He was her saviour,
She was his strength.
♡ Mira Rathore ♡
After facing twenty-five years of abuse from her own family, Mira got bitter toward emotional ties. To her, it was an illusion.
Her entire life was trapped in darkness and her pasts still h...
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FLASHBACK
My stomach churned violently, a knot tightening within me as I vehemently declared,"I'm not marrying Vikram Mehra," the words slashing through the tense air. I shot a sharp glance at my parents, my voice laced with contempt.
Silent tears rolled down my cheeks, carrying the weight of despair.
An abrupt, piercing hit on my face caused me to retreat. Panic surged through me, but I clenched my fists, suppressing it.
"Don't you dare talk to us like that, Mira!" my mother yelled, her fingers viciously entwined in my hair and jerking my head back.
A whimper escaped my lips as pain radiated through my scalp.
Why did my parents treat me with such brutality? Do I mean nothing to them? The same questions echoed in the hollow chambers of my heart, drowning in the turmoil of emotions.
"We had told you to not have a job and now you have seen the results of not obeying us." My father spoke while sitting on a chair and taking a sip of tea from his cup, his words, laced with disdain, fueled the flames of injustice burning inside me.
"But it has always been my dream to become a fashion designer," I screamed, my voice choking with tears, hoping against hope they would understand.
"Girls do not dream," his voice ripped through the air, cruel and final. The cup shattered at his feet, pieces of glass reflecting the shards of my broken heart.
A sickening sensation ballooned in my chest, a disgusting combination of despair and frustration. For god's sake it's the 21st century and my parents still clung onto old-age beliefs, oblivious to the changing world.
"And it's your fault, from the very beginning, because of the way you dressed - those jeans and skirts," my mother scoffed, casting blame upon me with harsh indifference.
Seriously? My mind recoiled at the absurdity of the accusation. Was it my fault that I became the target of sexual assault at my workplace?
Bile rose in my throat, a bitter taste of injustice.
"It's all because of him, that Vikram Mehra," I muttered, my voice shaky. The name carried the sense of betrayal.
I can't believe I'm about to put this into words. Vikram Mehra, the so-called king of the fashion industry, isn't the person I thought he was. Working as an intern at his company seemed like a dream come true, especially when he showed interest in my designs. I admired him, thinking he was one of the best in the business, a person who appreciated my work.
But reality hit hard one day. He called me into his office, and... and everything changed. The mere recollection made my hands tremble. The way his fingers invaded my personal space is etched in my mind, making me feel sick to my stomach. The way his lips were just inches apart from mine. The way he traced his fingers inside my blouse. The way he forcefully ripped my clothes. Everything about that day is making me nauseous. I want to hurl, to unleash a scream, and let the tears flow freely. The anger, the hurt, the frustration-they are swirling within me like a storm.
