Chapter Text
Aadhira’s POV – First Encounter with Lilara
The first time I saw her, I didn’t even want to look. But she stood there anyway—tall, impossibly composed, draped in some designer black that screamed “I own this place now,” and with eyes sharp enough to make me flinch. My father’s second wife, the woman who’d married him less than twenty-four hours before his death.
I wanted to spit. I wanted to tell her she had no right to be here, no right to smile faintly like she had some claim to my father’s world. And yet, she didn’t crumble. She didn’t falter. She just… existed. Perfect, poised, like a predator sizing up her prey.
I felt my fists clench in my coat pockets. Who even was this girl? Twenty-five, they said. Practically a child herself, and already she acted like she’d walked out of some high-society magazine straight into my father’s coffin. I kept my eyes on her, studying how she carried herself, noting the subtle way she scanned the room, probably calculating who was worth her attention. It made my stomach turn.
The funeral went on, words blurring into meaningless murmurs, but my gaze kept snapping back to her. Every time she moved, every time someone whispered condolences, there she was, unshaken, unbothered, untouchable. I wanted to hate her—and I did—but a small, infuriating part of me wanted to study her, to understand how she could be so unshakably confident in a world I thought I knew better than anyone.
By the time the priest’s voice faded and people started leaving, I’d made a promise to myself: I’d keep my distance, I’d claim my father’s legacy on my terms, and I’d make sure she didn’t get in my way. Not a word. Not a glance. Not a single inch of her power over me.
But the truth I refused to admit? She wasn’t going anywhere. And neither, apparently, was this grudging awareness of her.
Lilara after the crowd begins to thin, steps closer to her and offers her hand while giving a polite smile. "I heard a lot about you, you are pretty and talented aren't you? I always wanted to meet you. I'm your dad's second wife and your step mom."
Her hand reached for mine. I froze. The nerve. The audacity. My brain scrambled for the right response, but the words that came out of my mouth were useless against the heat rising in my chest.
“I heard a lot about you…”
Yeah, right. Heard a lot about a woman who apparently parachuted into my father’s life less than a day before he died. Who could stand there, smiling like nothing had just shattered the world around her, and claim familiarity? Pretty and talented, she said. Always wanted to meet you.
I looked at her hand, then back at her face, and every polite curve of her lips made me want to snarl. No. I wouldn’t play nice. I wouldn’t let her set the tone. I didn’t even need to speak to make my feelings clear—the freeze in my gaze, the sharp tilt of my head, the faint curl of my upper lip—they all said I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. And you will never take my father from me.
I didn’t shake her hand. I didn’t smile. I didn’t say a word.
Instead, I simply stared. Cool. Controlled. Calculating. Every muscle in my body screamed stay away. And yet… I couldn’t tear my eyes from her.
Her words lingered in the air, polite, saccharine, poisonous. Step-mom. My father’s second wife. The world was trying to shove her in my face, and I refused to take it lying down. I would survive this. I would dominate this. And I would make sure she knew from the very start—this was my territory.
She could smile. I could hate.
Lilara hand dropped, and with it, any pretense of civility. A sigh. Almost like she knew.
“You hate me, don’t you?”
I wanted to laugh. Not a friendly laugh, but the bitter, sharp laugh that slices through someone’s smug confidence. Hate her? Of course I hate her. I hated the way she dared to step into my father’s life, to claim a place she had no right to, to smile like she hadn’t just waltzed into the middle of my grief.
I kept my gaze locked on her, cold and unflinching. No words escaped my mouth, but my thoughts were venom. I hate you. I despise you. You’ll never take what’s mine.
And yet… even as every instinct screamed to turn away, even as every ounce of my being rebelled against her, I noticed the way she didn’t flinch under my stare. Didn’t retreat. Didn’t beg. She just stood there, calm, patient, knowing. It was infuriating.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t flinch. I just let the hate settle over me like armor, thick and unyielding.
But don’t think for a second that I’m not watching. I see you. And I will remember every move you make.
