PRISHA SINGH

“She looked like grief wrapped in elegance — soft-spoken, colorless, and heartbreakingly alive.”

At twenty-five, Prisha carries widowhood like a silent prayer stitched into her skin. After losing her husband only a week after marriage, the colors disappeared from her life, leaving behind soft whites, pale silvers, trembling smiles, and eyes that have cried enough to learn silence.

Her world is made of handwritten notes, silver anklets that barely make a sound, neatly folded sarees, sleepy morning prayers.

She has soft hazel eyes that always look like they’re carrying unspoken stories.
Long dark hair that falls like poetry down her back.

Aesthetic...

white sarees stained with moonlight
half-finished prayers
silver bangles and tired smiles
rain tapping against windows
pressed flowers inside old books
smudged kajal after crying silently
soft ghazals playing at midnight
the scent of sandalwood and chai
letters never sent
love surviving even after death

VIHAAN RAICHAND

“He was the kind of man people warned you about in whispers — cold eyes, expensive sins, and a heart that forgot how to feel.”

Vihaan Raichand was not born cruel.
Cruelty was carved into him slowly humiliation after humiliation, wound after wound, until love became something he only trusted in graves.

At thirty, Vihaan is the terrifying heir of the Raichand empire: a ruthless business tycoon worshipped by the corporate world and feared by the underworld that secretly bends at his feet. He walks through life in perfectly tailored black suits, carrying power like it belongs in his veins.

Women desire him.
Men fear him.
And nobody truly knows him.

Not the son fighting a silent war with his own father inside the marble walls of Raichand Mansion.
Not the broken boy still haunted by the girl who once mocked his appearance and shattered whatever softness remained in him.

Aesthetic...

black suits hiding sleepless nights
cigarette smoke curling through dim offices
diamond watches over scarred hands
cold coffee at 3 a.m.
luxury masking loneliness
blue eyes filled with restrained violence
rainy city skylines
slow-burning obsession
father and son eating in silence
anger hidden beneath perfect manners
expensive perfumes and emotional ruin
the sound of dress shoes across marble floors
possessiveness mistaken for protection

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Leave your shame at the cover. You won’t be needing it where we’re going.

Turn the page.