01 | Homecoming

There's a particular kind of silence that follows you when you return home after being away for years. 

Not the absence of sound—but the weight of everything unspoken. 

I'm Ishita Mehra—twenty-one years old, daughter of Arvind Mehra, one of the most powerful and influential men in India. People hear my last name and either straighten their backs or lower their voices. That's the effect my father has. The Mehra legacy is more than just money—it's muscle, media, and the kind of quiet dominance that shapes entire industries.

I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth, yes. But that spoon came with expectations sharpened like razors. I was groomed to carry the weight of the family name, to match designer heels with perfect poise, and never let the world see a crack. My life looked flawless—private jets, elite schools, bespoke couture. 

But beneath it? A girl constantly balancing between duty and desire.

As the wheels of the plane kissed the runway with a gentle jolt, I felt it settle over me like silk, but my heart felt anything but gentle.

Familiar. Heavy. Unavoidable.

After three years studying business and marketing in California, I was finally back in Mumbai. Back in the city that never sleeps—and the house that never quite let me breathe freely.

California had been a bubble — sun-drenched, carefree, wrapped in endless possibilities. 

But now, as Mumbai's humid air seeped through the plane's windows, reality tugged at me like a stubborn tide pulling me back, a weight settled on my chest.

I peered out the window at the sprawling city below — chaotic, loud, alive. 

My home. 

The place I left with a suitcase full of hope and dreams, and now returned to, carrying the scars of those dreams tested. And now, after months of exams and endless nights with textbooks stacked higher than my resolve, I was returning. 

To my father.
To home.
To a world that never stopped spinning, even when I wanted it to.

The airport was a blur of motion—chauffeurs, paparazzi, whispered sightings. I walked through it like a shadow in head-to-toe Chanel, my Louis Vuitton suitcase rolling smoothly behind me, phone buzzing in my hand.

I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen. 

Messages from Meher blinked patiently. 

Meher: "Dinner. Tonight. No arguments. I need to raid your wardrobe and your life. Can't wait to hear everything!"

Meher Arora. 

My personal hurricane.

My best friend since prep school. 

Rich, unfiltered, devastatingly stylish, and more loyal than blood. We grew up in the same circles—two girls trained to rule in a world run by powerful men. We bonded at age ten over a shared dislike for ballet class and an obsession with Fendi handbags. If anyone could make me feel like myself again, it was her.

The difference? Meher never played by the rules. 

She broke them.

Meher was my constant, the one person who could break through my doubts and remind me who I truly was.

Meher was the bright spark in my life—bold, lively, and endlessly fun. At 23, she carried a magnetic confidence, with dark curls and a mischievous smile that could light up any room. Unlike me, she embraced chaos and adventure, always pushing me to loosen up and live in the moment.

She was the only constant in the whirlpool of my life — rich, beautiful, unstoppable Meher, whose laughter could drown out my doubts.

But beyond the laughter, Meher truly saw me. 

She understood my struggles with pressure and expectations without judgment. Our friendship was a balance—her daring to my caution, her energy grounding my restlessness. 

Meher was more than a best friend; she was my anchor in the storm.

But as the cabin doors opened and the humid breeze rushed in, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was different this time. 

That maybe, just maybe, the home I'd been running to wasn't the home I was coming back to.

Because in the shadows of this city, beneath the glitter and glam, secrets waited. 

And soon, they'd be knocking on my door.

.

.

.

.

Outside, the Mumbai air greeted me like a slap and a hug at once, wrapped around me like an old memory—thick with monsoon and memories. 

The scent of monsoon-soaked earth, street food, and jasmine swirled in the air. The black Mercedes waited at the curb, my father's trusted men stepping out to take my luggage with a bowed head.

The driver opened the car door with a bow, and I slipped into the backseat, sinking into butter-soft leather.

"Miss Ishita," he greeted. "Sir is waiting."

Of course he is.

I texted Meher back quickly as I climbed into the waiting car. "Yes. Tonight. I need that."

As we drove through the city, the skyline blurred past—the five-star hotels, rooftop lounges, and glittering towers that whispered power. People like me were raised in this world. Schooled in legacy, polished in privilege. But in California, surrounded by people who didn't care about my last name, I'd started to become someone else. 

Someone freer.
Someone real.

The drive home took twenty minutes. 

