London was a cruel lover– always gray, always cold, always watching. Just like her.

Sara stood before the glass window of her high-rise apartment, arms folded over her chest, watching the drizzle blur the city lights like a smudged memory. The rain had a way of stripping everything bare, even her.

She hadn’t slept. Again.

But sleep was for the innocent. And Sara hadn’t been innocent since the night everything shattered.

Behind her, the faint hum of morning news filtered through the living room speakers.

Market updates. Political unrest. Another scandal. Another fall from grace. It all felt like noise– meaningless distractions in a world where truth was currency and pain was inheritance.

She turned away from the window and walked into her closet, selecting her armor for the day—a black pantsuit so sharp it could wound.

Understated, powerful, no-nonsense. Just like her.

A flick of her wrist brought onyx cufflinks into place. Her fingers moved with mechanical precision. She didn’t feel it anymore, the act of dressing up for war. It was muscle memory.

Her phone buzzed.

Rashi

Text Message

Today, 9:30

“You’re still not eating breakfast, are you?”

Sara typed back with a faint smile.

“Do I ever?”

. . .

The three dots flickered for a long moment before disappearing. Rashi didn’t reply. She never pushed too hard. She knew better than anyone that pushing Sara too far only got you burned.

Outside, a black Bentley waited.

Ten minutes later, she was sliding into the back seat, her laptop open, emails flying through as the car glided past the waking city. Steel, glass, cold rain.

London was beautiful in a brutal kind of way. It reminded her of herself.

As the Bentley pulled into the Oberoi Industries tower, she caught her reflection in the tinted window.

Perfect makeup. Immaculate bun. Empty eyes.

The mask was flawless.

And so, she wore it.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

“Morning, ma’am,” her assistant Priya greeted her as she entered the top floor.

“You have the logistics team at nine, a virtual call with Dubai at ten, and–”

“Push the Dubai call to eleven. I want the updated financial reports before I speak to them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And no coffee today. Just water.”

Priya blinked. “Of course.”

Sara didn’t wait for a reaction. She strode down the hallway, heels echoing with precise rhythm. Each step a declaration.

I’m still standing.

Even if everything inside me is crumbling.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

The logistics team had barely begun their pitch when she cut them off.

“You want to reroute inventory through Istanbul without checking port clearance issues?”

One of the managers stammered. “W-we were told the delay was minor–”

“You were told wrong,” she snapped. “Check again. If we lose a single shipment, I’ll hold this entire department responsible.”

Silence followed.

Another room. Another fire to put out. Another excuse for her to feel in control.

She dismissed them within twenty minutes and sank into her chair in her office, the adrenaline already dissipating, leaving her hollow.

Her hand went instinctively to the chain around her neck.

The diamond ring— her mother’s.

She didn’t take it off. Not even to sleep.

The door cracked open slightly. “You look like hell,” Rashi said, stepping in uninvited with two takeaway bags. “And before you tell me to leave–I brought food. From that Turkish place you like.”

Sara gave her a tired glance. “You’re late.”

Rashi smirked. “You’re impossible.”

They sat in silence for a moment, unwrapping their boxes, the scent of spices cutting through the sterile chill of the office. Rashi took a bite and sighed. “God, this is orgasmic.”

Sara didn’t smile. She hadn’t smiled in days. Maybe weeks.

“You’re ignoring your health again,” Rashi said around a mouthful. “I saw your schedule. Twelve-hour work days. Meetings with lawyers. You didn’t even take your half-day on Saturday.”

“Time off is a luxury,” she replied flatly. “One I can’t afford.”

“Right. Because being CEO of a billion-pound empire isn’t enough. You have to play martyr, too.”

Sara ignored the jab. Her eyes were fixed on the skyline again.

Rashi followed her gaze, then softened. “You had the dream again, didn’t you?”

Her knuckles whitened. The ring between her fingers pressed into her skin.

“It wasn’t a dream.”

“No. But it haunts you like one.”

Sara exhaled, finally breaking eye contact with the window. “Five years, Rashi. And I still see them every time I close my eyes.”

Rashi reached for her hand across the desk. “You were just a girl.”

“I was nineteen, Rashi. Old enough to know something wasn’t right. Old enough to stop it if I’d seen the signs.”

“You’re blaming yourself for something that wasn’t your fault.”

Sara didn’t answer. Because deep down, she wasn’t sure she believed that.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

After Rashi left, Sara pulled open the drawer of her desk and retrieved the leather-bound diary. The one with pages that bled her truth in ink no one else had ever read.

Her therapist had suggested journaling after the funeral.

Sara never returned to therapy.

But the journal remained. A prison of her own making.

She flipped it open, past the early entries– rants, grief, helpless anger– and landed on the one that mattered.

The one dated just two weeks before her parents' death.

She skimmed the line she’d memorized by heart.

He touched me again today. I didn’t scream this time. I just let it happen. It’s easier when you pretend you’re not there.

Her vision blurred.

She closed the journal and shoved it back in the drawer.

Locked it.

She wasn’t that girl anymore. She had become the ice queen of London.

Ruthless. Untouchable.

But trauma didn’t obey titles or wealth. It seeped into every crack, every silence.

Just like the message yesterday.

Her phone lit up again.

Unknown Number

She stared at it, heart slowing. Waiting.

But no message came.

Not this time.

It was a game. And whoever it was– they were patient.

She stood up, grabbing her coat. She needed air. Maybe a walk through Mayfair. Maybe a few blocks in the cold to remind herself she was still in control.

As she exited the building, rain kissed her cheeks like ghosts.

But she didn’t flinch.

She had lived through worse.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

Later that night, alone in her apartment, she poured herself a glass of wine. She didn’t drink it. Just held it, the ruby liquid trembling in her grip.

Her phone vibrated again.

This time, it wasn’t unknown.

Ishaan Maheswari

Again.

She stared at the name.

She hadn’t seen him in over a year. Hadn’t spoken to him since that fundraiser where his gaze had followed her all night like a silent vow. That look—possessive, dark, unreadable—still lingered in her memory like cigarette smoke.

She didn’t answer.

She wouldn’t let him in.

Not him.

Not yet.

But her gut whispered something else.

He already is.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

I’ve spent so much time inside Sara’s head, it almost feels like I’ve been there with her through every cold, empty moment. She’s built walls, but those walls are paper-thin. 🫠

Do you think we can ever truly outrun our pasts? Can strength be something we fake, or is it something we grow into?

Are we all just playing our own games of survival, pretending we’re not falling apart?

Lemme know in the comments and let’s see where this twisted story takes us.