EXCERPT:

Chapter 1

Vikram Raawal walked up the steps of Raawal Mahal, his family’s two-hundred-year-old palatial ancestral bungalow. It was the only property his parents had left unsullied by their still-tempestuous marriage of forty years.

The muggy October afternoon was redolent with the pungent aroma of the jasmine creeper that his grandfather had planted for his wife all those years ago.

His grandparents had shared a love story that couldn’t be recreated by all the glittering sets and stars of Bollywood. If not for the fact that Vikram had very clear memories of them—Daadu and Daadi sitting side by side listening to ghazals on the gramophone, sharing stories with him and his younger brother and sister, Daadi keeping silent vigil by her husband’s side as he vanished away into nothing…he would have scoffed at even the idea of such a love.

But he had seen it. He’d been a part of it. He’d found comfort and joy in its shadow. And today, at the age of thirty-six, memories of that love hit him hard.

He was lonely, he admitted to himself, as he walked through the gated courtyard toward the main bungalow. The strains of an old ghazal played on the gramophone player, sinking sweetly into his veins, slowly releasing the pent-up tension he’d been carrying. He laughed at the mural his younger brother, Virat, had painted on one wall where a profusion of plants and flowerpots sat on an elevated concrete bench.

The cozy bungalow, full of sweet memories and peaceful childhood associations, was his favorite place in the world. And yet, he had avoided visiting for almost two months, using out-of-country shoots and overloaded scheduling as excuses.

But here in this place where he was just Vikram and not Vikram Raawal, Bollywood star, and the chairman of the family production company Raawal House of Cinema, he couldn’t lie to himself.

He hadn’t wanted to expose himself to his daadi’s brand of perceptiveness. He hadn’t wanted her to see how unhappy he’d been of late. How…unsettled in his own skin.

The raucous burst of a man’s laughter punctured his thoughts. It was Virat.

For a few seconds, Vikram considered turning around and walking out. His recent argument with his brother had been far dirtier than their usual headbutting over projects for Raawal House. Being called arrogant and dominating by a brother that he loved and respected had…shaken him.

The laughter came again and Vikram’s curiosity trumped his reluctance. He walked through the grand salon, filled with his grandfather’s trophies and accolades from a career that had lasted close to five decades in Bollywood.

Vijay Raawal had not only been a celebrated actor and director but had built his career from the ground up after traveling the country with a theater group for years. Started his own production company, and taken the industry in a new direction. Made mainstream films, art projects, and careers of many stars and never once lost his integrity.

How had his grandfather sustained such a glittering career in such a superficial and cutthroat industry? Had it been simply the unconditional support Daadi had offered him through everything?

After fifteen years and numerous box office hits in Bollywood, Vikram had suddenly found himself filled with a strange feeling of discontent all of a sudden. But it was more than creative burnout. In a cinematic twist, he’d found himself wanting the same kind of support and affection from someone that Daadi had given Daadu while knowing that he wasn’t actually capable of returning it.

In a crazy moment of impulse, he’d asked his best friend Zara to marry him. Thankfully, Zara had instantly said no. That he had even considered marriage in the first place—even if it was to his oldest and longest friend, showed how unlike himself he was currently feeling.

He nodded at Ramu Kaka—his grandfather’s old manservant, as old and comfortingly familiar as the bungalow itself.

The first thing that hit him as he entered the expansive sitting room was the subtle scent of roses. Every inch of him stilled as he stood over the threshold, his long form hidden from his daadi and Virat by the L-shaped angle of the hall. They were lounging on the divan, while a number of their servants stood huddled by the other door that led to the huge kitchen. Every mouth twitched in varying degrees of smiles.

In the middle of the room, kneeling on the rug, was a young woman with her face in profile to Vikram. Evening sunlight filtered through the high windows in the room and lit up her silhouette. The first thing he noted was the dark halo of her hair, curly and thick like her very own crown, that swung from side to side every time she moved her head, and huge glittering earrings that reminded him of the crystal chandelier Mama had spent thousands of dollars on in some Italian boutique.

