Age 30–34
The YouTuber (Via Screen)
Anya had been in New York for six months when her mother's text arrived at 2 AM Mumbai time, 4 PM New York time.
There's a young man, Rohan Bhat, twenty years old. Wants to start a fitness video channel on YouTube. His family is excellent—father's a cardiologist at Breach Candy, mother's a dermatologist, sister finishing at Grant Medical College. Completely clueless about production. You know editing, cameras. Maybe helping him would give you something to focus on? He's in Mumbai but you can do video calls.
Anya stared at her phone from Priya's guest room—her room now, really, since it had been six months and she showed no signs of leaving.
Priya was four months pregnant, glowing and exhausted, spending most days either teaching occasional art classes or resting. Marco traveled constantly—Hong Kong, London, Singapore—his finance job keeping him away two weeks out of every month.
And Anya was… stuck. Suspended. Living in her sister's Tribeca apartment, occasionally attending A-list events in Manhattan where her father's global influence still opened doors, mostly just existing in a strange limbo between her Mumbai life and something she couldn't quite name.
A twenty-year-old who wanted to make fitness videos seemed absurd. But also—anything was better than another evening alone scrolling through her phone while Priya slept at 8 PM.
Fine. When?
He'll email you. Video calls work.
The first Zoom call happened two days later.
Rohan Bhat's face filled her laptop screen—young, eager, sitting in what looked like an expensive home gym with mismatched lighting.
"Anya! Hi! Your mom said you went to Tisch!" His enthusiasm poured through the speakers. "So I want to start a YouTube channel. Fitness stuff—workouts, maybe some nutrition tips. I've been working out for three years and people always ask me for advice, so I thought, why not make videos?"
Anya adjusted her laptop, conscious that she was sitting in Priya's guest room in sweatpants at 4 PM on a Wednesday. "Why do you need me?"
"Because—" He gestured vaguely at the camera. "I don't know anything about making videos? Like, I can turn on my phone camera but that's it. And your mom said you're a filmmaker, so I thought maybe you could help? Just basic stuff?"
Anya studied him through the screen. He was handsome in that generic gym-rat way—muscular, clean-cut, the kind of boy who'd never struggled with anything in his twenty years. His setup was amateur—one camera, bad lighting, no sense of composition.
But there was something earnest about him. Uncomplicated. No supernatural gifts, no family intrigue, no dark histories. Just a rich Bombay kid who wanted to make fitness videos and had no idea how.
"What do you know about YouTube?" Anya asked.
"Uh… people post videos?"
She almost smiled. "Equipment?"
"I have my phone? And my dad's old DSLR camera somewhere."
"Editing software?"
"Is that… like, an app?"
Anya sighed. This was going to be a project. But oddly, she found herself not minding. Because Rohan's cluelessness was refreshing. And because she had nothing else to do. And because—she realized with a small shock—she actually missed working on something, even if it was just teaching a twenty-year-old the basics of video production.
"Okay," she said. "First, download DaVinci Resolve. It's free editing software. Then shoot me some test footage—just five minutes of you doing a workout. Phone camera is fine for now. Send it to me by Friday and I'll give you notes."
"Really? You'll help?" His grin was enormous. "This is amazing! I mean, having Vikash Chandra's daughter helping my channel—"
"No." Anya's voice sharpened. "My name doesn't get mentioned. Ever. Not in videos, not in descriptions, nowhere. If you want my help, I'm completely anonymous. Understood?"
Disappointment flickered across his face—clearly he'd hoped to leverage the Chandra connection. But he nodded. "Understood. Just advice. Behind the scenes."
"Good. Send me footage by Friday."
The call ended and Anya sat back, surprised to find herself feeling something resembling interest. It was a small thing, trivial even. But it was something to do besides watch her sister's belly grow while her own life remained frozen.
——
The Documentary That Wasn't
The email from her father's assistant arrived three weeks later, clinical and brief:
Mr. Chandra has reviewed the final cut of your documentary. He's decided not to move forward with distribution. The project is shelved indefinitely. He suggests you focus on other opportunities when you return to Mumbai.
Anya read it three times, sitting in Priya's kitchen while her sister napped in the bedroom.
Two years of work. Intimate footage of Mumbai's hijra community—their rituals, their struggles, their defiant survival. Interviews she'd conducted herself, stories she'd earned through months of building trust. Editing she'd done in her Bandra apartment, pouring everything she knew about filmmaking into something raw and honest.
Shelved.
No explanation. No feedback. Just her father's decision, final and absolute.
She called her mother.
"I know." Maya's voice was thoughtful, measured. "Your father told me yesterday. I'm sorry, Anya. I know how much work you put into that."
"Why, Maa? Two years of work—"
"You were building your own world. Producers, editors, cinematographers your father hasn't investigated. You moved to Bandra, started networking independently, creating connections outside his oversight." Maya paused, then with characteristic honesty: "Your father can't tolerate that. Not with what you know, what you can do for him."
