The café smelled of freshly brewed coffee and sun-dried books. Riyanshi Kapoor sat at a corner table, her sleek laptop open but ignored, as her attention was consumed by the book in her hands. The title, Threads of Silence, stood embossed in bold silver letters. It was one of the many bestselling novels by the enigmatic Ahryan Kapoor—an author who had taken the literary world by storm. His books were celebrated for their raw emotional depth and profound exploration of love, heartbreak, and redemption. Riyanshi had heard colleagues rave about him, but she hadn’t paid much attention. Until now.
It wasn’t the glowing reviews or the hype that drew her to the book. It was a recommendation from an old friend who insisted she’d find something “uncannily personal” in its pages.
The first few chapters had been gripping but nothing unusual—until she reached the last page. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes traced the closing lines:
“Even silence spoke louder than words when it came to you.”
Riyanshi froze. She knew those words. Knew them intimately, because they weren’t just words—they were a memory. Ahanveer Rathore, her first and only love, had said those very words to her one evening long ago, beneath a moonlit sky. The memory hit her like a tidal wave, dragging her back to a time when life had felt simpler and infinitely more complicated at the same time.
Her fingers trembled as she reread the sentence. It wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be. The words weren’t just similar; they were exact. And the way the book’s protagonist spoke, the subtle nuances in his thoughts and feelings—it all mirrored Ahanveer’s essence too closely to be ignored.
But Ahanveer was no novelist. He was the head of Rathore Enterprises, one of India’s most powerful conglomerates. He had always been a man of numbers and strategies, not stories and metaphors. And yet… Riyanshi couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this. The book felt too personal, too intimate.
“Another coffee, ma’am?” the waiter interrupted her thoughts, pointing to her empty cup.
Riyanshi blinked, snapping out of her reverie. “Yes, please. And could you bring me a glass of water too?” she asked, trying to ground herself.
As the waiter walked away, she flipped to the book’s dedication page. It was brief, like all of Ahryan Kapoor’s dedications:
“For the soul who taught me that love transcends time, space, and words—every story begins and ends with you.”
Her heart raced. Could it be? Was it possible that Ahanveer was Ahryan Kapoor? The name itself was peculiar, a blend of her own and his. But no one knew about their relationship—it had ended years ago, quietly and without spectacle. And yet, here was a book that seemed to tell fragments of their story, disguised as fiction.
Riyanshi closed the book and leaned back in her chair, her mind spiraling. It had taken her years to rebuild herself after their breakup. She had buried the pain deep, focusing on her career and becoming one of the most sought-after criminal lawyers in the country. But the words in this book had unearthed everything she thought she had left behind.
She pulled out her phone and searched for more about the elusive Ahryan Kapoor. His author profile revealed little—a shadowy figure who never gave interviews and avoided the spotlight. There were rumors that he wasn’t even a real person, that the name was a pseudonym for a ghostwriter. But Riyanshi wasn’t convinced. There was something about this that felt too real.
Her curiosity wouldn’t let her stop. She ordered another coffee and began scrolling through forums and articles about the author. The more she read, the more parallels she found between the books and Ahanveer’s life. One novel described a business tycoon navigating a world of betrayal and corporate intrigue while secretly longing for a lost love. Another revolved around a childhood memory that eerily mirrored something Ahanveer had once shared with her.
Riyanshi’s hands tightened around her phone. She needed answers. The question gnawed at her relentlessly: Was Ahanveer trying to reach her through his books? Or was this all just a strange coincidence?
The waiter returned with her coffee and water. Riyanshi thanked him absently, her mind already racing ahead. She picked up the book again, flipping through the pages with renewed purpose. If this really was Ahanveer’s work, there had to be more clues—something definitive that would prove her theory. And if it wasn’t him… Well, she’d have to live with the unsettling feeling that a stranger had somehow reached into the most private corners of her soul.
But deep down, she already knew the truth. The words were his. They had to be. No one else could capture the essence of their shared history so perfectly.
For the first time in years, Riyanshi felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite name. Longing? Regret? Hope? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she couldn’t let this go.
Closing the book, she slid it into her bag and stood. She had a flight to India in three days for a high-profile case, but suddenly, her mind was on something far more personal. She needed to find out the truth—needed to know if the man behind these words was the same one who had once whispered them to her beneath a moonlit sky.
As she walked out of the café, her heart raced with a mix of apprehension and anticipation. She didn’t know what she’d find when she dug deeper into Ahryan Kapoor’s identity, but one thing was certain: the lines of the past were calling her, and she couldn’t ignore them any longer.
