Page 8 of One Hellish Love

“Where is she?”

“She’s in her room, Daadi. She needs time.”

“She can take all the time she wants,” Daadi snapped. “But tell her not to create unnecessary drama in front of Rudra. I don’t want him upset any more than he already is.”

Shekhar sighed deeply, knowing the tension between Kashish, Daadi, and Rudra was not going to let him live in peace either. He could only hope the coming months wouldn’t tear them all apart.

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Rudra stood under the shower, his hands braced against the glass walls, letting the hot water run over him. He closed his eyes, feeling the steam rise around him, washing away the fear that clung to him.I can do this. I have to.He couldn’t afford to let fear control him, not now. If he showed even a hint of weakness, his family would only pity him more—and he had had enough of their pity for a lifetime.

But she was here. He could sense it. He had seen the nervous glances Shekhar kept throwing toward the first-floor guest room. That’s where she stayed. She was avoiding him, and it was for the best. As long as they kept their distance, maybe, just maybe, they could survive these next four months without tearing each other apart.

CHAPTER 4

Few Hours Later

Chanda Mausi had come to call Kashish down for dinner, but she had no intention of joining the family tonight.

“I’m not hungry,” Kashish snapped, her frustration clear as she turned back to her sketch.

Chanda sighed, trying to keep her patience. “Kashish, you know Savitriji’s rules. If you don’t come down, she won’t be pleased.”

Of course, Kashish knew the rules of this house—rules that felt like chains. Lunch was an exception, but dinners had to be together, with the family. A family she didn’t belong to.

“I’mnotpart of this family, Chanda Mausi. You know that.”

She kept her eyes on the design she was drawing, trying to drown out the world around her.

Chanda knew better than to argue. Though she had cared for Kashish like her own, there were moments when this girl was as immovable as a rock. Once her mind was set, there was no convincing her otherwise.

“Fine,” Chanda relented. “I’ll send your food up here.”

“Don’t bother,” Kashish said, her voice clipped. “I won’t eat. Don’t waste the food, Mausi. And shut the door on your way out.”

Chanda stood there for a moment with heart heavy, but she knew there was no point in pushing further. In the past, Chanda had always thought it was her, Shekhar, and Roxy—theRaheja family’s beloved pug—who had been Kashish's constant supporters, always trying to bring a smile to her face and keep her spirits up. Roxy, who had passed away last year after living a full 12 years, had been Kashish’s closest companion. Now, with Roxy gone and Chanda soon leaving for her hometown for a few months to tend to a family emergency, only Shekhar would be left to shoulder the responsibility of watching over Kashish and ensuring her well-being.

She closed the door and hurried back downstairs.

While Anjali and Savitri busied themselves with setting the table, Shekhar decided to go fetch Rudra, just like in the old days. He had always been the concerned elder brother, doting on Rudra from the time they were kids. Packing his school bag, making sure his favorite meals were packed for lunch, helping him with homework—Shekhar had done it all. But the past 11 years had changed things between them, and Shekhar knew that. He was determined to use the next four months to bridge the gap that had grown between them, to restore the bond they had once shared.

He knocked on Rudra’s door and stepped inside, but the room was empty. Rudra’s suitcase lay half-unpacked on the bed, and something else caught Shekhar’s eye—a diary, its pages flipping gently in the breeze from the French doors. Curious, Shekhar leaned closer and caught a glimpse of Rudra’s handwriting on one of the pages:

“Dard mein bhi the hum zinda, bas unki yaadon ka sahaara kaafi tha.”

(Even in pain, I remained alive, for the comfort of her memories was enough.)

Shekhar’s heart tightened.Since when does Rudra keep a diary?he wondered, flipping through the pages. Whose memories was he talking about? Before he could turn to the nextpage, Rudra walked back into the room, his expression dark as he snatched the diary from Shekhar’s hands.

“It’s bad manners to read someone’s personal diary,” Rudra said coldly, his voice hard as steel.

Shekhar looked up, startled by the harshness in Rudra’s tone. Without another word, Rudra shoved the diary into his bag and zipped it shut. He had to be more careful—he couldn’t let anyone peek into his life, especially not into the pages of that diary. It was the only place where his pain bled freely, the only place where he allowed himself to feel.

Shekhar tried to lighten the mood, smiling softly.

“So, my little brother writes poetry now?” he teased.

Rudra didn’t respond. He simply turned to the mirror, gelling his hair with precise movements, his silence like a wall Shekhar couldn’t break through. This was not the brother he remembered. The Rudra he knew used to share every little detail of his life, used to be an open book. Now, he was a stranger, a closed chapter Shekhar couldn’t access.

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