The directness was almost refreshing.
"So I just give up filmmaking?"
"For now, probably. When you come back, maybe we can figure something out. Something more contained." A beat. "Listen, Anya, I won't lie to you—this is how your father operates. You knew that. I knew that when I married him. It's the price of this life."
"Great price."
"It is what it is." Maya's tone shifted slightly, became more conversational. "How's Priya doing?"
"Pregnant. Exhausted."
"And you're still in New York."
It wasn't quite a question.
"Where else would I be?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking." A pause, then with careful casualness: "How are you, really? You sound different."
"I'm fine."
"Anya." Maya's voice carried genuine curiosity now, not maternal concern but real interest. "Talk to me. What's happening there?"
And somehow, that directness, that lack of performance, made Anya want to answer honestly.
"I'm lonely. Priya's pregnant and tired. Marco travels constantly. I go to events but it's all surface. And I'm just… stuck."
"Hmm." Maya was quiet for a moment. "That sounds difficult. Have you met anyone? Made friends?"
"There's Abhay. You remember him? Maa's son. He's here with McKinsey."
"Ah. Abhay Malhotra. Yes." Maya's tone remained neutral, conversational. "How is he?"
"Good. We've been going to events together. He's… easy to be around."
"That's nice. It's good you have company." A pause. "I need to run—meeting at the agency in twenty minutes. But call me again soon? I actually want to hear how you're doing. Not for your father's sake—just for mine."
The call ended and Anya sat with the phone, surprised by how much she'd actually enjoyed talking to her mother when Maya dropped the performance and just… talked.
Through the bedroom door, she could hear Priya's gentle snoring. Her sister—pregnant, happy, living her own life with her ordinary Italian husband. Free.
While Anya sat in a borrowed room in a borrowed life, watching everything she tried to build get systematically destroyed.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Rohan:
Hey! Just uploaded my first video! Want to see? I used all your notes on lighting and framing. Got 47 views already!
Anya stared at the message. This stupid kid with his fitness channel, excited about 47 views, completely oblivious to how the world actually worked.
She should ignore it. Focus on the wreckage of her actual career.
Instead, she clicked the link.
The video loaded—Rohan in his home gym, demonstrating bicep curls, his voiceover explaining proper form. The lighting was better, the framing decent. He'd actually listened to her notes.
It was amateurish, clumsy, nothing like the sophisticated documentary she'd just watched her father kill.
But it was something. A small thing she was helping build while everything else crumbled.
She texted back: Good work on the lighting. Next video, work on your audio levels. And stop looking directly at the camera so much—it's unnatural.
His response was immediate: Will do! Thank you SO much! This means everything!
Anya set down her phone and stared at the river.
Thirty years old. Her documentary shelved. Her career controlled. Her life suspended in her sister's guest room while her father decided when—and if—she could come home.
But she could teach a twenty-year-old how to make YouTube videos about bicep curls.
It was pathetic.
It was all she had.
She opened her laptop and started outlining notes for Rohan's next video.
The Cousin
Anya met Abhay Malhotra at a fundraising gala in Midtown Manhattan six weeks after the documentary was shelved.
Her father's sister's son—thirty-six years old, working for McKinsey, wearing a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. She'd seen him maybe five times in her entire life, always at family functions in Mumbai, always peripheral.
"Anya!" He materialized beside her at the bar, his smile warm and genuine. "I heard you were in New York. Priya mentioned it last month. How long are you here?"
"Unclear." Anya accepted her wine from the bartender. "My sister needed support. Now she's pregnant and I'm… still here."
"Well, that's perfect timing. I'm based here now—Upper East Side. Been here three years." He gestured at the gala around them—elegant people in elegant clothes raising money for something important-sounding. "These events are brutal alone. Want some company?"
It was innocent. Familial. Two relatives in a foreign city, finding each other in the crowd.
Anya said yes.
Over the next month, Abhay became her lifeline to a world she'd almost forgotten existed.
He invited her to gallery openings in Chelsea, where contemporary art hung on white walls and people spoke in that particular Manhattan dialect of wealth and culture. To dinners at Eleven Madison Park and Per Se, where Michelin stars and her father's name ensured tables materialized. To theater premieres and museum galas where New York's elite gathered and Anya realized her father's influence extended even here.
Priya couldn't attend—seven months pregnant now, exhausted, spending most evenings in bed by 8 PM while Marco traveled through Asia closing deals.
So Anya went with Abhay.
At first, it was purely practical. She needed an escort for events she was invited to because of her name. He needed company at functions required by his consulting work. They were cousins, family, perfectly appropriate.
But somewhere between the third gallery opening and the fifth dinner, something shifted.
"You're different than I expected," Abhay said one evening, both of them walking through the Village after a play at the Public Theater. October air crisp, leaves turning gold. "Growing up, I always heard about 'Vikash's younger daughter'—the one with gifts, the one he watched constantly. I imagined someone… harder."
