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Meera's twisted love

Meera's twisted love

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14 Chapters
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When fragile-hearted Meera becomes the secretary to the ruthless billionaire Reyan Khanna, her world turns upside down. A young lady who had nothing to eat suddenly started to explore the world of diamonds and deception, Meera must face the demons of her past-and the shadows in Reyan's eyes. As trust is tested and loyalties are shattered, a secret threatens to destroy them both. In a world of cruel power games, will love be enough to survive?

Chapter 1 Rain and Rice

Meera's Point Of View

It always started with the rain.

Not the kind that made you want to dance, or smell the earth, or write poetry. No. Mumbai's monsoons weren't kind like that.

They were loud and unrelenting-like a truth you couldn't ignore.

I tightened the dupatta around my shoulders and stepped over a flooded curb, careful not to slip. My old sandals were soaked, clinging to my feet like second skin.

On one hand, I held a jute bag filled with rice, eggs, and whatever I could afford after my shift at the café. With the other, I tried to balance an umbrella that had lost its strength two monsoons ago.

"Didi!" a little voice called out. I turned to see the neighborhood kids playing cricket with a broken bat and a plastic ball, splashing muddy water everywhere.

"Go inside, Ajay! You'll catch a cold!" I yelled over the rain.

"But it's Sunday!" he shouted back, grinning like that was a valid excuse. I didn't argue. What was childhood if not a few stolen moments?

I reached our building-if you could call a crumbling three-story structure with moss-stained walls and rusted iron railings a "building." We lived on the second floor. No lift, of course. Just stairs that groaned under your weight and smelled of dampness and old secrets.

The moment I opened the door, a wave of warmth and turmeric hit me. The smell of home.

"Raghav?" I called out, shutting the door with my foot.

"In the bedroom!" came his voice.

I kicked off my wet sandals and walked in to find him lying on the thin mattress, surrounded by books.

"You didn't eat lunch?" I asked, dropping the groceries in the kitchen.

"I wasn't hungry," he said, eyes glued to some chemistry diagram. Liar.

I didn't push it. He was thirteen, smart, and too grown up for his age. Just like I had been when I lost my parents. When we both lost everything.

I made us tea. It was the only thing that felt like a ritual on days like this. Two cups-more milk than tea, and sugar only if we were feeling rich. Today, we weren't.

I handed him his cup and sat beside him on the mattress, pulling my knees to my chest.

"Midterm results tomorrow?" I asked.

He nodded. "I think I did okay. Math was a mess though."

"You always say that and end up getting full marks."

"Not this time," he mumbled.

I glanced at him-his tired eyes, the way he pressed his lips together. He was hiding something. But then again, we both were.

We sipped in silence for a while. The fan whirred above us, loud enough to drown out thoughts if you let it. I didn't.

"Did the landlord come?" I finally asked.

"Yeah. Morning. He asked about rent."

"What did you say?"

"That you'd talk to him."

Of course. I always did.

I worked three jobs-waitress at a café in the mornings, part-time typist for a small firm in the evenings, and tutoring a fifth-grader on weekends. It was barely enough. But I'd never let Raghav see the cracks.

"You know, Raghav," I said softly, "someday we'll live in a place with real windows. The kind that don't leak."

He grinned. "And a fridge that doesn't buzz like a dying robot?"

I laughed. "Yes. And a sofa that doesn't poke your butt."

He laughed too, and for a second, it was enough. That laugh. That little piece of normal.

"Hey, Meera?" he said, turning serious again. "Do you ever miss them?"

My smile faltered.

"All the time," I whispered.

It had been seven years since the accident. Seven years since a drunk driver took away our parents and left behind a girl who had to grow up overnight, and a boy too young to understand what 'orphan' meant.

"I don't remember their voices anymore," he said quietly.

I looked at him, blinked against the sting in my eyes. "You were six. It's okay."

"But you do, right? You remember?"

"Some days, yes. Some days I just remember the silence that came after."

He leaned into me, resting his head on my shoulder. "You're doing a good job, you know."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "That's sweet of you. But the rice bag burst on the way home, I yelled at a six-year-old, and our umbrella's dead."

He chuckled. "Still a good job."

It was moments like these-quiet, tender, and raw-that reminded me why I fought so hard. Why I stayed up at night crunching numbers. Why I skipped meals so he could have seconds.

I wanted more for us. Not riches. Not diamonds. Just peace. Dignity. A life where I didn't have to choose between bus fare and dinner.

I got up, stretched my back, and walked over to the window. Rain still pounded the streets below, turning potholes into puddles.

Tomorrow, I had an interview. A real one.

I didn't tell Raghav yet-I didn't want to jinx it. Some temp agency had set it up, and the only thing I knew was the name: Khanna Enterprises.

Fancy. Way out of my league. But I'd show up. I'd wear my best kurta, tie my hair back tight, and pretend like my world wasn't made of leaking ceilings and overdue rent.

"Dinner at twenty," I said over my shoulder.

"Can I have two chapatis tonight?" Raghav asked.

I smiled, even as my heart pinched. "You can have three."

And I meant it.

Even if it meant skipping mine.

Because that's what love looked like in our world-not grand gestures or shiny rings.

Just an extra chapati and a quiet promise: I've got you. That evening, the rain kept falling like it had something to prove.

I patched up the torn rice bag with old tape, cooked dinner in the dim glow of candlelight after the power cut-again. I watched Raghav eat, pretending I wasn't hungry.

Outside, thunder roared. Inside, I held onto hope. Tomorrow will be different. It had to be.

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