I don't chase, I attract. That's the rule I live by. The moment you start running after things you lower your worth. And darling, I was born priceless.
The camera flashes like a hundred tiny stars exploding, blinding for a second, then fading into the dark. The sound of my heels clicking sharply on the glossy floor echoes through the room. I don’t even need to look up to know every eye is on me—it's always been this way. The red carpet of the Russian fashion scene, the glittering lights, the whispers, the envy—this is my world. And I rule it.
*Black-Haired Barbie*—that’s what they call me, isn’t it? The perfect doll, with my obsidian hair flowing like silk and skin that glows under the spotlights, green eyes that matches forest. My father’s empire of luxury and excess has been built on appearances, and it’s no different with me. I am his most polished product, the heir to his kingdom, the jewel everyone admires.
But beneath this porcelain facade? Beneath the smile, the glam, the perfect life they think I lead? It’s a different story. My smile hides more than just the fatigue that weighs on me. It hides the pain. The sleepless nights where my thoughts are my only company, where I close my eyes but can’t seem to escape the nightmares that haunt me. No amount of concealer can hide the dark circles beneath my eyes anymore, and no amount of expensive serum will make the weariness in my soul go away.
I am the daughter of the richest man in Russia. The kingpin of the Russian Mafia. Anirudh Singhania. My father’s empire spans continents, his reach infinite, and yet... I don’t feel like I belong in any of it. Not really. I’m just a face, a name, an object of perfection he parades around like a trophy.
But that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it is that every night, after the lights go out and the world falls silent, there’s that shadow.
I keep walking, focused on my next step, keeping the smile locked in place. But I can’t shake the feeling.
There. Just beyond the edge of the spotlight. For a split second, I freeze. I know that figure. I’ve seen him before, or at least I think I have. It’s been a year now. The shadow that lingers in my nightmares, always there, always watching. The same figure that never seems to leave, not even when I close my eyes
I’ve tried to convince myself it’s just my imagination, that my mind’s playing tricks on me. The stress, the pressure, the exhaustion. It makes sense, right? This is all just a side effect of living a life where you’re constantly expected to be more than you are. The hallucinations. The shadows. They’ve been with me for so long, I don’t even question them anymore. Not since the night everything shattered. Not since I lost control of my own mind
I try to push the thought aside, to focus on the walk, the crowd, the applause. I’m fine. Everything is fine. But then I glance to my left. There it is again. The shadow. Just standing there in the darkness, watching me, unmoving. My heart skips a beat, but I keep walking, even though the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. I have no idea who or what it is, and I can’t track it.
Not even with all the tech at my disposal. My father owns the biggest security company in the world, for god’s sake. I could easily get the best surveillance, I could have every inch of this place scanned for any sign of a threat, and yet… nothing. No trace.
Which only confirms what I already know deep down—this is all in my head. It’s just another figment of my broken mind.
I could tell my father, but I won’t. I can’t. Not because I think he won’t believe me, but because I already know what he’d say. “You need more therapy, Pratishtha.” He’d write it off as another one of my “episodes.” Another cry for help. Another sign that I’m losing control. No. I’m not going down that road. I’m not telling him about the shadow, not when it’s easier to convince myself it doesn’t exist.
So, I keep walking, forcing the smile back into place, ignoring the unsettling feeling that claws at my insides. The shadow doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
I’m just imagining it.
I have to be.
*Right?*
♠♠♠
Isha flopped onto my silk sheets with a dramatic sigh, her faux fur coat sliding off her shoulders like she was posing for a Vogue cover. “So, there’s a masquerade ball this weekend,” she said casually, twirling a strand of her hair.
I didn’t look up from my glass of wine. “And?”
Isha shot me a look, the kind that said she was about to launch into a full-fledged performance. “And it’s the event of the season, darling. Every elite heir, future billionaire, and walking trust fund of Russia will be there. Obviously, that includes you.
I arched a brow. “And if I’m not?”
She gasped like I had just suggested wearing Crocs to a Chanel show. “Then it would be a scandal. Russia’s golden girl skipping the most exclusive event of the year? The tabloids will have a meltdown.” She leaned in. “They’ll think you’re either hiding a secret lover or planning a dramatic disappearance—both of which, I admit, would be iconic, but also problematic.”
I smirked. “Maybe I just don’t feel like wasting my time on a room full of desperate men who inherited their power instead of earning it.”
“Not all of them are desperate,” she countered, her eyes gleaming. “Some are dangerous.”
I narrowed my gaze. “And that’s supposed to tempt me?”
Isha grinned. “Temptation is the whole point, babe.” Then, dropping the act for a second, she rolled onto her stomach, kicking her legs up. “Look, just come with me. It’s awkward going alone. Besides, I’m in it for the thrill—the champagne, the whispers, the masked strangers. Don’t you want to have a little fun?”
I tilted my glass, watching the deep red swirl like liquid sin. Fun. That was something I never had without consequences. But a masquerade? Where no one knew who I was?
A slow, wicked smile curved my lips.
“Fine,” I said, setting my glass down. “Let’s play.”
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Thanks for reading my lovely readers. Hope you liked Pratishtha's introduction. Let me know your opinions about her.
So what do you think it's just her imagination or is it something else?
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