"Maybe I am hard. You just can't see it."
"No." He stopped walking, looked at her properly. "You're sad. That's different."
The observation landed with unexpected weight. Because he was right. Anya was sad—had been sad for months, maybe years, definitely since arriving in New York to discover that even an ocean away, her father's control remained absolute.
"My documentary got shelved," she heard herself say. "Two years of work. My father killed it because I was building too much independence."
"That's brutal."
"That's being a Chandra." She started walking again. "What about you? Why New York? Couldn't McKinsey keep you in Mumbai?"
"I requested the transfer." Abhay's voice carried something careful. "Needed distance from the family. My mother—your father's sister—she has… expectations. Ideas about who I should marry, how I should live. New York gave me space to breathe."
"So we're both running away."
"We're both surviving." He smiled, something sad in it that matched her own expression. "Maybe that's enough."
They walked in comfortable silence, and Anya felt something unfamiliar—connection. Real connection, not the performed kind she'd learned growing up Chandra.
It should have stayed there. Cousins finding solace in shared exile.
But it didn't.
The first real shift happened at a rooftop party in Williamsburg—some tech startup launch that Abhay had been invited to through consulting connections.
They'd had too much wine. The Manhattan skyline glittered across the East River. Electronic music pulsed through expensive speakers while Brooklyn's creative class networked and flirted.
"You know what's funny?" Abhay leaned close to be heard over the music. "Everyone here thinks we're together. As a couple."
"We're cousins."
"I know. But they don't." He gestured at the crowd. "We show up to everything together, we laugh at each other's jokes, we look good standing next to each other. From outside, we look like—"
"Like what?"
"Like we make sense."
The words hung between them, loaded with something neither wanted to acknowledge.
Anya should have laughed it off. Should have reinforced the boundary, reminded him they were family, ended the moment before it became dangerous.
Instead, she held his gaze and said nothing.
The second shift happened two weeks later at Abhay's apartment on the Upper East Side.
He'd invited her to dinner—nothing unusual, they'd had dinner dozens of times. But Marco was home for once, and Priya wanted alone time with her husband, and Abhay's apartment was spacious and elegant, and somehow the evening stretched past dinner into late-night conversation over whiskey neither of them should have been drinking.
"Tell me something you've never told anyone," Abhay said, both of them on his couch, Manhattan glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows.
Anya should have deflected. Should have kept it light.
Instead: "I destroyed a girl's life when I was fifteen. Used my gifts to break her down because my father wanted revenge on her father. Ruined her Bollywood career, destroyed her relationship, made her physically sick through magic she never knew existed. And the worst part? I didn't just do it for him. I did it because I wanted the boy she'd taken from me."
The confession landed in the space between them, raw and terrible.
Abhay was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Did you get the boy?"
"No."
"Good. You deserved better than him anyway."
It was the perfect response. Not judgment, not horror. Just acceptance.
Anya felt something crack open in her chest.
"Your turn," she said.
"I'm in love with someone I can't have." Abhay's voice was quiet. "Have been for months. It's completely inappropriate, completely impossible. But I can't make it stop."
"Who?"
He looked at her then, and Anya understood.
She should have left. Should have created distance, reinforced boundaries, protected them both from what was building.
Instead, she leaned forward and kissed him.
They didn't sleep together that night.
Anya pulled back after thirty seconds, breathing hard, realizing what they were about to do.
"We can't," she whispered.
"I know."
"We're cousins."
"I know."
"My father would—"
"I know."
But the knowledge didn't stop it from happening three nights later, when Priya was at a prenatal yoga class and Marco was in Singapore and Abhay texted can we talk? and Anya went to his apartment and they didn't talk at all.
The Confession (Part One)
Anya called her mother the next morning, guilt and panic flooding through her.
"Maa, I need to tell you something."
She confessed everything. The connection with Abhay, the dinners, the party, the kiss, what happened after. The terrible realization that she was falling for her cousin because she was lonely and isolated and he was the only man in her life besides her married brother-in-law.
Maya listened without interrupting. Then, with characteristic directness: "Well. That's complicated."
"I know—"
"How many times?"
"Once. Just once."
"Are you planning to continue?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Probably." Anya's voice cracked. "I'm so lonely here, Maa. And he understands me. He gets what it's like to need distance from the family."
"I understand that completely." Maya's voice carried genuine empathy—not performative sympathy, but real understanding. "Loneliness makes us reach for whatever warmth is available. I'm not judging you, Anya. I've been lonely in my marriage more times than I can count."
The honesty was unexpected, disarming.
"Really?"
"Of course. Your father is… your father. Brilliant, powerful, completely self-contained. There have been many nights I've wondered what it would be like to be with someone who actually saw me as more than a useful partner." Maya paused. "So I understand the appeal of Abhay. I do."
