She took her time traversing the distance to him, a deliberate journey after a bout of frustration unleashed in the confines of the bathroom. Her tantrum, a tempest of emotion, found solace in the innocent plush towel, absorbing her muffled wails amidst its soft fibers.
It felt like torture—her life a relentless saga of waiting on the precipice, enduring the ceaseless babble of arrogant souls. Anchali had an acute sense for deception; she could discern the serpentine nature of their luncheon discourse, detecting the underlying motives with a precision akin to scenting prey on the wind. The gathering, a charade of feigned civility, irked her to no end—watching as her meticulously curated feast vanished into the bellies of ingrates, a bitter reminder of their betrayal over a proposal she had painstakingly crafted.
Oh, to receive a modicum of appreciation, a sliver of recognition for her foresight! Yet, instead, she was met with contempt. Handshakes were exchanged, pleasantries uttered, all culminating in her father's cynical remark to his assistant, dripping with sarcasm, "Ploy, get 'Nchali a fucking medal."
Would she ever escape the shadow of the petulant child vying for her father's affection?
Zakir's presence offered a reprieve, a sanctuary from the storm raging within. At first, she remained rigid in his embrace, poised to unleash her pent-up frustration in a tempest of righteous anger that threatened to consume all in its path. Yet, as his warmth enveloped her, she found herself yielding, softening against him despite her playful retort, "It's rude to call a lady tired." She felt like curdled cream—perhaps she was not meant for this world.
"How long have you been here?" Her inquiry hung in the air, laden with unspoken regrets, each passing moment a sand of time lost in futile endeavors in merging heinous companies with other heinous companies.