The earrings swayed enchantingly every time the young woman moved her head. And she did it a lot. His mouth curved.

Wide eyes, pert nose and a lush mouth moved in constant animation, along with her plump body. Almost anesthetized by seeing size zero bodies on movie sets, he let his gaze return to the voluptuous lines of her body with a curious fascination. A white cotton kurta hugged her breasts, a long chain of glittery beads dancing over them.

White stones on tiny half-moon gold hoops glinted in a perfect line over the shell of her left ear, winking mischievously in the waning sunlight. With her multihued skirt spread out around her in a kaleidoscope of colors, she was a gorgeous burst of color against a gray landscape.

Full of life and verve and authenticity he hadn’t seen in a long time.

A thrilling sliver of excitement bloomed in his gut even as he frowned at the oversized stuffed teddy bear on the floor in front of her. Suddenly, the woman opened her mouth and screamed.

The cry was deep rather than shrill, perfectly modulated, and eerily familiar.

Vikram watched in increasing fascination as she extended her arms and bent to scoop up the stuffed toy from the ground into her arms. The gold and silver-colored bracelets she wore on one wrist tinkled at the moment, adding their own background score to the entire scene.

And then it came to him.

She was enacting a scene. From a recent movie. His latest action thriller.

She was…mocking him?

She was imitating the cheesiest line he’d ever said in front of a camera and she was doing a fantastic job of pinpointing everything he’d hated about the movie and in particular, that scene.

But instead of putting an end to what felt like a mockery of his talent, his choices, and even him, Vikram continued to watch. Still curious to see what else she’d do. Bizarrely hungry for the spectacle the woman was making of him.

No wonder Virat was having the time of his life. In their recent argument, his younger brother hadn’t packed his punches when he’d criticized that action thriller and every other career choice Vikram had made in the last fifteen years with the brilliant wit and rapacious tongue that he was famous for throughout the industry as a top Bollywood director.

It seemed his brother had been sitting on a mountain of complaints that had suddenly blown up in Vikram’s face. The argument had begun after he’d confessed to Virat about his ridiculous proposal to Zara. Virat had unexpectedly gone ballistic about that, then moved on to an old disagreement about their sister, Anya’s, future, then the script for a film Vikram had rejected last year…and finished with his brother calling him a control freak who just didn’t know when to stop.

The woman hugged the imaginary person to her chest and bent her head, a low growl building out of her petite form. A couple of seconds passed as she buried her head in the stuffed toy’s neck. Just as he’d done to the heroine in that scene. Even the theater hadn’t had this kind of pin-drop silence from the audience that she did.

His chest burned with embarrassment, even the beginnings of anger but there was something else too. He continued to watch, as captivated as the rest of them.

The low growl erupted from the woman’s throat as she let the huge toy roll away from her lap and, in a movement that was creepily close to his own movements, she raised her head, pushed her fingers to the back of her neck, and screamed again in simulated fury and anguish.

She managed to pitch her voice pretty low, sounding almost as a man might. And then, she looked up.

“I will avenge you, Meri Jaan, in this life and the next. I will destroy everyone that harmed you. I will paint the world with the blood of the man that wronged you. I am the destroyer.”

The wretched woman even started humming the soundtrack that followed those horrible lines of dialogue. Who was she?

Applause broke around her. With a familiarity that Vikram found annoying on a disproportionate level, Virat wrapped his arm around the woman and pulled her into a hug against him. Even Daadi laughed.

And then it clicked. This was his grandmother’s new personal assistant. The wonderful Ms. Naina Menon that Daadi couldn’t stop singing praises of. The one who’d been hired by his grandmother around two months ago, after she’d done some work for Virat. Vikram had never met her.

“You could give most of the leading ladies a run for their money, darling,” said Virat.

She shook her head. “Thanks, Virat. But I’m not made for acting. I…this was just—”

Pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers, Vikram stepped into the room. “My brother’s right, Ms. Menon.”

The cheerful atmosphere died an instant death. The servants disappeared like rats at the sight of a big cat. Slender fingers pushing away at her unruly cloud of hair in a nervous gesture, the woman turned to face him.

