Maya
“Aditi met with an accident?”
The words echoed in my head, louder than they should have been, crashing against my chest like a tidal wave. I blinked once. Then again. But nothing changed. The mansion was in chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps thundering through the hallways—but my world had come to a complete stop.
How? Where? Why?
Questions raged in my mind, sharp and unrelenting. My throat was dry, lips parted, but no sound escaped me. I just sat there on the edge of the bed in my nighty, frozen in disbelief. My fingers clutched the bedsheet so tightly they had gone white, yet the chill that crawled over my skin wasn’t from the morning air.
Aditi.
My best friend.
The gentlest soul in our group—the one who laughed the softest and loved the hardest—was now fighting between life and death?
Utsav wasn’t home.
And Aditya?
Aditya was a storm tearing through the mansion, shouting commands at the guards, lashing out at anyone who didn’t respond fast enough. His usually composed demeanor had shattered. His voice was hoarse—panic, rage, and helplessness all tangled together.
Ishanvi stood near the entrance of the room, already dressed for the Filmfare Awards in a brown turtleneck top paired with a sleek black skirt, her hair and makeup flawless. But the moment she heard the news, she tore off her earrings, tossed her clutch aside, and canceled everything. Without a second thought. Her red-carpet dreams could wait—Aditi couldn't.
Shravni was out for a shoot—somewhere across the city, filming for her upcoming album. Unreachable. Unaware. And here I was…
Still sitting in my nightclothes.
Unwashed face. Hair tangled from sleep.
Trying to process the fact that one of my own was possibly breathing through tubes right now.
Aditya had told us she went out to meet a director for her upcoming film. It was supposed to be a quick meeting, a casual conversation. Nothing out of the ordinary.
But her car...
It had collided head-on with a fuel tanker.
And flipped.
Flipped—twice—before crashing into a divider. Witnesses said the car was completely crushed. No one could reach her for over an hour. The wreckage was too tight, the doors jammed, glass everywhere. By the time emergency responders pulled her out, she was unconscious, covered in blood, barely breathing.
I couldn’t understand it.
I didn’t want to.
This didn’t feel real. Not Aditi. She was the kind of girl who brought homemade coffee for the staff on long nights and still blushed when someone complimented her saree. Not the kind of girl who ended up in the ICU.
A sharp voice broke through my spiraling thoughts.
“Maya! Maya!”
I looked up.
Ishanvi was standing in front of me now, her hands on my shoulders, eyes wide with concern.
“Pull yourself together, Maya! We need to go to the hospital! Now!”
Her words hit like cold water.
I blinked the tears back and forced myself to move.
I stumbled into the bathroom, washed my face under freezing water, barely looking at my reflection in the mirror. My hands trembled as I tied my hair into a messy bun. I didn’t care about fixing it. I didn’t care about anything but getting to Aditi.
I didn't have time to plan an outfit or look presentable. The only thing I could grab was an oversized beige coat. I threw it over my nighty, zipped it halfway, and rushed barefoot toward the door.
“Maya, at least change your—”
Ishanvi began, but I cut her off with a firm shake of my head.
“No.”
I didn’t care about appearances. About looking like the ‘Bollywood star’ everyone expected.
Right now, I wasn’t a singer.
I wasn’t a celebrity.
I was a best friend.
And my best friend was lying somewhere between life and death.
We got into the car, the cold morning air slapping against our skin as the engine roared to life. I felt every bump on the road like a heartbeat—fast, uneven, painful.
The city outside was waking up.
But for me… something had gone completely silent inside.
The car was moving at a moderate speed—steady, cautious—just as Aditya had instructed.
He didn’t want another accident.
Not today. Not again.
The driver was obeying him like a soldier, but every second felt like it was slipping through our fingers. Like Aditi was slipping away.
My leg bounced anxiously. Fingertips tapped against my knees in a rhythm I couldn’t stop, matching the racing of my heart. My mind was a tangled, chaotic mess. Thoughts collided like crashing waves—loud, relentless, and confusing.
How did this happen? Was it truly an accident?
Or something more?
