I still remember the days before I understood that money could buy not just luxury, but a form of independence—a freedom from the suffocating obligations of sentimentality. I was born into riches, yet for years I had allowed society and my own indecisions to define my worth. In the corridors of high society, where every laugh was rehearsed and each smile a calculated gesture, I learned early on that genuine affection was as rare as unfiltered emotion.
In this world, I was Kabita—the girl with a luminous smile, the envy of every eye, the woman destined to command attention. I lived in a grand house beside lush gardens and marble walkways. Every morning, as I sipped my tea by the veranda overlooking manicured lawns, I reminded myself of the privileges I had been handed—a future meticulously planned by my affluent family. Yet, hidden beneath that veneer was a restless heart yearning for the exquisite thrill of control, of power over one's own narrative.
And then there was Rajan.
Rajan was a curious presence in my life—an oddity in a world where relationships were often transactional and shallow. From elementary school through our college years, he was the one constant friend, almost like a shadow who never quite left my side. I recall the days when we would chase each other around the playground, our laughter echoing under sunlit skies. Back then, he was merely Rajan, the classmate with big dreams and gentle eyes. But in time, as we all grew older, I began to see him through a different lens—a lens tinted by my own evolving desires and ambitions.
In college, while I reveled in the art of seduction and the intoxicating allure of flirtation, Rajan's adoration was an ever-present reminder of a love that was, in his eyes, total and unreserved. He was never loud about it; his love was quiet, reserved—a stark contrast to the bold world I inhabited. I dismissed his tender gestures as the naive antics of a fool who did not understand that true love, in my eyes, was about power and independence. What could a quiet boy know of passion, of conquest, when I was surrounded by admirers who prized my beauty and intellect?
I remember the semester when I first noticed him looking at me with eyes that shone with a strange mix of longing and hopeless devotion. While others flirted with my charm as if it were a game, Rajan's affection was a constant, unerring pulse—a heartbeat that accompanied me throughout my days. But to me, he was just that: an innocent, a fool who could never grasp the complexity of my desires. I believed his adoration was not true love, but a mere infatuation—like those countless others who were attracted to the surface, to the glitter and the promise of a beautiful exterior.
For a time, I tolerated his closeness. I let him accompany me on walks through the campus, I even invited him to casual dinners at our family home. But as I matured, my world expanded beyond the comforts of childhood affection. I began to crave something… more dangerous. More thrilling. I wanted a love that burned with the intensity of passion—a love that commanded respect, that made the world tremble at its revelation.
It was during one sultry summer evening on campus, at a lavish party hosted by one of my family's influential friends, that I met him. He was nothing like Rajan. The moment I saw him, I felt an irresistible pull. His name was Arjun—a man of mystique and unspoken allure. He moved with an effortless grace, every gesture calculated to draw attention. His eyes, dark and penetrating, seemed to see right into the essence of my soul, and for the first time, I experienced what I believed was love—a consuming fire of desire.
With Arjun, everything changed. I began to see my relationship with Rajan for what it truly was: a symphony of naïveté, a foolish attachment that held no place in the vibrant tapestry of my ambitions. Rajan's heart was pure, yes, but it was fragile—a relic of a past I had outgrown. I started to believe that his constant, almost spiritual devotion was nothing more than the misguided adoration of a lost boy clinging to a fantasy that I no longer shared.
My nights became a tempest of passion and guilt. I would spend hours with Arjun, exploring the depths of a love that was both exhilarating and dangerous. Our encounters were bold and unrestrained, a stark departure from the gentle, almost respectful company that Rajan provided. I felt alive in ways that defied the routine opulence of my daily life. With Arjun, every touch, every whispered promise, ignited a spark that made me forget the constraints of duty and expectation.
But even as I reveled in this newfound passion, I knew that Rajan remained—ever faithful, ever silent—in the corners of my existence. I could not rid myself of his memory, even as I dismissed it as a relic of youth. His eyes, ever tender and hopeful, reminded me that love, in its most sincere form, was selfless. Yet to me, that selflessness was a weakness, an inability to grasp the full extent of my own strength.
In the private corridors of my mind, I began to weave a narrative that justified my choices. I told myself that Rajan was simply not meant for me, that his gentle heart could never withstand the roaring tempest that I needed. I convinced myself that his constant, unchallenged adulation was not love, but a worship of my body—a shallow, unthinking following of someone who only saw me as a trophy. In my world, where power and passion reigned supreme, such devotion was beneath me.
As months passed, the inevitable unraveling came. Rajan's quiet despair grew into painful resignation. I saw the slow dimming of his eyes when he looked at me—an unspoken sorrow that I chose to ignore. His love, once such a vibrant force, began to wither beneath the harsh light of reality. I rationalized it away by convincing myself that he was simply too fragile, too caught up in his own idealism to understand the realities of a life lived at the very edge of desire.