"But?"
"But does he know about your gifts? About what you can do?"
The question was asked gently, curiously, without accusation.
"Some things. Not everything. But I told him about Kiara, about working for Papa, about being empathic—"
"Ah." A thoughtful silence. "So he knows enough to understand what makes you valuable to your father."
"I guess."
"That's going to be a problem for Vikash." Maya's tone remained conversational, almost musing. "Not because of the cousin thing—families have survived worse. But because Abhay now has information about how your father operates. That makes him a potential risk."
"Abhay would never—"
"I believe you. But your father doesn't think like that. He thinks in terms of leverage and pressure points and what happens in worst-case scenarios." A pause. "I'll need to tell him about this, Anya. You understand that?"
"Yes."
"Are you prepared for what might happen?"
"What will happen?"
"I don't know yet. Your father will calculate the risk and decide how to manage it." Maya's voice softened. "Listen, I'm not trying to scare you. I'm just being honest about how this works. You know how your father operates—you've watched him your whole life."
"I know."
"Good." A beat, then with surprising warmth: "For what it's worth, I hope it works out with Abhay. I hope you find some happiness, even if it's complicated. You deserve that."
"Really?"
"Really." Maya laughed gently. "I'm not a monster, Anya. I'm your mother. I want you to have some joy in this life, even though I also have to protect your father's interests. Those two things exist simultaneously. Does that make sense?"
"I think so."
"Good. Now, I need to make some calls. But Anya—be careful, okay? With Abhay, with the situation. Just be careful."
The call ended and Anya sat with the phone, feeling oddly comforted despite the warnings.
Her mother hadn't condemned her. Had been honest about the complications without being cruel. Had even expressed hope for her happiness.
That was Maya—direct, pragmatic, but never cold. Protecting Vikash's interests while still being capable of genuine warmth.
The Brother-in-Law
The real problem—the one Anya hadn't mentioned to her mother yet—was Marco.
Marco Santini: thirty-two, Italian, handsome in that Mediterranean way with dark eyes and easy charm. He worked in finance, traveled constantly, made good money but not obscene money. Normal by Chandra standards. Ordinary.
And kind.
That was the problem. Marco was unfailingly kind to Anya.
When she'd first arrived, depressed about her documentary, he'd taken her to dinner and let her vent for two hours. When she struggled with loneliness, he'd included her in his and Priya's date nights, making her feel welcome rather than intrusive. When she'd mentioned missing Mumbai food, he'd researched Indian restaurants and taken her to Jackson Heights on a Sunday afternoon food tour.
He did small things. Asked about her day. Remembered she liked jasmine tea. Complimented her dress before galas. Touched her shoulder when she seemed sad.
Nothing inappropriate. Nothing that crossed lines.
But Anya—starved for male attention, isolated from her normal life, living in close proximity with a kind, attractive man while his wife grew increasingly pregnant and exhausted—felt herself becoming dangerously attracted.
It was insidious. She'd catch herself watching him make coffee in the morning. Lingering in the living room when he got home from work. Wearing nicer clothes around the apartment than strictly necessary.
And once—just once—she'd used her empathic gift to sense his emotional state and felt a spike of attraction toward her that he immediately suppressed.
He was attracted to her too.
Not acting on it. Being faithful to Priya. But the attraction existed, humming beneath the surface, growing stronger as Priya's pregnancy advanced and their physical relationship naturally diminished.
It was a disaster waiting to happen.
The Confession (Part Two)
Three days after confessing about Abhay, Anya called her mother again.
"Maa, there's something else."
She told her about Marco. Not that anything had happened—because it hadn't. But about the attraction, the tension, the danger of living in such close proximity with nowhere else to go.
Maya was silent for a long moment. Then, with a wry laugh: "Oh, Anya. You don't do things halfway, do you?"
"It's not funny—"
"It's a little funny. In a tragic way." Maya's tone was warm, almost affectionate despite the situation. "So you're involved with your cousin who knows family secrets, and attracted to your sister's husband. Both situations are completely untenable."
"I know."
"Do you want my honest opinion?"
"Yes."
"You need to leave New York. Not because I'm judging you—I'm not. But because that living situation is impossible. Too many people, too much proximity, too much unresolved tension." Maya paused thoughtfully. "Have you thought about coming home?"
"Not really."
"Your father needs you back in Mumbai. He has business negotiations next month that require your gifts—reading people, sensing intentions, the usual intelligence work." A beat. "I know you weren't planning to come back yet, but circumstances have changed. He wants you home."
"You want me gone from New York."
"I want you out of an impossible situation before it explodes and hurts people." Maya's voice carried genuine concern. "And yes, I'll be honest—your father asked me to get you home, and I'm doing that. But Anya, I'm also thinking about you. Living in Priya's guest room, attracted to two men you can't have, watching your sister's life move forward while yours is frozen—that's not sustainable. You know that."