A cruel twist of fate?
Or... a deliberate strike?
The more time I spent with the Mehrotras, the more I began to understand—nothing in their world happened without a reason. Nothing was ever simple. Relationships with them came with risks. With secrets. With blood.
And today’s price was Aditi.
The same Aditi who once cried all night because I fainted from an overpacked schedule. The one who left flowers outside my door when I was too sick to speak.
The same gentle soul who wouldn’t even kill a mosquito—and now she was clinging to life in a hospital bed, alone.
My hands clenched into fists in my lap.
“No... no, she’s going to live. She has to.”
I whispered it like a prayer. A declaration. A desperate plea.
But the car wasn’t fast enough.
Time wasn’t fast enough.
Frustration began bubbling inside me like lava, thick and hot and volatile.
"Faster!" I snapped at the driver, my voice cracking with urgency.
“Ma’am... I’m sorry, sir Aditya said—”
"I don’t care what Aditya said!" I shouted, the panic rising in my throat like fire.
He was just following orders. I knew that. But that didn’t stop the rage from building.
“Stop the car!” I ordered.
He hesitated, eyes flickering up at the mirror in disbelief.
“Ma’am?”
I locked eyes with him, and there was nothing soft left in me now. My voice dropped, sharp as glass.
“I said stop the damn car. Either get out or I swear, I’ll reach the hospital after killing you before Aditya does.”
That got through.
The car halted abruptly, and the poor man scrambled out of the front seat, wide-eyed. I didn’t wait—I threw the door open, pushed him aside, and jumped behind the wheel.
Now it was my turn.
“Seatbelt. Now,” I snapped at Ishanvi, already adjusting the mirrors with swift, practiced motions.
She didn’t argue. She just clicked the belt across her chest and leaned back into the seat, calm and composed in her own way—because she knew me. She’d seen this side before.
The reckless side.
The side that didn’t stop when it came to people I loved.
The driver, meanwhile, looked like he was about to faint in the backseat.
“M-Ma’am, please… this is too fast—this is suicide—we’ll die before reaching Aditi ma’am—”
I didn’t respond.
I didn’t even blink.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles turning white as we flew through Mumbai’s chaotic streets. 80… 100… 120 km/h. Horns blared, lights blurred, people turned their heads—but I didn’t slow down.
Because Aditi didn’t have time.
Because we didn’t have time.
I was a Marathi mulgi, born in the chaos of this city, raised to fight through its noise, its danger, its madness. And tonight, I was going to drive like the streets belonged to me.
We were slicing through traffic, weaving through narrow lanes with inches to spare, when suddenly—
A black SUV drifted sharply across the road—cutting right in front of us.
I slammed the brakes.
The tires screeched, a deafening crack splitting the silence, rubber burning against the asphalt. The car dragged violently across the road, jolting us forward. I felt the seatbelt pull me back like a lifeline. My hair flew into my face. My lips parted in a silent scream, eyes widening in sheer disbelief—
And we stopped.
Just inches away.
My heart was pounding in my ears like a war drum.
I looked up.
And there he was.
Utsav Mehrotra.
Standing in front of the SUV like a statue.
Unshakable.
Unapologetic.
Untouchable.
He hadn’t even flinched.
He hadn’t moved a single inch to get out of the way.
He just stood there—cold, silent, and powerful.
Like the road belonged to him.
Like the world belonged to him.
My breath caught in my throat. My hair was still half across my face from the sudden jolt, but I could see him clearly now. That perfectly tailored black shirt. The glint of his watch. The cigarette between his fingers still burning calmly, like my reckless driving hadn’t disturbed his rhythm at all.
Ishanvi was frozen beside me, her hands gripping the edge of the seat.
The driver in the backseat looked like he had already seen heaven flash before his eyes.
And then, with that same terrifying calm, Utsav stepped out of the SUV.
Every movement deliberate. Measured.
He walked towards us—his eyes locked on mine through the windshield, unreadable.
Not angry.
Not impressed.
Just... disappointed.
My heart sank.
I had broken one of his silent rules—stepped out of line.
