IRA

Mumbai, Maharashtra —

“Madam, tumchya shoot cha vel jhala aahe, krupaya chala. Aani media la pan tumcha darshan ghyaaychi khup ghaai lagli aahe,” my manager said, trying to keep his tone polite but firm.

(Madam, it’s time for your shoot. The media is desperate to catch a glimpse of you.)

“Fine,” I replied, eyes fixed on my reflection as the stylist adjusted the last curl. Unbothered on the outside. Exhausted on the inside.

Working tirelessly every single day had become my fixed routine. No breaks. No excuses. Just flashing cameras, fake smiles, and scandals brewed overnight.

“Ira!” Tomitthe folded his hands dramatically. “I’m practically begging you—please do not cause any trouble today.”

“Hm. Okay,” I repeated in the same monotone voice.

“I believe in you. Don’t mess this up, Ira.”

“Tomitthe, relax,” I said casually.

He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “How can anyone relax when you’re around?”

And just like that, he left the room, leaving behind silence—and my thoughts.

So who am I?

Someone’s idol. A money-maker. A headline. Or just a bandmate?

But for him—

My brother. For him, I’m the light to his darkness.

Sarcasm and spice flow through my veins rent-free. It was almost time.

Mere noor ko samajhne ke liye, nazar bhi khaas honi chahiye. Main trend nahi, reason hoon trends ka.

(To understand my glow, you need a special vision. I’m not a trend—I’m the reason trends exist.)

Self-obsessed? Call me whatever you want.

I love my body. My skin tone. My honey-brown eyes. Every inch of me—especially after growing up hearing words that tried to shrink me.

“Kaali billi.”

“Isko adopt kiya hai kya?”

“Haldi laga lo, rang par fark padega.”

“Bilkul kaali aur sanwali hai.”

“Dekho kaise iski body hai… kitna khaati hogi ye.”

(“Black cat.”

“Was she adopted?”

“Apply turmeric, it’ll lighten your skin.”

“She’s so dark and dusky.”

“Look at her body… she must eat a lot.”)

Once, those words pierced through my chest like glass.

But then my brother held my face in his hands and told me, “You are art, Ira. And art doesn’t need approval.” From that day on, I looked at myself like I owned the world.

Pear-shaped body. Brown skin tone.

Sounds beautiful to me.

To my mother.

To my father.

To my brother.

But to free people with free mouths—it’s just another topic to mock.

“Ira, stage,” my manager called.

I inhaled deeply and plastered a polite, practiced smile over my fatigue.

The crimson dress hugged me perfectly—off-shoulder, sweetheart neckline adorned with delicate floral accents. The fitted bodice cinched my waist while the ruffled high-low skirt flowed like fire with every step. Sensual. Elegant. Unapologetic.

The moment I stepped onto the stage, cameras exploded.

Flashes. Clicks. Shouts. All for me.

Reporters hurled questions like darts, and I answered them like I always did—sharp, graceful, untouchable.

By evening, the lights dimmed.

I sat in front of my vanity, staring at the girl in the mirror.

My life. My fame. My goals.

And everything I was missing out on.

Freedom.

I stood up, walked to Tomitthe’s hotel room, and knocked. After a brief shuffle, the door opened.

He smiled. “Come in.”

I sat on the couch, while he settled opposite me, raising an eyebrow—waiting.

“Tomitthe,” I said, gathering every ounce of courage, “I need a leave. A few days. Maybe weeks. I’m exhausted. Tired. Miserable. I can’t breathe freely anymore.”

He studied me quietly before sighing. “I know, Ira. I really do.”

Then, after a pause, “Three weeks. A vacation. But you stay away from the paparazzi. Completely.” I almost bounced off the couch.

Almost.

Years of constant work had hollowed me out, and now—finally—I was being handed freedom. Even if only for three weeks.I had no idea that this break…

This escape…Would lead me straight to my rival.

To Aaron Evans. And that my carefully guarded heart was about to lose a war I never agreed to fight.

For few people, I'm just his rival but my heart knows what it does when it's near him.