Large, wide eyes alighted on his face, and there was a tremble to that pink mouth. “Hello, Mr. Raawal. I can’t tell you how excited I am to finally meet you.” It should have sounded pandering, syrupy, and yet the sentiment in her words was clearly genuine.

The fascination he’d felt as he’d taken in her plump curves morphed into a rumbling growl inside his chest, not unlike the one she’d just done in imitation of him. “I wish I could say the same of you, Ms. Menon,” he said, his tone betraying nothing but icy disdain.

“I’m sorry if that performance offended you, Mr. Raawal. It was meant to just be a bit of fun…” She looked incredibly young as she visibly swallowed. “I wasn’t mocking you.”

“No? It sounded like you were,” he retorted softly, childishly put out that he was Mr. Raawal while his brother was Virat. Of course, Virat had been charming women since he’d been in langotis, so it wasn’t much of a surprise. “You are wasting your talents here. If not the silver screen, you should be on one of those talk shows, making money from doing the caustic commentaries that are all the rage now, mocking every artist, and bringing them down for the world’s glee.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Vikram regretted them. Even before he noticed her stricken expression. He’d been called arrogant, blunt, even grumpy, but never cruel, not even by the media that kept looking for dirt underneath the shield of his public persona.

But that had been downright cruel.

She went from laughing and glowing to a pinched paleness that punched a hole in his bitterness.

Virat interrupted. “Bhai, Daadi and I insisted that she—”

“What do you do with that talent?” he cut in, once again disproportionately riled by Virat’s protective stance toward this relative stranger. For some reason, Vikram was far too invested in this woman’s opinion of him.

Ms. Menon continued to stare up at him, big eyes wide, tension swathing her petite frame. He moved closer to her and felt that tug again. She was pretty in a girl-next-door way, but the expression in those eyes, the rapid change from anger to desire to confusion…it made her utterly gorgeous.

God, she only looked about twenty.

“Lost your ability for words now?” he murmured, more to hear her speak again than anything else.

She glared at him. “I don’t understand your question.”

“You’re clearly talented, Ms. Menon. What do you do with it all? I mean, other than making a mockery of others?”

“I was…I was just showing them my mimicry. I even did a few other actors earlier too. Like Big B.”

“Ahh…so you’re one of those critics who makes fun but has never done a minute’s worth of creative work themselves or shared it with the world? It’s so easy to hide on the sidelines and mock the person out in the public arena, no? Can I ask why you pinpointed that particular scene?”

Her spine straightened and she charged forward. The scent of roses filled his nostrils and he felt a thrill run down his spine. God, she was gorgeous when she was all riled up.

“First of all, I’m not ill-equipped to make such comments. Not when I’ve studied film history all through college. Secondly, are you sure you want to know why I picked that scene to reenact?”

“I’m a big boy, Ms. Menon. I assure you I can take it.”

“Can you though? When you’ve turned a minute of comedy into a huge insult to your own ego?” He didn’t answer and the resolve tightened in her face. “Fine, here’s my honest opinion, for what it’s worth.

“You cater to the lowest denomination of the mass population with these action blockbusters, and you offer a warped image of what a hero should be with your revenge and destroy plotlines. You perpetuate the same tired old trope of being the macho guy who’s a ‘true man’ just because you can supposedly beat up more guys than anyone else. That movie was not only gratuitously violent but offensive on every level to women, from your leading lady to your blind sister to even your overdramatized female best friend. They only exist in the film to make you their savior.”

Every word of her criticism was justified. Every word was utter truth.

And he’d asked for it, so he couldn’t even blame her for saying it, could he?

If Vikram didn’t hate the idea of true physical violence on every level, he would’ve sucker-punched his brother for the low whistle that ran around the room.

“I make movies to make money, Ms. Menon. Having clearly inveigled yourself into my grandmother’s household, I’m sure you’ve a really good idea that it’s wealth which makes the world go around. So please don’t tell me that all artists create just for the purpose of art.”

He had no idea why he’d just said that because his grandmother was a great judge of character. And if she thought Ms. Menon was the newly rising sun, then Vikram would normally have believed her, no questions asked.