"I'm not ready to come back to Mumbai."
"Then what's your alternative? Stay in New York and hope nothing happens with Marco? Continue with Abhay knowing your father will eventually intervene?" Maya's tone was curious, not pushy. "I'm genuinely asking. What do you want to do?"
Anya was quiet.
"I don't know."
"That's honest." Maya sighed. "Listen, think about it. Your father has booked a ticket for Monday—business class, direct flight. If you want to take it, it's there. If you don't, tell me and I'll cancel it. But Anya, you can't stay suspended in this in-between state forever. Eventually you have to choose something."
"What if I don't want to choose?"
"Then life will choose for you. And that's usually messier." A pause, then with surprising gentleness: "I know you're tired of being your father's tool. I know you want your own life. But right now, you're creating chaos in multiple directions, and that's not freedom either. That's just a different kind of trap."
The observation landed with uncomfortable accuracy.
"I'll think about it."
"Good. Call me when you've decided." A beat. "And Anya? Whatever you choose, I'm not your enemy. I protect your father's interests—that's my role. But I'm also capable of wanting good things for you. Both can be true."
The call ended and Anya sat with the phone, feeling the complexity of her mother's position.
Maya was being honest—she did want Anya back in Mumbai because Vikash had ordered it. But she also seemed genuinely concerned about the situation Anya had created. Not coldly analytical, not cruelly manipulative. Just direct about the reality while still maintaining some warmth.
That was Maya—aloof but never cold, selfish but never cruel, always protecting Vikash but still capable of maternal care.
It was confusing. But also somehow more bearable than pure manipulation would have been.
The Setup
What Anya didn't know: Vikash had given Maya explicit instructions a week earlier.
"Get her home. I have negotiations next month that require her gifts. I need her here, focused, useful."
Maya had listened, understanding her assignment. She could have resented it—being forced to retrieve the daughter who competed for Vikash's attention. But Maya was pragmatic. Anya would come home eventually. Better to manage the timing than let chaos force the issue.
So Maya called Priya.
"How's the pregnancy going?"
They talked for fifteen minutes about nursery preparations, baby names, Marco's travel schedule. Easy, genuine conversation between mother and daughter.
Then, casually: "How's Anya doing there?"
"Fine, I think. A bit withdrawn lately. Spends a lot of time on video calls with Abhay."
"Abhay Malhotra. Your aunt's son."
"Yeah. They go to a lot of events together."
"That's nice. She needs social connection." A pause, then thoughtfully: "And Marco? He's been good about including her?"
"He's been great. Takes her places when I'm too tired, makes sure she doesn't feel like a third wheel."
"That's very generous of him. He sounds like a good man." Maya's tone was warm, appreciative. "Though I imagine it's complicated sometimes—three people in an apartment, you pregnant and exhausted, him spending time with your attractive younger sister when you're not available."
The words were stated with curiosity, not accusation.
Priya was quiet for a moment. "What do you mean?"
"Just thinking out loud. Proximity creates its own dynamics, doesn't it? Doesn't mean anyone's doing anything wrong—just means situations can become complex." A beat. "Has anything seemed off to you? Any tension?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know." Priya sounded uncertain. "Sometimes they laugh together in the kitchen and I feel… excluded? But that's probably just pregnancy hormones making me sensitive."
"Probably. Though instinct often picks up on things we don't consciously recognize." Maya's voice remained gentle, curious. "I'm not suggesting anything's happening. I'm just wondering if the living arrangement might be creating strain for everyone. Including you."
The seed was planted with surgical precision, wrapped in maternal concern rather than accusation.
"Should I be worried?"
"I don't know. Should you?" A pause. "Listen, I trust you to manage your own household. I'm just thinking about everyone's wellbeing—yours, Anya's, Marco's. These situations work until they don't, and it's better to notice tensions early than let them build."
"Okay."
"I love you, Priya. Take care of yourself and that grandchild." Maya's warmth was genuine, unmistakable. "Call me anytime you need to talk, about anything."
The conversation ended and Priya sat with growing doubt.
Her mother hadn't accused anyone of anything. Had simply raised questions and let Priya's mind fill in possibilities.
That was Maya's method—efficient, effective, but never cold. She planted seeds while maintaining genuine maternal warmth.
She'd gotten what she needed: Priya would now watch Anya and Marco with new awareness. Doubt would grow. Eventually the situation would explode.
Then Anya would have nowhere to go but home.
Maya stubbed out her cigarette and returned to planning the agency's next fashion show, satisfied she'd handled her assignment with characteristic grace.
She didn't particularly enjoy manipulating her daughters against each other. But Vikash had given orders, and Maya always delivered.
That was the deal she'd made when she'd married him—protect his interests, maintain appearances, ensure smooth operations.
In exchange, she got wealth, status, and the freedom to pursue her own pleasures in her private sanctum.
