CHAPTER 1
Divyanka Mehra had perfected the art of leaving.
Leaving cities before they started feeling familiar.
Leaving people before they began expecting permanence.
Leaving moments just before they demanded honesty.
At twenty-nine, she stood exactly where the world believed happiness lived.
Mumbai stretched beneath her penthouse like a living, breathing organism—restless, ambitious, endlessly awake. From her glass balcony, the city looked obedient, as if it existed to applaud her choices. And in many ways, it did.
Divyanka was celebrated. Desired. Envied.
She moved with a confidence that came from knowing eyes followed her wherever she went. Her beauty was striking—long, sculpted lines, a body shaped by discipline and self-respect, elegance wrapped in boldness. But it wasn’t just her physical presence that held attention. It was the way she carried herself—like someone who owed nothing to anyone.
Men mistook her independence for invitation.
Women mistook her silence for arrogance.
No one guessed how carefully constructed she was.
Her apartment reflected her inner world—minimalist, expensive, deliberately impersonal. No family photographs. No sentimental clutter. Everything chosen to be replaceable. Even the flowers were changed weekly, never allowed to wilt in her presence.
Divyanka believed attachments were liabilities.
She had learned that lesson early.
Her father had left quietly when she was sixteen—no drama, no explanation. Just absence. From that day, Divyanka promised herself one thing: never need anyone enough to break when they leave.
So she became extraordinary.
Top of her class.
Fearless in ambition.
Unapologetic in desire.
By her late twenties, she was one of the youngest creative directors in the advertising world. Brands trusted her instincts. Clients listened when she spoke. Her ideas sold dreams to millions.
Yet, every relationship followed the same pattern.
Intense beginnings.
Passionate middle.
A sudden end—engineered by her.
She always found a reason to leave first.
That evening, the city celebrated her again.
The award function shimmered with chandeliers, champagne, and carefully rehearsed smiles. Divyanka stood draped in black silk, her hair falling effortlessly over one shoulder, her lips curved into a practiced smile that photographers adored.
“Divyanka Mehra—Best Film Campaign of the Year!”
Applause thundered.
She walked to the stage with perfect posture, accepted the trophy, delivered a speech that sounded confident, witty, and grateful. The audience saw a woman who had arrived.
What they didn’t see was the hollowness settling quietly in her chest.
As she stepped down, congratulations surrounded her. Hands touched her arm. Compliments brushed her ears. Someone suggested an after-party. Someone else suggested a weekend getaway.
Divyanka nodded, smiled, laughed.
And then—something shifted.
Her breath shortened. The noise blurred. The lights felt too bright.
She excused herself politely and walked toward the restroom, heels clicking sharply against marble floors.
Inside, surrounded by mirrors, her reflection stared back at her from every angle.
Perfect. Composed. Unrecognizable.
Her heart raced violently, as if trying to escape her ribcage. Her hands trembled. Her chest tightened. Air refused to come when she asked for it.
“Not now,” she whispered to herself.
But her body didn’t listen.
She slid down against the wall, silk dress wrinkling beneath her, trophy forgotten somewhere outside. Tears streamed down without permission—silent, humiliating, real.
For the first time in years, Divyanka Mehra wasn’t in control.
She wasn’t strong. She wasn’t successful. She wasn’t admired.
She was just a woman, sitting on a cold restroom floor, terrified by a truth she had avoided for too long:
She had built an extraordinary life—but nowhere inside it did she feel safe enough to stay.
And that realization would change everything.