The city blurred by in gold-lit chaos—billboards flashing faces I knew, clubs I'd once snuck into, the skyline sharp with ambition. But I barely saw any of it. My heart was too busy thudding like a drum against my ribs.

The drive to my father's house was a blur of honking horns and flickering streetlights, but I couldn't stop my mind from drifting him. 

My father. 

What would he say? Would he notice the difference? Or just expect me to slip back into the role I'd played all my life—the perfect daughter, the obedient heiress, the girl who never questioned?

Dad's protectiveness wasn't the cold, strict kind I'd feared. No, it was love wrapped in armor. I remembered the nights when he'd sit beside me, running a hand lightly over my shoulder while I studied late into the night.

"Ishita," he'd say quietly, "I only want to keep you safe. This world... it's not kind."

He wasn't perfect, but he loved fiercely. I could still see him standing at the gate when I left for college, his eyes softer than I'd ever seen, whispering, "Be safe. Be smart."

The mansion loomed ahead, all polished marble and cold grandeur. 

My father's domain.
His kingdom. 

And somewhere in there, the answers—or the new questions—were waiting for me.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and braced myself. 

Homecoming was never simple. 

But I was ready.

Whatever was coming next, I was ready to face it. 

Or so I told myself.

.

.

.

.

The drive home took twenty minutes.

The city blurred by in gold-lit chaos—billboards flashing faces I knew, clubs I'd once snuck into, the skyline sharp with ambition. But I barely saw any of it. My heart was too busy thudding like a drum against my ribs.

And then, the gates.

Tall, wrought-iron, flanked by security. They slid open with biometric precision, revealing the Mehra estate—a sprawling palace in white marble and glass, perched like royalty above the city.

Home.

The car pulled into our private lane, past iron gates guarded by uniformed security. The Mehra  estate rose in front of me like something out of a period film—white stone, towering columns, manicured gardens. 

Elegant. Imposing. Mine.

I stepped out of the car and smoothed a hand over my blazer. No matter how long I'd been gone, the house still had the power to make me feel small and watched all at once.

My fingers tightened around the strap of my handbag. 

The front doors opened before I could knock.

And there he was.

Arvind Mehra. 

My father.

Commanding. 

Impeccably dressed in an ivory kurta with gold embroidery, his presence filled the doorway like a storm contained in silence. A man whose word could move markets, whose silence could crush careers. But to me—he was still the father who used to tuck me in and warn me never to trust people who smiled too easily.

 Tycoon. Widower. 

The man whose love came wrapped in protection and power. 

Tall, sharply dressed, with salt at his temples and intensity in his gaze. 

His eyes landed on me with a mixture of relief and calculation. 

"Ishita." His voice was a low rumble, steady as ever. "You're finally home."

His eyes swept over me, as if searching for bruises life might have left behind—like he was seeing me and scanning for damage at the same time.

"Hi, Papa," I murmured, suddenly five years old again.

He didn't hesitate. 

He took my bag from me himself—a small gesture, but in this house, everything meant something. "You must be exhausted."

"I'm fine," I lied, stepping into the marble foyer. The floors gleamed. A fresh bouquet of white orchids sat in the entryway, like they'd been placed just for me. 

Maybe they had.

"Come," he said. "You must be tired."

We walked down the marble hallway in silence, past gold-framed portraits and crystal sconces that sparkled like frost. The estate was breathtaking, cold, precise—just like the empire he built. I had grown up in its shadow, its luxury a given. 

But the warmth? That came only in rare, fleeting doses.

I felt his hand hover at the small of my back, an unconscious gesture of protection. I swallowed. "Dad... I—"

He cut me off with a gentle smile. "Tell me everything, but later. First, you must rest." He guided me into the drawing room, where velvet cushions and silken drapes made it feel more cocoon than palace.

I sank onto the sofa, and he brought me a glass of warm milk spiced with saffron—just like when I was a child. "Drink it," he urged, settling into the armchair opposite me.

"You still like it this way?" he asked, offering it to me.

I nodded. "Always."

He sat across from me, hands folded. 

Watching.
Waiting.

"I missed you," I said, quietly.

His jaw shifted, but his voice stayed even. "This house is quieter without you."

A strange ache spread across my chest.
We didn't speak like this often—not in words.
His love was protection.
His care came in decisions made, not feelings shared.

"I'm meeting Meher for dinner," I said, sipping the warm milk.

He nodded. "Good. She's sharp. You need people who remind you who you are."