“Inveigled myself?” she repeated in a low tone, her body vibrating with her anger. “I can’t…I can’t believe I used to have a teenage crush on you! Of course, I know wealth makes the world go around probably far better than you do—because, believe me, I don’t have any.

“As for art…I’m not asking you to throw away any of your considerable wealth making artsy movies that might bomb at the box office. I know you have to keep growing this amazing dynasty…” she threw her arms around and those damn bracelets of hers tinkled again “…to enable the generations of Raawals that might come after you to sit around on their bums.”

She slapped her hand over her mouth and groaned. Vikram felt the insane urge to drag her hand away and taste that groan. As much as she was skewering him with her painful truths, he wanted to hear her go on tirade after tirade. God, he could listen to that throaty voice of hers for hours.

She turned to address his grandmother. “I’m sorry, Daadiji. I didn’t mean to insult your family.”

Virat and Daadi laughed and even Vikram’s chest filled with a burst of irreverent joy.

“Never mind, beta,” Daadi crooned, her perceptive gaze on Vikram. “No one else would dare rip into my grandson quite so well as you just have. Please go on. You have my blessing.” The last he knew was added for his benefit.

Not that she believed he would harm Ms. Menon in any way.

“I don’t think she has the guts, Daadi,” Vikram taunted deliberately. “She’s too scared to say anything else to my face.”

Fury coated her cheeks, and her brown eyes danced with fire.

“You’re not just wealthy, you wield power and influence. Directors and producers change story lines for you. They hire and fire people at your say-so. They create these multi-crore elaborate sets for you. You have the chance to steer things the right way in the industry. You could use your star power to create a new kind of hero, Mr. Raawal. Because, believe me, the world needs to reexamine what makes a man a hero.”

Vikram knew he should leave it at that. She hadn’t said anything he hadn’t already faced up to in the dark of the night. And yet to be so thoroughly reduced to the sum of his flaws grated at his ego. To be thought of in such poor terms by a woman that stirred his interest like never before…pricked his male pride.

“Why should I give your cutting opinion any weight? What have you done so far that’s so important and worthwhile? You’re clearly both educated and talented because even Virat sings your praises, and yet you’re hiding here playing PA to my grandmother, hiding from your own life!”

“That’s unfair,” she threw back at him and yet he could see from her reaction he’d hit the nail on its head. He hadn’t become the king of an industry without being perceptive.

“Ah…Ms. Menon, you can dish it out, but you clearly can’t take it,” he drawled.

“You don’t know anything about my life,” she retorted and he had a horrible feeling he’d truly wounded her.

Regret filled his chest. He desperately wanted to touch her, to hold her trembling body. Instead he stepped back.

For the entire world, even for his family who knew him well, he was a coldhearted businessman, the head of Raawal House. And nothing else. With no shades or flaws.

“And yet you presume to know everything about mine,” he said softly, his frustration with himself, with the world seeping into his tone. “Because I live my life for your entertainment and God forbid I make mistakes like every other person on the planet. God forbid anyone even wonders that there’s more to me than the company or this bloody family or being a successful star. Right?”

Silence met his own outburst. Virat and Daadi stared at him with stunned expressions. As for Ms. Menon, he had no words to describe the look in her eyes.

It wasn’t pity or sympathy. It was something else, something he wanted to drown in. Something he wanted to demand she give voice to.

Which was crazy enough in itself.

Vikram turned around and walked away from the damned woman with her far-too-blunt opinions and big eyes and from the house with its insistent mockery of what he should’ve been and what he had become instead.

Damn it, how had the woman gotten under his skin so easily? Why had it taken someone like her to point out the obvious truth of how far off course he’d veered? To make him suddenly understand the reason for his recent burnout?

Because he’d surrounded himself with yes-men and women. Because he’d made himself so powerful, so untouchable that there wasn’t anyone who would dare dig into him like she just had. Except Virat. And he hadn’t really listened to his brother.

Because in the pursuit of trying to fix everything their father had destroyed, he’d sold his soul in the process.