Chapter 2 — The Women Who Waited, Fought, and Stayed

Neha’s mornings always began in silence.

Not the empty kind—but the practiced one. The kind doctors learned early, between hospital corridors and breaking news delivered gently. She tied her hair back neatly, slipped her stethoscope into her bag, and checked her phone out of habit more than hope.

Nothing.

There never was.

Still, she waited.

Neha was a doctor, known for her calm hands and softer voice. Patients trusted her instinctively. Colleagues relied on her steadiness. Love, for her, had always been singular—formed in childhood and never replaced.

Narayana lived in her memory like a constant pulse.

No calls.

No messages.

No accidental meetings.

Just faith.

If love is real, she believed, distance cannot erase it.

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Priyanka’s world, in contrast, was loud.

Deadlines, screens, meetings, coffee cups that went cold while code compiled. Her IT job demanded sharp focus and long hours, but she thrived in the chaos. She laughed easily, argued passionately, and never hesitated to call Saif when her day became too heavy.

Saif was her best friend.

Her constant.

They spoke about everything—except the thing that mattered most.

She trusted him blindly. Relied on his presence like muscle memory. If something good happened, Saif knew first. If something broke, he was already there, fixing it with words and patience.

What she didn’t know—what she had never questioned—was how carefully Saif loved her.

Or how much silence it took to stay just a friend.

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Poornima hated mornings.

Not because of work—but because work meant Veeresh.

She walked into his company every day with her shoulders squared and her expression sharp. Professional. Detached. Unafraid. At least, that was the image she maintained. Inside, she carried years of unfinished anger—memories from childhood that had turned rivalry into resentment.

Enemies since they were young.

Words sharper than fists.

Silence heavier than apologies.

Poornima was soft-hearted—deeply so—but softness had never protected her. Strength did. Or at least, the appearance of it. She worked harder than necessary, spoke less than she wanted, and never showed vulnerability where it could be used against her.

Especially not in front of Veeresh.

Working under him was fate’s cruel joke.

Or its deliberate plan.

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They were cousins by blood.

Connected by family gatherings, shared histories, and stories told half-truthfully over dinners. Each of them carried a different kind of love—waiting, unspoken, or buried beneath anger.

They didn’t know it yet, but their lives were already moving toward collision.

Some loves would reunite.

Some friendships would cross lines.

Some hatred would demand surrender.

And blood—

always blood—

would remember first.