The morning light slipped through the half-closed curtains, soft and golden. It touched the edge of the bed, the pile of clothes on the chair, and the half-read novel left face-down on the nightstand. The room looked peaceful, but something about it felt... unsettled. Like a calm before a storm.
In the middle of it all, Riva lay fast asleep under a thick blanket. She looked calm—too calm.
The door creaked open.
Her mother, Nikita—whom Riva called Mummy—stepped in quietly, holding a cup of tea. Her face was gentle, but her eyes held something else too. A trace of worry? Or was it something she was trying to hide?
Mummy:
"Riva... sweetheart, it's 8. Time to get up."
Riva (half-asleep):
"Mmm... five more minutes, Mummy..."
Mummy (pulling the blanket slightly):
"You said that twenty minutes ago."
Riva (muffled):
"The bed loves me. I can't just leave it."
Mummy (laughing softly):
"The bed doesn't pay your bills."
Riva (peeking out):
"Maybe I should start a movement. The world should follow my sleep schedule."
Mummy (placing the tea down):
"Try that after your shower. And hurry up—Papa's waiting downstairs."
Riva (smiling sleepily):
"You win, only because it's chai."
As Mummy left, the smile lingered on her face—but only for a second.
Riva sat up slowly, the warmth of the tea grounding her in the moment. She stretched, rubbed her eyes, and muttered under her breath, "Mornings are the worst." Then she headed to the bathroom.
Behind the closed door, the sound of running water echoed—steady and calm. Outside, the quiet house held its breath.
When she stepped out, the mirror caught her reflection—damp hair tied back, soft towel wrapped around her. Her face looked fresh, glowing. But her eyes… they were hiding something. A shadow. A secret.
She dressed carefully—white linen shirt tucked into beige trousers, gold hoops, and pearl bracelet. Her look was polished, but not loud. Understated, quiet… like someone used to blending in.
She sprayed perfume—clean, soft, with a hint of something sharper underneath. Something like steel wrapped in silk.
---
Downstairs, the dining table was set.
A jug of juice. A stack of warm parathas wrapped in foil. Two plates.
Her father, Indrajit Saxena, sat with his newspaper. But he wasn't reading. He was waiting.
Then he heard it—the click of sandals on wood.
Papa (pretending to be grumpy):
"Took you long enough. Breakfast feels empty without you."
Riva (teasing):
"Aww… can't eat without me, Papa?"
Papa:
"Not when you're the one who brings all the noise."
Riva (mock offended):
"Excuse me! I prefer the 'Breakfast Queen.'"
Papa (smiling):
"Then come, Your Highness. The royal parathas await."
She laughed and sat down, but her laughter didn't quite reach her eyes.
Soon, Mummy joined them with another hot plate. She looked from her husband to her daughter, something unreadable flashing across her face.
Mummy:
"What's going on here? You two sound like a bad radio show."
Papa:
"Just trying to make her laugh before she flies away."
Riva (surprised):
"Papa!"
Mummy (softly):
"He knows?"
Riva (nodding):
"I was going to tell you both today."
The room shifted. The air felt heavier now.
Riva (carefully):
"I got a chance to manage a wedding event in New York. A big one. It's what I've always wanted."
Papa (quiet):
"New York… That's far."
Mummy (frowning):
"Are you sure you're ready?"
Riva:
"I've planned it all. I'll be with a team. It's everything I've worked for."
Papa:
"Big dreams come with big risks, beta. Especially when you're so far from home."
Riva:
"I'm ready. But I need your blessing."
There was silence.
Then Mummy smiled—though her eyes didn't.
"We trust you. Just... be careful."
Papa (nodding):
"You have our permission. But promise you'll stay safe."
Riva (relieved):
"I promise."
But promises are fragile. And some journeys don't just take you far—they take you deep into places you never meant to go.
---
To be continue...