It was a fair trade. Even if it sometimes required sacrificing Anya's happiness.
Priya began noticing things.
The way Marco asked Anya about her day. The way Anya dressed nicer around the apartment. Their easy laughter in the kitchen while Priya napped. The lingering glances she'd somehow missed before.
Nothing definitive. Nothing actionable.
But enough to spark doubt.
Eight months pregnant, exhausted, watching her younger sister—beautiful, childless, free—interact with her husband while she felt bloated and unsexy and exhausted.
The doubt became suspicion.
The suspicion became anger.
The Breaking Point
It happened on a Saturday afternoon.
Priya had gone shopping alone—refusing Anya's offer to join, needing space, needing air. She'd spent three hours wandering SoHo, buying things she didn't need, trying to calm the growing anxiety in her chest.
When she returned, Marco and Anya were in the living room laughing about something on his laptop. Nothing inappropriate. Just family members sharing a moment.
But in Priya's hormonal, suspicious mind, it looked different.
It looked like intimacy. Like connection. Like her sister stealing what was hers.
"Priya!" Marco stood immediately, smiling. "How was shopping? We were just—"
"I need to talk to Anya. Alone."
The temperature in the room dropped.
Marco glanced between the sisters, sensing danger. "I'll… go to the bedroom."
He left. The apartment fell silent except for traffic noise from the street below.
"How long?" Priya's voice was tight, controlled.
"How long what?"
"How long have you been fucking my husband?"
The accusation landed like a physical blow.
"I haven't—"
"Don't lie to me!" Priya's control shattered. "I see how you look at him! How you dress around the apartment! The way you touch his arm, laugh at his jokes, exist in his space like you have some right—"
"Priya, nothing's happened—"
"But you want it to! You want him!" Tears streamed down Priya's face now, fury and hurt and eight months of pregnancy hormones exploding. "I'm fat and exhausted and my sister is here looking beautiful and available and interested and you think I don't see it?"
"You're wrong—"
"I'm not wrong!" Priya grabbed Anya's arm, grip painful. "You destroy everything you touch. Kiara when we were kids. Every relationship you've ever had. And now you're here destroying mine!"
Anya tried to pull away, her own temper rising. "I haven't touched him—"
"Because I'm here! Because you haven't had the chance!" Priya shoved her. "But you would. Given opportunity, you absolutely would."
And the terrible thing—the thing that made Anya's denial stick in her throat—was that Priya was partly right.
Nothing had happened. But the attraction existed. The possibility hummed beneath the surface.
And if circumstances had been different…
The thought must have shown on Anya's face because Priya's expression shifted from anger to something colder.
"Get out."
"Priya—"
"Get out of my house." Priya's voice was ice now. "Pack your things. Leave. I don't want you here anymore."
"You're being irrational—"
"I'm being a wife! Protecting my marriage from my predator sister!" Priya stormed to the guest room, started pulling Anya's clothes from the closet, throwing them on the floor. "Out! Now!"
Marco appeared in the hallway. "Priya, stop—"
"Did you sleep with her?"
"What? No!"
"Do you want to?"
The question hung in the air.
Marco's hesitation—barely a second, but enough—told them everything.
Priya threw an armful of Anya's clothes into the hallway. "Both of you. I want both of you out."
"Priya, I'm your husband—"
"And she's my sister! And you both betrayed me!" She was sobbing now, eight months pregnant, breaking down in her own hallway. "Get out! Get out! GET OUT!"
Anya grabbed her phone with shaking hands and called her mother.
"Priya's throwing me out."
"Oh, sweetheart." Maya's voice was immediate warmth. "What happened?"
"She thinks something's going on with Marco. Nothing happened, but she's convinced—"
"Take a breath. Are you safe? Do you have somewhere to go tonight?"
"I don't know. Maybe Abhay's? Or a hotel—"
"Listen to me, Anya. You have options." Maya's voice was calm, grounding. "There's a ticket to Mumbai for Monday—your father arranged it. Business class, direct flight. Your Bandra apartment is still there, waiting for you. Or you can stay in New York, figure out a hotel, whatever you want. I'm not going to tell you what to do."
"What does Papa want?"
"He wants you home. He has business that needs your gifts—negotiations, the usual intelligence work. But Anya, what do you want? That matters too."
The question surprised her. Maya rarely framed things in terms of what Anya wanted.
"I don't know anymore."
"That's honest." Maya was quiet for a moment. "Look, I'll be frank with you. Your father needs you back for work. I told him I'd get you home, and I'm doing that—that's my job. But I'm also watching you create impossible situations in multiple directions, and I'm worried about you. Not as his wife, as your mother."
"You're worried about me?"
"Of course I am. You're my daughter, Anya. Yes, I compete with you for your father's attention—we both know that's true. Yes, I was relieved when you left for New York because it gave me space. But watching you spiral in that apartment, attracted to two men you can't have, your career destroyed, your sister turning on you—" Maya's voice softened. "I don't enjoy seeing you suffer. Even when it serves my purposes."