And now... God only knew what he’d do next.
“Want to die today, Miss Shekhawat?”
His voice was calm—too calm—as he opened the driver’s door, his tall frame casting a long shadow over me.
I slowly turned my head toward him, breath still shaky from the brake slam.
My hair clung to my cheek, my pulse pounding, but I met his gaze without flinching.
“No, Mr. Mehrotra,” I replied, stepping out with slow defiance. “Not trying to commit suicide. Just trying to reach my best friend before it’s too late. Something you clearly don’t understand—”
“I do understand.”
He cut me off.
His tone sharpened, silencing me mid-sentence.
He crossed his arms, jaw clenched tight, eyes unreadable beneath the weight of his composure. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
But I wasn’t going to let him control the narrative. Not today.
“Then if you know,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed fury, “why do you still act like you don’t have a heart? Like none of this affects you? You don’t know what it feels like—the fear of losing someone while you just… watch.”
My throat tightened, the threat of tears burning behind my eyes. I curled my fists at my sides, desperate to hold it in.
“Aditi might not even be alive right now,” I whispered. “And I’m still here, stuck arguing with you.”
For a brief moment, silence stretched between us like a blade.
Then he exhaled, slowly.
“I have no feelings, you’re right,” he said at last—his voice lower now, but laced with something dangerous. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what it looks like... to lose someone.”
There was a flicker in his eyes—there, and then gone.
“And knowing that,” he continued, walking toward the SUV, “you don’t get to kill yourself in the process of saving someone else.”
He didn’t wait for my reply.
He simply turned his back and called out, “In the car. Now.”
His voice didn’t rise, but the weight behind it was enough to command a battlefield.
“And I don’t want to hear a no.”
With that, he moved to the driver’s seat of the black SUV. Ishanvi, unsurprisingly, had already bolted across the road and was climbing into the back seat. She knew better than to argue with him when he used that tone.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the car—at him.
A sharp exhale escaped my lips.
He was impossible to understand. Impossible to predict.
One moment he’s cold as stone.
The next, he’s stopping traffic to save me from my own recklessness.
With quiet resignation, I walked toward the passenger seat, my coat still wrapped around my nighty, and got in.
The moment I shut the door, the world fell into silence.
No radio. No conversation. Just the soft hum of the engine as Utsav started the car with eerie precision.
He didn’t speed like I had.
But he wasn’t slow, either.
Every movement was calculated. Every lane change smooth. It wasn’t driving—it was strategy.
He was in complete control. As always.
Minutes passed in silence until his voice finally broke through.
“Your nighty won’t save Aditi.”
I turned my head sharply, eyes wide.
He noticed that?
I blinked, suddenly conscious of my wrinkled cotton attire beneath the coat. Of the messy bun. The lack of makeup. I hadn’t expected him to notice… but of course he did. Utsav Mehrotra noticed everything.
“I know,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “But clothes weren’t the priority. Reaching her in time was.”
He didn’t reply.
Just drove, eyes fixed on the road, jaw set like stone.
The air in the car was thick—not with anger, but with something heavier. Something unspoken.
And I realized then, in that silence, that maybe Utsav wasn’t as heartless as he pretended to be.
He just didn’t show it the way the rest of us did.
Maybe he didn’t scream when he panicked.
Maybe he didn’t cry when he broke.
Maybe he just… got quieter. Colder. Tighter.
But maybe, just maybe… he cared more than he let on.
As we neared the hospital gates, chaos awaited us.
A swarm of flashing cameras. Dozens of reporters. Shouting. Lights.
Security guards were already trying to control the scene, arms outstretched, urging the crowd to stay behind the barricades. But the media wasn’t going anywhere—not when the names Mehrotra and Bollywood were involved. They were vultures dressed as journalists, and tragedy was just another headline to them.
Aditi’s accident had already become public property. Her pain—the worst day of her life—was now content.
A bitter truth settled in my chest: even our most vulnerable moments were no longer ours.
And just when I thought I’d have to brave that chaos, Utsav did something I didn’t expect.
