The sun was blinding, far too bright for the ache splitting her skull.

She walked with her head down, hoodie drawn tight, the cap pulled low enough to shade half her face. The world moved around her like static.

Cars honking, people whispering, the occasional click of a camera—sharp, intrusive. Every sound stabbed into her head like a migraine laced with shame.

Her shoes scraped the pavement as she walked faster. Her throat was dry. Her mouth tasted like regret. She didn't remember much. Just fragments—spinning lights, someone's laughter, the bitter taste of vodka. Her own voice, slurring something she couldn't now recall. And then—

"Sister of Dhananjay Singhnia found in drunken state outside nightclub—"

The words followed her like shadows. She didn't know if they were real or imagined. If someone had said them aloud behind her or if they were just etched inside her head now.

"Sister of Dhananjay—"

"Singhnia heiress caught—"

"Disgraceful—"

She couldn't breathe. Her heart raced. She clutched the drawstrings of her hoodie tighter and turned a corner, wanting to disappear.

And then—

A hand.

Rough. Sudden. Around her waist.

Another hand covered her mouth.

She gasped, but the sound died against a palm soaked in the scent of sandalwood and metal.

The world spun again—but this time not from alcohol.

But  From fear.

Her feet dragged against the pavement before she was shoved into the backseat of a black SUV. The door slammed shut behind her. Windows tinted. Air cold. And faces—

Faces she knew.

Her brother's men.

Four of them. All in black.

The one in the passenger seat turned around. Avi. Dhananjay's most loyal. His eyes were hard.

"You done ruining the family name?" he asked flatly.

She didn't flinch. Not this time. Instead, she laughed—bitter, reckless. "Wow. Took you guys long enough. What, no red carpet for the drunken disgrace of the Singhania Empire?"

"Watch your tone, Kritika."

"Or what?" she snapped. "You'll tell on me? Go cry to Dhananjay bhaiya that his sister was seen being human for a night?"

Avi's jaw clenched. "You think this is a joke?"

"No. I think this is a kidnapping," she shot back. "And if you ever put your hands on me like that again, I'll make sure your jaw is wired shut, Avi. I don't care whose boot you lick for a living."

The man beside her scoffed. "Your face was all over the news. Bhai had to shut it down before it spread further. He's cleaning up your mess, and you're giving attitude?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, venom laced through every word. "Did my little breakdown inconvenience the royal court of Dhananjay Singhnia? Should I kneel now or later?"

"Kritika," Avi warned, "Don't push it. We're not the enemy here."

She leaned forward, eyes blazing. "No? Then why do I feel like I've been taken hostage in my own goddamn life?"

The car fell silent.

No one dared meet her eyes.

She slumped back in her seat, hood falling down, hair messy and wild, and whispered, "You all treat me like a liability. Maybe that's what I'll become."

The car kept driving.

This time, no one said a word.

The SUV rolled to a halt, gravel crunching under thick tires.

Kritika looked up. A warehouse loomed outside—secluded, quiet, fenced off from the world. Rusted gates. Steel silence. The kind of place people vanished into.

The door opened.

Avi stepped out and held it for her. She didn't move.

"Get out."

"You sure I'm not being driven to Tihar jail? Save you all the paperwork."

"Kritika," Avi warned.

She stepped out, slow and deliberate, her hoodie slipping off, revealing her tangled hair and firestorm eyes. She scanned the grounds.

And then—

There he was.

Dhananjay Singhnia. Kritika's brother.

Leaning against the hood of a black Range Rover, sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched so tight you could hear it grind. The kind of man whose silence screamed louder than bullets.

Kritika smirked. "Ah. The royal highness himself. Shall I bow?"

Dhananjay's eyes narrowed. "You're going to stay here until this mess is handled. Already the name is ruined enough."

She walked past Avi, past the other men, and stood in front of her brother.

"Oh right. The Chief Minister of Delhi," she mocked, arms folded. "So sorry my very existence got in the way of your political PR campaign."

He took a step forward. "This isn't a joke, Kritika. The media is swarming, sponsors are calling, and our enemies—"

"Are loving every second of it?" she cut in. "Good. Maybe next time they'll spell my name right in the headlines. It's Kritika now, not maya gaming."

His voice dropped like a hammer. "Kritika Singhnia, if I can give you freedom, I can take it away too."

She froze. Then laughed—dry, bitter, with the ache of a decade. "Freedom? What freedom?" Her voice cracked, just once—but she didn't let it show. "Ever since I was a child, I was told what to do. What to wear. What to say. Who to talk to. Kriti, not this. Kriti, not that. Not loud, not wild, not weak. Not a daughter. More like—" Her fists clenched. "More like a goddamn mannequin on display.  A daughter? No. I was a doll on a leash."

