The darkness was never quiet.
It was filled with the loud, frightening roar of a car engine speeding too fast as rain hammered violently against the windows. Thunder cracked through the night, shaking the sky itself. Siya’s face was pressed against the rough leather seat, the smell of gasoline burning her nose. Her father’s shaky breathing mixed with her mother’s choked cry—right before gunshots shattered the storm.
Then came the horrific screech of tires.
A violent crash.
The world spun—rain splattering inside the car, lightning flashing like broken shards—until the vehicle flipped and slammed onto the wet ground with bone-crushing force. For one horrifying second, Siya saw her mother’s cheek covered in blood… her father frighteningly still, unmoving in the storm.
She woke up screaming.
“Mumma!”
Her whole body trembled uncontrollably, tears pouring as her breath came in ragged gasps. The small, cold room felt even darker as that same nightmare—the accident from ten years ago—hit her again, the memory that returned frequently to tear open old wounds. It clung to her relentlessly, shaping her pain, stealing every piece of her childhood
After the accident, her grandmother became her only light.
Her Dadi held her close every night, wiping her tears, whispering, “Beta… your parents want you to live happily.” For years, Dadi was her strength—her mother, her comfort, her home. But five years ago, fate snatched her away too.
Losing Dadi broke her all over again.
But every morning, Siya forced herself to rise, to breathe, to smile—because that’s what her parents and grandmother wanted. Painting became her escape. Brush strokes soothed her. Colors became her safe place. Art was the only world where pain couldn’t reach her.
Suddenly, the door burst open and harsh light flooded the room.
Meera stood there in her silk robe, irritation carved into every line of her face. “Still crying? And still sleeping like a lazy child?” she snapped. “It’s nine in the morning, Siya. Do you plan to spend your whole life under blankets?” Her voice held annoyance, not concern—never concern.
The door slammed shut again.
Siya exhaled shakily, wiped her cheeks, and forced herself out of bed. As she glanced at the clock, her eyes widened—9 AM. She was late. Very late. Panic jolted through her, and she quickly straightened her blanket with trembling hands. She needed to get to the bakery—her only warm corner in this cold world. And Ishita… her only person.
She got ready quickly.
A messy bun tied low, soft bangs falling to frame her face. A simple blue kurti, straight jeans, her worn sneakers, and silver jhumkas Dadi once gifted her. Siya Malhotra was beautiful in a quiet, untouched way—like soft morning light.
Her skin was naturally glowing, pale and warm at the same time.
Her cheeks always had a faint pink tint, as if painted with innocence. But it was her eyes—wide, luminous amber—that made people stare. They held a softness too pure for this cruel world, a gentleness that didn’t belong in the bitterness she lived in.
She grabbed her old backpack and headed downstairs.
She barely took two steps before the morning bitterness began. Neha was sprawled on the velvet sofa, pretending to read a magazine. “Late again? Wow. Did you oversleep from doing nothing yesterday?” she mocked without looking up.
Rohit snorted from beside her.
“You could at least pretend to be useful, Siya. Just because my parents allowed you to run that silly bakery with your friend doesn’t mean you’re doing us a favor.” His tone dripped with superiority, the same tone she’d heard for years.
I gripped my backpack tighter.
Their words weren’t new—just sharper versions of the same knife they used daily. I didn’t look at them. Didn’t reply. Didn’t give them the satisfaction. My eyes stayed glued to the front door—my only escape from this suffocating house.
Each step across the marble felt heavier, like walking with invisible chains.
This wasn’t a home. It was a cage painted in luxury, trapping me with people who despised me yet needed me alive. Currently I am 18, My father’s company would legally come to me at 21—until then, I was an unwanted responsibility they couldn’t throw away.
They didn’t support my dreams.
I wasn’t allowed to go to college after school. They said, “No need for studies. Stay home.” But when I begged for something to occupy my time, they allowed the bakery—not out of kindness, but because it meant they didn’t have to spend on my needs anymore.
The bakery was born from love.
Dadi had secretly saved money for me, and with Ishita contributing her half, we built our dream—Happy Delights by Ishiya. A cozy, warm little world full of sugar, cushions, fairy lights, and laughter. It was our happy place—beautiful, soft, messy, dramatic, and healing.
Painting kept me alive.
The bakery kept me breathing.
Sometimes I looked up at the sky and whispered to Mahadev, asking why life hurt this much. But then I remembered Dadi’s voice, her touch, her hope for me. Maybe life wasn’t punishing me. Maybe it was shaping me. Maybe survival was its own strength.
I pushed open the front door and stepped outside.
The morning breeze kissed my face softly, as if reminding me that the world wasn’t all cruel. And I ran. Ran toward the only place that didn’t hurt. The bakery’s warm lights, the smell of cinnamon, and Ishita’s loud voice felt more like home than any mansion ever could.
And for a moment—
as the wind brushed past my skin—
it felt like a tiny piece of life truly belonged to me.
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