Yes, I did. 

Because Meher reminded me who I was before the expectations, before the legacy, before the burden of being the only daughter of Arvind Mehra.

A pause.
Then, softly: "You've grown up."

"I had to," I replied, just as softly.

We sat in silence for a long moment, the storm outside tapping at the windows, the scent of sandalwood thick in the air. The daughter he raised had returned—but she wasn't the same girl anymore.

And neither was this home.

As I leaned back into the sofa, the silk of my blouse brushing against my skin, I let myself breathe. For the first time since landing, I didn't feel like I had to perform. 

Not here.
Not with him.

Homecoming wasn't simple.

But maybe—just maybe—it could still be beautiful.

★

The restaurant was dimly lit, with flickering candlelight dancing across gold-rimmed wine glasses and crystal chandeliers dripping elegance from the ceiling. Serein was one of Mumbai's most exclusive rooftop spots—hidden behind coded reservations, velvet ropes, and the kind of prices that made even billionaires blink twice.

But for Meher and me? It was tradition.

She waved dramatically from a corner table draped in ivory linen, already sipping something pink and dangerous. Her phone was face-down, a rare occurrence that told me she was genuinely excited—or bracing for drama.

"Ishita freakin' Mehra," she announced as I approached, her bangles clinking as she stood to hug me. "Still looking like a Vogue cover girl fresh off a plane. What's the secret? Black magic or just wildly expensive skincare?"

I laughed, hugging her tightly. "Mostly stress and overpriced eye cream."

She pulled back, scanning me head to toe like she was checking for emotional damage. "You've lost weight."

"I've lost patience," I said, sliding into the seat opposite her. "California teaches you that real food takes too long, and real people don't come in designer packaging."

"Ugh, sounds exhausting," she said, waving at the waiter for another drink. "Now tell me everything. Start with your last hookup and end with your next breakdown."

There it was—Meher, in all her dramatic glory. Red lips, curled lashes, gold heels that could probably kill a man. She was chaos wrapped in couture and one of the few people who didn't flinch around my last name.

I leaned back, watching her. "What if there's nothing scandalous to share? What if I was... boring?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You? Boring? Ishita Mehra, daughter of Arvind Mehra, corporate royalty and possible Bond villain, suddenly turned into a beige wall?"

I smiled, but it didn't quite reach my eyes. "Papa wanted me to study, stay focused. And I did. I kept my head down."

"And your heart locked up," she said knowingly, pouring me a glass of wine. "You don't talk about California like you miss it."

I didn't. 

Not really. 

I missed the version of me that felt light, anonymous, free. But freedom came at a cost I hadn't been ready to pay—distance from my father, detachment from my name, and a fear that if I let go too much, I might never be able to return.

"Home isn't simple, Meh," I said softly. "You know how it is. My father doesn't say much, but he doesn't need to. Every look, every pause—it's pressure in tailored form."

Her voice dropped, suddenly softer. "He loves you. In his terrifying, calculated way."

"I know," I whispered. "But I don't think he realizes how heavy that love feels sometimes."

She was quiet for a beat. "Did something happen?"

"Not yet," I said truthfully, swirling the wine. "But it will. I can feel it. Like the air before a storm."

Meher didn't push. 

She never did. 

That's what made her different—she waited for me to hand her pieces of myself instead of digging for them.

We ordered.
Laughed.

Talked about everything and nothing. I told her about my classes, my professors, the boy who had asked me out once and backed off the moment he Googled my last name. We gossiped about socialites, cursed the humidity, planned a trip to Goa we both knew we'd postpone at least three times.

But the whole time, something twisted inside me.

A tight coil of instinct.

Because tonight, everything felt too calm.

Too perfect.

And in my world, peace never lasted long.

As we finished dessert, her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, then frowned. "Weird. Your driver's outside already. He said your father sent him. Told me to wrap it up."

I blinked. "He what?"

Meher raised an eyebrow. "You're not twelve. And we're not drunk."

Something flickered in her eyes. Then she leaned in and whispered, "Did he find out something? Or is this just classic overprotective Arvind Mehra?"

I couldn't answer.

Because I didn't know.

But as I stepped into the car minutes later, my chest tightened.

The driver didn't speak, just handed me a sealed envelope the moment the doors locked.

My name.

In my father's handwriting.

I opened it with trembling fingers.

One line.

"Be ready tomorrow. You're meeting someone."