Lilara stands beside her and starts murmuring. "Your dad within the two months I knew him really wanted you to attend our wedding, you know? But you never responded and alas he died on our wedding night from a cardiac arrest, he should have taken better care of himself, I guess."
She was right there, leaning closer, murmuring like the world owed her my attention.
"Your dad… really wanted you to attend our wedding… But you never responded…"
I felt my teeth grit. My father wanted me there? He wanted me there? And she… she was the one telling me this? Like some polite messenger delivering her version of the tragedy she casually stepped into?
"Alas he died on our wedding night from a cardiac arrest…"
Her voice was calm, almost tender, and it made my blood boil. Cardiac arrest. My father. Gone. And she had the gall to talk about it like it was a minor inconvenience in a story about her happiness.
"He should have taken better care of himself, I guess."
I could barely contain the storm inside me. What the actual hell? My father didn’t just “not take care of himself”—he’s dead! And she’s here, standing beside me, talking about it like some casual inconvenience she’s explaining away.
I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake the sense into her, to yell, to scream, to make her understand that she didn’t get to lecture me about grief. But I didn’t. I kept my posture rigid, my gaze like ice, and let every thought scream in silence:
I hate you. I will never forgive you. And don’t you dare try to frame this as your tragedy.
Yet, infuriatingly, she didn’t shrink. She didn’t beg. She didn’t waver. And that—more than anything—made my chest tighten.
She’s still here. She’s not going anywhere. And I… I will fight her every step of the way.
I finally spoke, my voice low, sharp, precise. “You make it sound… so casual.”
Every word was measured, deliberate, designed to cut through the polite murmur of her tone. Casual. My father, dead. Cardiac arrest. Her delivery, as if it were a minor inconvenience.
“You tell me he should have taken better care of himself,” I continued, letting the venom taste my words, “as if that absolves you of showing up at the right time, doing the right thing… or even knowing what you’re talking about.”
I let my gaze pin her, icy and unyielding. I didn’t need to touch her, didn’t need to raise my voice. The edge in my stare said it all: I see you. I despise you. And I will not let you take anything from me without a fight.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. And that infuriating calm of hers made my chest tighten even more.
She’s still here. Breathing the same air. Smiling like she belongs. But she doesn’t. She never will. And I’ll make sure she knows it.
I straightened, took a controlled step back, and let the silence stretch. Let her think. Let her feel it. Every ounce of my hatred was deliberate, honed, and ready.
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Lilara steps in and takes her hand while tracing her knuckles tenderly. "See I know the situation is inconveniencing for you but try to bear with me, your father has a lot of houses in different places isn't? After the paper work is done, I'll stay away from your path." Then she let's go of her hand and walks away.
Her fingers brushed mine. Just like that. Her hand, tracing my knuckles like some tender, casual gesture, as if I was a doll in her carefully curated life. My chest tightened instantly, not from warmth, but from outrage. How dare she? How dare she touch me after everything? After my father… after this funeral… after her audacity.
"See, I know the situation is inconveniencing for you, but try to bear with me…"
I didn’t flinch, didn’t respond. I wanted to shove her away, wanted to scream, wanted to tell her that the only thing I would bear was keeping my distance from her—her smiling, perfect, infuriating face. But I didn’t. I let her hand linger in my mind, even after she’d released it, burning with all the hatred I couldn’t quite disguise.
"After the paperwork is done, I’ll stay away from your path."
She walks away, like she’s offered some peace treaty I never asked for, like she thinks a few words and a touch could ever earn my forgiveness.
She is delusional.
I flexed my fingers, still tingling from the touch, hating myself for feeling… something. That’s it. That’s all I could allow myself to feel. Fury. Resentment. Contempt. Pure, sharp, unadulterated hate.
And yet, beneath it all, the unshakable truth: she wasn’t going anywhere. And I would never, ever let her forget it.
Step-mom? Ha. Not on my watch.
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To be continued....