Yet there were moments—fleeting, nearly imperceptible—when my heart, which had known both the chill of indifference and the flame of passion, would tremble with a pang of remorse. In the rare quiet hours of the night, when the laughter and clamor of my world subsided, I would find myself gazing into the mirror, wondering if I had ever truly known love at all. But those moments were too brief, dissolved by the adrenaline of my next encounter, the thrill of the next conquest.
My relationship with Arjun deepened. With him, I allowed myself to be vulnerable, if only for a few stolen moments. I admired his ambition, his unyielding intensity. Yet even then, I guarded the deepest secrets of my heart. I never confessed the guilt that sometimes crept upon me when Rajan's memory surfaced—a memory that was both a tether and an anchor in the churning sea of my desires.
Our worlds, so starkly different, collided in the private spaces of our souls. While Rajan remained the ever-loyal, almost invisible presence in the backdrop of my life—a constant reminder of what I had outgrown—Arjun was the embodiment of the present, the active force that promised a future filled with passion and power. I became adept at compartmentalizing my emotions, reserving a private sanctuary within for each aspect of myself: the dutiful daughter of wealth, the captivating woman admired by many, the lover who chased wild adventures, and the conflicted soul who still wondered if there had ever been a time when love meant something more than possession.
To outsiders, my life appeared flawless—elegant, opulent, and unassailable. I attended galas and charity events, walking alongside influential figures who admired my grace and charm. On social media, I portrayed an image of a strong, independent woman, far removed from the vulnerability of unreturned affection. But in the stillness of the night, as the lights dimmed and the façades crumbled, the truth was more complicated and far more painful.
Rajan was not a mere chapter in my past; he was a constant refrain—a soft, persistent echo of a love that had once been selfless and pure. In my eyes, he was a fool—an infatuated soul who had allowed his heart to lead him astray in a world where appearances mattered more than the quiet, painstaking work of building something lasting. I convinced myself that his love was outdated—a relic from a time when passion was measured in gentle gestures and soft-spoken words, not in the bold declarations that I had come to crave.
And yet, every once in a while, when the world was silent and I thought I was alone, I could almost feel his presence. It was in the way the morning sun filtered through the windows of my mansion, in the quiet reflections on marble floors, in the faint rustling of old notebooks that recorded memories of a simpler, if more painful, era. Sometimes, I would find myself pausing in the corridors of my vast estate, as if expecting to catch a glimpse of a shadow—an echo of a boy who had once loved me too deeply.
I have often wondered if, somewhere, my past was trying to remind me of a truth I had long forgotten—that love, even when unrequited, is a force that shapes us in ways no wealth or passion ever could. But I pushed those thoughts away. I clung to the life I had built, the relationships I had formed with powerful men like Arjun, and the safety of a future that promised control over every aspect of my destiny.
Looking back now, in the solitude of introspection, I know that I chose to suppress a part of me that was raw and unpolished—a part that believed in the purity of sacrifice and the quiet dignity of love. Rajan's love was not an adornment; it was a mirror that reflected both my strength and my weaknesses. And I hated that mirror. I hated the man who saw beyond my glamorous façade—a man who believed that true worth was measured in kindness and selflessness rather than in the glitter of wealth or the fire of ambition.
I cheated on Rajan not out of malice, but because I was terrified. Terrified of being tethered to a past that demanded a kind of innocence I was no longer willing to embrace. I was afraid that if I let myself feel the full weight of his pure devotion, I would have to confront the fact that I had once been capable of something genuine—and that the version of myself I now presented was a carefully constructed illusion.
So I allowed the world to see me as the woman who had it all: wealth, charm, and the exhilaration of scandalous affairs with men who thrilled me with their boldness. I reveled in the attention, in the seductive game of power and seduction, while relegating Rajan to the realm of yesterday—a foolish memory that was best forgotten.
There are nights when I lie awake, staring at the ceiling of my private suite, and a part of me wonders what might have been if I had been brave enough to embrace a different kind of love. But those nights are rare and quickly swallowed by the relentless pace of my new life, a life filled with glittering parties, high-stakes deals, and the ever-present scrutiny of a society that demands perfection.
Now, as I stand at the crossroads of my own desires and the remnants of a bygone love, I am forced to confront the truth of who I am. I am Kabita, the woman who has built her empire on the backs of those who adored her—a woman who revels in her allure while casting aside the gentle, unassuming hearts that once believed in her every word. Rajan was one of those hearts, and though his love continues to beat quietly beneath my skin, I have long regarded it as the folly of a naive soul.
In the silence of these midnight moments, I ask myself: Was I ever truly in love, or merely intoxicated by the thrill of control and the power of my own charisma? Perhaps I was both. Perhaps I sacrificed a part of myself—the part that believed in pure, selfless devotion—for the sake of ambition and the excitement of a life unburdened by responsibility.
