shaky breaths my therapist used to tell me about.

The ones that never really fix anything but at least make you feel like you're trying.

On the window where I sit I notice my glasses gone askew and hair coming loose.

God. No wonder my aunts roll their eyes when they see me at family lunches. Every time one of them leans over her overpriced Louis Vuitton clutch and says something like "Oh ho, shonamoni, still wasting your days on all this... studying? Biye korle toh ghorei doctor khela jabe, no?" I just smile tightly and say nothing.

But inside? Oh, inside I'm imagining butchering their precious clutches thread for thread because sitting at home learning how to make perfect bhat while waiting for some stranger handpicked by one's family to decide if you're pretty enough for him to marry you? That's apparently not a waste of days.

I snort under my breath, shoving my books and papers into my bag in a way that definitely isn't neat enough for my professor's liking and push myself to my feet slinging the bag over my shoulder and adjust my glasses, muttering to myself, "My fan club at home will be thrilled to know I've returned after another fruitless day of wasting oxygen."

And then oh. Oh, I feel it out of the blue.

An electric prickle at the base of my hairline traveling down my spine and for the tiniest fraction of a second, everything else be it the murmur of students passing by, even my own thoughts just... goes quiet.

I don't even realize I've frozen until my breath catches somewhere between my ribs and my throat.

I glance up and my heart just stops.

There. At the far end of the hallway.

A man.

Umoving and not even pretending to be part of the crowd.

Simply stand there.

Watching me.

And I swear to god, it's like his presence alone bends the space around him even though he doesn't even belong in this place but he owns it anyway like he plausibly owns everything.

Those eyes.

Dark. Sharp. Onyx.

It's not just that they're staring down at me. It's how they're staring direct and unflinching already knowing me too well and suddenly I can't even put it into words or what it was exactly about him.

The way his gaze didn't waver even when mine did.

The way he stood, hands in his pockets, completely still but somehow radiating this quiet kind of danger imitating a wolf who doesn't need to bare his teeth because he already knows he's at the top of the food chain.

And the way his presence no, his unnerving attention made my whole body light up and lock up at the same time as though a startled deer under a hunter's sightline.

My fingers tighten on the strap of my bag. My ears feel hot and my palms go clammy such that I can feel my pulse pounding somewhere aloud.

And as I blink for a microsecond.

He's gone.

Just. Gone.

Like he was never even there.

The end of the corridor is empty, silent with not a trace of anyone leaving me standing there, stupidly, staring down that empty stretch of floor tiles like they're going to give me an answer.

My heart is still hammering.

Did I... imagine that?

I must have imagined it.

God, girl. Get a grip. Clearly this is what happens when you average five hours of sleep and let iced coffee count as your only food menu. You start conjuring strangers out of thin air like some sad, overworked heroine in a haunted soap opera.

I force out a shaky breath, drag a hand through my frizzy bun, and shake my head hard like maybe that'll dislodge the weird fog in my brain.

He wasn't there.

Of course he wasn't.

Just another trick my mind plays on me.

That's all.

Right?

But even as I finally tear my gaze away and start walking toward the doors, that strange, heavy niggle in my chest doesn't leave entirely.

The metro. That's what I chant to myself. I'll take the metro today. I love the metro. Well okay "love" is a strong word then again it's up to my taste. Nobody in my family takes it as it's too beneath them and that's exactly why I love it. It's one of the few places where nobody knows or cares who I am.

So yeah. Metro is definitely the plan.

Except the second I step off the last stair and onto the street, my motivation sinks.

Because waiting by the university gates with two big black SUVs idling by the curb along three of my father's scary guards standing outside them or as I like to call them in my head: the goons.

Yeah. Baba calls them "security," but let's not sugarcoat it. They're goons.

I don't even try to hide the eye roll this time.

Of course he'd send them. Because God forbid his liability of a daughter risks her life walking home through the dangerous, terrifying streets of Shrigarh in broad daylight.

An hour later, by the time the convoy stops at the front steps of my golden cage, my mother, Vaidehi Banerjee is already waiting just inside the massive carved doors, her sari perfectly draped, diamonds glittering at her ears, her lips painted the exact shade of judgment.

She doesn't even say hello or even ask how my day went as if the answer would ever matter to her.

Instead, she sweeps her eyes over me and speaks briskly, "Come. We don't have time for you to stand around like that."

Before I can even open my mouth to ask what she's talking about, she spins on her heel and starts walking and like some well-trained pet, I follow her.

The house is quiet except for the sound of our footsteps and the faint hum of the air conditioning.

She opens my bedroom and beckons me inside my little safe cave of books and blankets and quiet however which is currently full of her people.

There's already a rolling rack of clothes against the wall, shimmering silks and chiffons in every color imaginable. Jewelry boxes laid open on my desk like treasure chests. A chair in the center of the room with a little table next to it covered in brushes, powders and hair pins.

What the actual hell.

I stop dead in the doorway, blinking at the scene and then turn to my mother who's already giving instructions to one of the stylists.

"Make it quick." She orders curtly. "We don't have all evening."

I finally found my voice then, "Uh... what is this?"

She glances at me, one perfectly arched brow raised, like I just asked what 2 + 2 equals.

"What does it look like?" She says, her tone dripping with impatience. "Get here already. We have to make you presentable."

What's going on?

Why tonight?

Why now?

And why do I suddenly feel like a lamb being fattened for slaughter?

My mother finally turns to me fully, her expression perfectly calm but her eyes sharp as knives.

"Now don't just stand there gawking, Aarna!" She scolds. "Sit. I don't have time for your little tantrums tonight."

Almost two hours later, I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror as the stylist finally mercifully steps back and for a second, I genuinely don't recognize the girl staring back at me.

She's... polished. That's the only word for it.