The honesty was disarming.
"So what should I do?"
"I can't answer that. But staying in New York right now seems like choosing pain. Priya won't forgive you quickly—pregnancy hormones or not, she believes you betrayed her. Abhay's situation is complicated by what he knows. Marco is off-limits for obvious reasons." A pause. "Mumbai at least gives you your own space. Your father will use you for work, yes—that's inevitable. But you'll have your apartment, your independence within limits. And maybe some distance from all this chaos will help you think clearly."
"You make it sound almost bearable."
"I'm trying to be honest with you. It won't be perfect. Your father will have expectations. But it's not a prison sentence either—it's just life in our family, which you've always known is complicated." Maya's tone shifted, became warmer. "And Anya? I miss you. I actually do. I know we have a strange relationship, but I'd like to see you."
Anya felt unexpected tears building. "Really?"
"Really. When you're not competing for your father's attention, you're actually interesting to talk to. We could have lunch, go to galleries, talk about things that aren't family drama. I'd like that."
"I'd like that too."
"Then come home. Not forever—just come home." A beat. "The ticket's for Monday. That gives you tomorrow to pack, say goodbye to Abhay if you want, figure out logistics. Your father's assistant will send you the details."
In the hallway, Priya was still crying, Marco trying to comfort her while she pushed him away.
"Okay," Anya whispered. "I'll come home."
"Good." Maya's voice carried satisfaction but also genuine warmth. "Text me when you land. We'll figure out the apartment situation—I think it needs some work, so you might need to stay with us for a few days initially. But we'll make it work."
"Thank you, Maa."
"You're welcome, sweetheart. Now go pack. And Anya? Try to get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow will be easier if you're rested."
The call ended and Anya stood in Priya's guest room—not her room, never her room—surrounded by her scattered belongings, listening to her sister sob in the hallway.
Thirty-two years old.
Her documentary dead.
Her relationship with Abhay impossible.
Her attraction to Marco exposed.
Her sister hating her.
And her only option: return to Mumbai. Return to her father's orbit. Return to work as his intelligence weapon because he'd decided he needed her.
But her mother had made it bearable. Had been honest about the manipulation while maintaining genuine warmth. Had admitted to competing with Anya while also expressing care.
That was Maya—selfish but never cruel, strategic but never cold, always protecting Vikash but still capable of maternal affection.
It didn't make the situation good.
But it made it survivable.
Anya began packing, methodically folding clothes, organizing her life into suitcases.
Outside, New York hummed its endless symphony, indifferent to another broken person among millions.
The Return
And in Mumbai, Vikash Chandra stubbed out his cigarette and checked his calendar.
His daughter was coming home.
His most valuable asset, back where she belonged.
Ready to work.
Maya had done her job—efficiently, effectively, with just enough warmth to make Anya compliant without breeding resentment.
That was why he'd married her. That particular combination of social grace and ruthless pragmatism, wrapped in enough genuine personality that people never quite realized they were being maneuvered.
Maya protected his interests while maintaining her own identity. She competed with Anya for his attention but still functioned as a mother when needed. She was selfish in her pursuit of comfort and freedom, but never cold enough to create rebellion.
The perfect partner for a man who needed control but also needed his tools to remain functional.
"She's coming back Monday," Maya said, entering his study with a glass of wine, settling into the chair across from his desk. She looked satisfied, relaxed—the way she always did after successfully completing a task.
"Good. The Singapore negotiation is the 15th. I need her reading the room."
"She'll be ready." Maya sipped her wine. "Though she's fairly broken down right now. Might need a few days to recover."
"She'll manage. She always does."
"True." Maya studied him thoughtfully. "Vikash, what are you going to do about Abhay?"
"Nothing immediately. He's family. His mother would create problems if we moved too aggressively." Vikash lit another cigarette. "But I've had him investigated thoroughly. If he ever becomes a problem, we have leverage."
"What kind of leverage?"
"The usual. Financial irregularities in his consulting work, a relationship with a married client, some recreational drug use. Nothing criminal, but enough to destroy his career if necessary." He exhaled smoke. "But I'm hoping it won't come to that. Distance will probably solve the problem naturally."
"And if Anya wants to continue with him?"
"Then I'll explain why that's impossible, and she'll accept it. She always accepts it eventually." He looked at his wife. "You did well. Getting her home without creating unnecessary drama."
"It's what I do." Maya smiled slightly. "Though I actually do miss her. When she's not taking up all your attention, she's interesting company."
"You're jealous of your own daughter."
"Of course I am. You're obsessed with her in a way you've never been obsessed with me." Maya said it without rancor, just stating facts. "But I've learned to manage it. And honestly, having her back might be useful—she can handle some of the social obligations I'm tired of. The tedious charity events, the business dinners where wives are expected to perform."