I tell you this not to seek forgiveness, but to acknowledge the truth that lies beneath the glitter and the grandeur: In a world where beauty, wealth, and power reign supreme, I chose a path that left no room for the quiet, stubborn love of a man like Rajan. And for me, that love was always, in the end, a foolish dream—a relic of a time when I was too innocent to know what true passion demanded.
As I continue down this glittering path, I carry with me the fragments of those lost memories, the ghost of a young man who dared to love with every fiber of his being. Even though I call him a fool, I cannot deny that he will forever be a part of the mosaic of who I am—a reminder that even the most carefully constructed facades have their cracks, and that behind every glittering smile lies a story of dreams, betrayals, and the bittersweet taste of what might have been.
And so, I live my days in dazzling light and roaring triumph, aware of the silent echo of Rajan's love—a love I once scorned, and now, in the quiet of my most vulnerable moments, I wonder if I might have been more than just a seductive fool. Yet, the truth is clear: I chose the world of power and seduction. I chose to be the woman who had it all. And in doing so, I left behind the tender, unpracticed love of a boy who never knew the games of the world.
This is my story, the story of Kabita—a tale of wealth, of allure, and of the relentless, unforgiving price of a love that I cast aside. And as the nights grow long and the echoes of the past call out softly in the corners of my mind, I know that some part of me will always wonder if I was ever truly free from the chains of my own making.
.
.
.
The nightmare was sharp and vivid, more real than any dream she'd ever had. It wasn't just a memory—it was truth, clawing its way out of the prison her mind had built to protect her.
Kabita sat frozen in her grand bedroom, clutching the sheets, the tremors of shock rippling through her limbs like silent earthquakes. She couldn't move. She couldn't scream. The weight of it all crushed down on her chest like a building collapsing.
Her breath came in shallow gasps.
Rajan.
She hadn't spoken his name in this life—not once since the separation during college. In this life, he had been a shadow, a quiet neighbor, a ghost that existed just out of frame. A quiet presence she had once taken for granted. And now, with the veil of ignorance torn away, she saw the truth.
He had loved her. Truly. Selflessly. Eternally.
And what had she done?
Treated him like an afterthought. A plaything. A dull, harmless boy who followed her around like a lost puppy.
She remembered how he used to smile when she gave him gifts—small ones, meaningless to her but priceless to him. She used to laugh with her friends about it. "He's so easy," she had once said, mocking the way his ears turned red when she brushed his hand.
She felt sick.
How many times had she flaunted other men in front of him? Her so-called "boyfriends"—all masks and egos and empty promises. She chased validation in every direction but the one that mattered. While he—he loved in silence. In pain. In devotion.
Her fingers curled into fists. Her nails bit into her palms. She needed pain. She deserved it.
Her mind raced through all the memories of the past life now pouring back into her like a broken dam.
The hospital bed.
The urgency.
The whispers.
The decision.
The sacrifice.
She remembered now—how everyone said it was a "lover" who gave her the heart. But no one knew the name. Because he made sure no one would. Because he didn't want recognition.
He just wanted her to live.
And now here she was, breathing with his heart… while he was gone.
She got up and stumbled to the mirror. Her reflection stared back—haunted, ruined. Not by time, but by truth.
Who was she? A rich girl who used people for attention, who discarded feelings like candy wrappers, who thought love was just possession.
She thought back to the time she cheated on Rajan in this life—how easily she slipped into another man's bed. How she laughed the next day with her friends, calling Rajan "too nice," "too weak," "too boring."
God.
How had she become this person?
And yet… beneath the guilt, there was something else now.
Resolve.
She couldn't change the past. But she could change the future. She would. She had to.
She walked slowly to her window. Across the vast garden wall, just barely visible through the tall hedges, was the mansion where Rajan lived now. Rich, powerful, distant. A prince raised from the ashes of his former self.
But he wasn't the same boy anymore.
And he didn't love her now.
Why would he?
He had seen her with that other man.
He had watched her betray him.
He had left her because he finally realized what she truly was.
And still… she would go to him.
Not to beg. Not to manipulate.
But to confess.
Everything.
She didn't care if he rejected her.
She didn't care if he hated her.
She just needed him to know the truth.
That she remembered.
That she was sorry.
That she would never stop trying.
Even if it took a lifetime. Or another one after that.
Because now, she finally understood what love was.
It wasn't flowers. Or dates. Or kisses.
It was staying.
It was sacrificing.
It was waiting.
It was him.
And she had thrown it away.
Tears rolled silently down her cheeks as she whispered into the darkness, "Rajan… please… just give me one chance."
No one answered.
Just the ticking of the antique clock.
The heartbeat in her chest—his heartbeat.
And the moonlight, gently bathing her in silence.
But something inside her had shifted forever.
The old Kabita had died.
And from the ashes, a woman was rising—one who didn't just want love, but was finally ready to deserve it.