His nostrils flared. "I'm your brother. I've protected you from—"

"Bhai hai tu, baap mat ban."

("You're my brother, not my father—so don't act like one.")

That did it.

His face turned red. His hand lifted—sharp, fast—then froze midair.

Her eyes didn't flinch. "Maar lijiye," she whispered. "Ruk kyun rahe ho?" ("Go ahead, hit me," she whispered. "Why are you hesitating?")

The air pulsed with tension.

But his hand lowered.

Still, his silence burned hotter than a slap.

And she wasn't done.

"You want to talk about freedom?" she stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest.

"I'm Kritika Singhnia. THE number one criminal lawyer in Delhi. I've defended murderers, politicians in higher positions than you, CEOs. I've shut courtrooms down with a single line." Her voice cut like steel. "Say that line again—about taking my freedom—and I swear to god, Chief Minister sahab bhi itni azadi se nahi ghum payenge."

("Even the Chief Minister himself wouldn't roam around this freely.")

Dhananjay didn't move.

The men behind her were dead silent.

The only thing louder than her voice was the truth in her eyes.

Unflinching. Unapologetic. Unforgiving.

And for the first time in years—

Dhananjay looked at his sister...

And didn't recognize the girl he thought he raised.

Dhananjay's voice cracked the silence. "Tu aisi nahi thi, Ika..." It wasn't anger anymore. It was disbelief. Like he was looking at a ghost wearing his sister's skin.

(You weren't like this, ika...")

Kritika didn't blink. Didn't flinch. "That's exactly who I am now."  Her voice was steel, polished by years of quiet rebellion and smothered screams.

He took a step forward, his voice rough with something older than rage. "Kritika, tumhe maine apne  bache ki tarah pala hai... samjhi?"  His throat bobbed.  "Har jhoot, har sach, har cheez se waqif hoon main. I know you. And this—"  He gestured to her—the hoodie, the glare, the storm.  "This isn't you. This is that guy speaking through you."

She tilted her head, expression unreadable. "At least someone is able to speak."  A pause. Sharp. Measured. "Because God knows I was never allowed to."

His lips parted. No words came. She kept going.

"You raised me like a daughter, Dhananjay bhaiya? Great. But did you ever listen like a father? Or just command like a king?"

He looked wounded. Truly. "I did everything for you."

"Exactly."  She stepped closer, her voice softer now—but deadlier. "For me. Not with me. Not once did you ask what I wanted, what I needed, what I was dying to scream. You made choices and called it care."  Her hands dropped to her sides. "Maybe I was never yours to protect, bhaiya. Maybe I just needed space to breathe without choking on your shadow.

His fists clenched at his sides. "He's not right for you."

"Maybe. But he listens."  She looked him square in the eye.  "And you don't."

The silence after that was thick, suffocating. And still—neither of them looked away.

Dhananjay's voice finally broke the silence again. "You never told me who he is."

Kritika let out a slow breath, something between a laugh and a sigh—like she was tired of pretending it didn't still sting.

"Bhai..." she said quietly at first, eyes flickering with something sharp and old.  "Jo gaya hai, uska naam lena bhi bekaar hai." She looked him in the eye, steady now, no trace of hesitation. "Aur vo wapas nahi aayega."

She took a step forward, voice growing bolder, truer. "Maybe he was never meant to stay—but before leaving Because even in the ruins, I finally found the spine to stand alone. Funny how the one who broke me taught me how to stop bending for everyone else. Blood related or not."

Dhananjay's jaw clenched. "You're defending him?"

She smiled—but it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm defending myself. Something you've never done without conditions or control."

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"You see a headline. I see healing. You see disgrace—"  She pointed to herself.  "I see the version of Kritika who finally stopped asking for permission to live."

Dhananjay's fists were trembling now. "You think this is strength?" he bit out. "You're letting one guy ruin—"

"He didn't ruin anything."  Her voice sliced through his.  "He left, yes. But he left behind a version of me that wasn't scared anymore. Not of the media. Not of your rules. And definitely not of your silence."

Her hoodie slipped further down her arm as she stepped past him. "You see a scandal, a stain on the family name." She gestured to herself. "I see a woman who finally learned how to stop being someone's puppet—even yours. So don't ask me who he was, bhaiya."  She looked back over her shoulder.  "Ask yourself why I never thought you were safe enough to tell."