"Always thinking strategically."
"I learned from the best." She finished her wine and stood. "I'm going to my den for a few hours. Don't wait up."
She left, disappearing into her private sanctuary where she'd spend the evening with drugs, pleasure, and the bohemian freedom she'd carved out within her marriage.
That was their arrangement. She protected his interests, maintained perfect appearances, delivered results when he needed them.
In exchange, she got wealth, status, and complete autonomy in her private life.
Neither expected love. Neither offered it.
But they functioned together with ruthless efficiency.
And their daughter—gifted, trapped, exhausted—was coming home to serve as his weapon once again.
Because that's what it meant to be useful to Vikash Chandra.
You could run, but the cage was portable, invisible, inescapable.
And Anya Chandra, thirty-two years old, was finally learning that even her mother's warmth was ultimately in service of her father's control.
Not coldly. Not cruelly.
But absolutely.
Sunday evening, Anya met Abhay one last time at a small wine bar in the West Village.
"Mumbai," he said, processing the information. "For how long?"
"I don't know. Indefinitely, maybe."
"Because of what happened with Priya? Or because of us?"
"Both. Neither. Everything." Anya held her wine glass without drinking. "My father needs me for work. And I need to get out of New York before I destroy what's left of my family relationships."
Abhay was quiet for a long moment. "Will I see you again?"
"I don't know. My father knows about us now—about what I told you. He won't like it."
"What will he do?"
"I don't know that either." Anya finally met his eyes. "But Abhay, you should be careful. My father doesn't forgive people who know too much about how he operates. I shouldn't have told you what I did."
"I'm glad you did. It meant you trusted me."
"It also might have put you at risk."
"I can handle risk." He reached across the table, took her hand. "Anya, if you want to stay in New York—really stay, not just hide in your sister's apartment—I can help. We could get you your own place, figure out work, build something independent of your family."
It was a kind offer. A genuine offer.
And completely impossible.
"I can't. My father would make it impossible—financially, professionally, every way that matters." She squeezed his hand, then released it. "But thank you. For seeing me. For understanding. For making these months bearable."
"I'm in love with you. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"And?"
"And I care about you too. But that doesn't change reality." Anya stood, gathering her coat. "Be careful, Abhay. Don't underestimate my father. If he ever contacts you, if anyone asks you questions about me or our conversations—be very, very careful what you say."
"You're scaring me."
"Good. You should be scared." She leaned down, kissed his forehead. "Goodbye, Abhay."
She left before he could respond, walking out into the West Village evening.
Behind her, Abhay sat alone at the table, finally understanding that he'd fallen in love with someone who belonged to forces he couldn't begin to comprehend.
And in Mumbai, Vikash Chandra's investigators were already compiling their final report on Abhay Malhotra—documenting every vulnerability, every pressure point, every way he could be controlled if control became necessary.
Because that's what happened when you became entangled with a Chandra daughter.
You became a file. An asset to manage. A problem to solve.
Never a person.
Just another piece on Vikash Chandra's infinite chessboard.
Monday morning, Anya boarded her flight to Mumbai.
Business class. Direct. Twelve hours of suspended time between two versions of her life.
As the plane lifted off from JFK, Manhattan shrinking below her, Anya felt the familiar weight settling back into place.
She was going home.
Back to her father's control. Back to using her gifts for his business. Back to the cage that had always been waiting, patient and inevitable.
But this time, she understood the cage more clearly.
Understood that even her mother's warmth was ultimately strategic. That love and manipulation could coexist. That care could serve control.
That in her family, everyone was a tool serving Vikash's purposes—even Maya, who competed with her but always delivered results when ordered.
The plane leveled out above the Atlantic.
Anya closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
Below her, two continents waited—one she was leaving, one she was returning to.
Neither offered freedom.
But Mumbai at least offered familiarity.
And after four years of trying to escape, maybe familiarity was enough.
Maybe acceptance was the only form of survival available.
Maybe thirty-two was old enough to finally stop fighting the inevitable.
The plane flew on through darkness, carrying her home to the only life she'd ever really been allowed to have.
And in Mumbai, Maya Chandra prepared the guest room in the Malabar Hill mansion, knowing her daughter would need a few days before the Bandra apartment was ready.
Knowing Vikash would waste no time putting Anya back to work.
Knowing her own life would become more complicated with Anya's return—more competition, more surveillance, more need to prove her own value.
But also knowing she'd manage it, as she'd always managed it.
Because Maya Chandra was many things—aloof, selfish, strategic, pragmatic.
But never cold.
Never cruel.
Just a woman surviving in a marriage to a man who treated everyone as tools.
Even his wife.
Even his gifted daughter.
Even himself.
The only difference was that some tools were more useful than others.
And Anya, with her supernatural gifts and desperate need for approval, was the most useful tool of all.
END OF CHAPTER 6