He stepped ahead of us, wordlessly, his presence commanding enough to split the crowd without even raising his voice.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t look back.
He just walked—like a shield.
I followed in his path, stunned into silence. Ishanvi stayed close behind, and the driver—pale and quiet now—brought up the rear.
But instead of heading to the front entrance, Utsav took a sharp turn around the building.
We followed.
Behind the hospital, the service gate was open. No paparazzi. No flash. Just calm shadows and silence.
And then I realized—he had sent a decoy car to the main gate, a trap for the cameras to follow.
Utsav had orchestrated a silent entry for us before we even reached the hospital. Another calculated move.
A game of strategy.
But today, it wasn’t about power.
It was about protection.
We entered through the back, hearts pounding, legs heavy. But each step down the sterile white corridor toward the ICU felt like walking through a fog of dread. A weight pressed against my chest—tight, crushing.
At the end of the hallway, outside the ICU, sat Aditya.
His shoulders were slightly slumped.
His eyes bloodshot.
His hands trembling in his lap.
He wasn’t crying.
He couldn’t.
Because men don’t cry. Because society never gave him the permission to.
But I saw it.
The pain was there—loud, raw, and screaming inside him.
We walked quietly toward him, our trio reduced to silence.
There were no other Mehrotras present. No father, no relatives—just Aditya, Utsav, and now us.
The family was fractured, and Aditi was the glue holding too much together. And now she was the one lying inside.
I turned my gaze to the small glass window on the ICU door.
And there she was.
Aditi.
Hooked to machines. Pale. Unmoving.
Her face—once glowing with shy smiles and innocent dreams—was now covered in bruises, her forehead bandaged, bloodstains still on her skin. Tubes ran through her nose. Her hand—once the first to hold mine when I cried—lay limp beside her.
I staggered back, gasping quietly.
Tears spilled down my cheeks without warning.
Why her?
Why always the gentle ones?
I clenched my fists so tightly my nails dug into my palms. I didn’t even feel the sting—only the pressure. I bit down on my lower lip hard enough to stop the sob threatening to erupt.
I couldn’t cry.
I didn’t want to.
Not in front of everyone.
But then I heard a muffled sob beside me.
I turned.
Ishanvi had collapsed onto the metal bench along the wall, her face buried in her palms, shaking with grief.
Her elegant dress was wrinkled, hair disheveled. The Filmfare glamour had been stripped away, and now she was just a girl—broken, scared, crying for her friend.
Aditya’s fists curled at his sides. His jaw twitched. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.
But I could tell—he was fighting a war inside.
And then I looked to Utsav.
He stood a few steps behind, arms crossed, back straight, eyes fixed on the ICU door.
Unblinking.
Unshaken.
Like stone.
Like none of this touched him.
And maybe... maybe it didn’t anymore.
Or maybe he had seen too many hospital beds.
Too many pale faces.
Too many people fighting for their last breath.
Maybe he’d learned not to react.
Maybe feeling had become a luxury he could no longer afford.
But even in that silence...
Even in that haunting stillness...
He was the one holding all of us up.
Not by comforting words.
Not by warmth.
But by simply existing like a fortress in the chaos.
And I hated it.
I hated that even now... in this broken moment... I was still falling for him.
Still drawn to his darkness.
To the silence in his strength.
To the way he bore everyone’s pain like it was routine.
Like it was his job to carry it.
As I sat beside Ishanvi, wiping the tears from her cheek, I kept glancing back at him.
And in that moment, I realized...
Maybe Utsav Mehrotra didn’t have a heart.
Or maybe it was so buried beneath grief and scars that no one dared go looking anymore.
But I wasn’t "no one."
And God help me, I was starting to want to.
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"Do let me know your thoughts about this chapter in the comments section. If you liked it, please don't forget to vote. Your single vote is enough to give me the courage to keep writing more.
And please, don't judge the characters solely based on the starting chapters. There's so much yet to unfold. Especially Utsav - I know his personality might seem negative at times, but trust me, he's about to go through a powerful journey of transformation.
Let the story breathe a little before forming opinions. Big twists are coming."
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