Not alive. Not happy. Not even beautiful in the way I want to be beautiful.

Just... polished to perfection.

Hair sleek and shiny, parted just so, each strand locked into place with what I'm assuming is hairspray. Makeup flawless expertly hiding every dark circle, every bit of exhaustion that usually shows up under my eyes. My cheeks are dusted with just enough blush to give me a glow that doesn't belong to me. The earrings that feel heavier than they look, a necklace that sits like a gilded collar at my throat glints under the overhead light. Each piece is tasteful and subtle, but still just loud enough to scream wealth.

Because God forbid anyone forget we're rich.

And the dress.

A pale seafoam evening gown clearly handpicked to make my skin look lighter, more "acceptable." Because dark colors, according to my mother's entire personality, "make you look darker and plumper, Aarna, and that's the last thing we need, isn't it?"

So here I stand in a gown that hugs my waist tightly enough to remind me that breathing is a privilege, not a right, and flares just slightly at my hips to create the illusion that I belong in it.

It's beautiful. Objectively.

But it's not me.

It doesn't even feel like me.

Yet here I am.

Teetering in heels that feel like medieval torture devices designed by a sadistic cobbler, my toes already numb, my arches screaming, my skin is glowing in all the "right" places thanks to the army of powders, highlighters, and God knows what else they caked on me because apparently my natural melanin and thickness are a family crisis.

A flaw they've been trying to photoshop out of the picture since the day I was apparently born.

And wow. What a fun little existential crisis to have while everyone else in the room is fawning over how "lovely" I look.

"You look stunning, miss." One of the stylists gushes behind me, hands clasped under her chin like she's just sculpted a masterpiece out of wet clay and can't wait to sign her name on it.

I almost want to laugh.

But then my mother steps closer studying me with her critical eyes that never blink and lets the silence stretch long enough to make my stomach tighten.

"Hmm. At least now you don't look like a sack of potatoes. Stand up straight."

Which.

Wow.

Thanks. Really. That just fills me right up with maternal love and validation.

I force my shoulders back anyway, straighten my spine, lift my chin a little even though every single instinct in me wants to curl back into myself like a cornered animal.

Because this?

This isn't me.

Not even close.

The next minute everyone else practically scatters, packing up their tools and murmuring polite goodnights afraid of being caught in the blast radius if my mother decides someone's skill wasn't up to par. The last one barely manages to fold the rolling rack of extra dresses before my mother's eyes cut to her and she squeaks out a hasty "thank you, ma'am" before fleeing.

And just like that, it's quiet again in the way that only my mother can make a room quiet.

Then she does something that surprises me by reaching out to grab hold of my upper arms not lovingly in any sense as her fingers clamp down with her rings biting into my skin through the silk of my gown painfully. The pressure makes the blood rush hot to my face even though my hands stay limp at my sides.

"This," She murmurs, her grip tightening just enough to make my shoulders tense, "is an important evening for your father." Her fingers digging in harder now, "So don't." A pointed squeeze, my flesh throbbing beneath her grip. "Don't make him upset tonight in any way, Aarna. Also don't," she finishes, her voice reduced to a soft hiss, "make me regret you."

It's not the words themselves that sting the most.

It's the ease with which she says them.

Like it's nothing. Like it's a fact. Like it's written into my blood that I'm nothing but a potential regret waiting to happen.

It's funny, in a way.

Because she doesn't even have to raise her voice to break me down into pieces small enough to swallow.

My pulse flutters in my neck like a trapped bird, desperate to escape, but of course it can't.

I look up at her cold expressions and force myself to do what I've been trained to do since I was old enough to walk in a straight line and not spill juice on my dress.

I smile.

Brittle, tight and brittle again. Because that's what you do. That's what I do.

You smile. You nod. You survive.

"Wow, Ma!" I chirp lightly, "You always know just how to pep-talk me." My voice cracks on the last syllable, just barely, but she doesn't even notice or care but simply lets go of my arms at last and smooths down the silk on my shoulders with her cool, manicured fingers brushing invisible lint off me.

"Fix your face." She murmurs, already turning toward the door. "Remove those hideous glasses and put on the contact lens."

Her heels click against the marble as she walks away and the ominous noise echoes through the room long after she's gone.

My hands clench and unclench at my sides, leaving little crescent moons in my palms where my nails dig in.

I glance at the mirror.

At her.

At me.

I wonder what would happen if I didn't go downstairs.

If I just... stopped playing the part.

If I kicked off these ridiculous heels, ripped off this too-tight dress, wiped off the lipstick, left my so-called hideous glasses on and climbed out my window to run and run and never came back.

But I already know the answer.

Because that's not who I am.

Not yet.

The girl who climbs out windows and runs into the unknown is a distant dream, a whisper I'm too afraid to fully listen to. She's a heroine in a book's premise I haven't written, a future version of myself I can barely glimpse in the shimmering surface of a faraway mirage.

Today, I am the girl who smiles.

The girl who nods.

The girl who survives.

My gaze drifts to the vanity, to the small, round contact lens case sitting innocently beside my abandoned glasses.

My "hideous glasses."

The ones that blur the sharp edges of this suffocating reality, that allow me a tiny shield from the world's relentless gaze. They represent the last vestiges of the real Aarna, the one who hides in corridors, dreams of escaping the gilded cage and finds solace in anonymity.

With a sigh that feels too heavy for my chest, I pick up the case and lean in with practiced movements in order to insert the transparent lenses.

The world snaps into sharper focus completing the disguise.

A soft chime from downstairs slices through the quiet, a polite but insistent bell that signals the arrival of whoever it is.

My stomach clenches again.

It's time.

Time to descend.

Time to play the part.

Time to be a Banerjee.

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Lots of Love,

ANKITA