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The days that followed tasted like poison on Zoya’s tongue. Every corridor she walked through echoed with whispers. Some were about her beauty, her wealth, her untouchable place on the campus throne—but now, a new thread had woven itself into the gossip.
“Did you hear? That simple boy, Ayaan, refused her.”320Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR4hUEHIANc
“She actually tried, and he didn’t care.”320Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡycwbVrdLW9
“Maybe she’s not as powerful as she thinks.”
Zoya wore her usual mask—smiling, laughing, brushing it off like dust. But inside, the wound festered. It wasn’t about Ayaan anymore. It was about her. About the throne she had always guarded. And if one boy could make her look weak, what would stop the world from tearing her crown away?
No. She would not let that happen.
The chance came quicker than she expected.
A week later, the literature department hosted an open discussion under the shade of the great banyan tree. Students formed a circle, debating poetry, quoting lines, showing off intellect as though the words themselves were currency.
Zoya arrived in a crimson outfit that caught every eye. Her friends gathered around her like petals around a rose, their laughter sharp and eager. And there, across the circle, sat Ayaan—plain as ever, his notebook balanced on his knee.
The professor encouraged students to share their interpretations of a poem. One after another spoke, some eloquent, some fumbling. Then Ayaan’s hand lifted, calm, unhurried.
When he spoke, the words came soft but steady, like ripples across still water. He didn’t use big terms or theatrical gestures—just simple, honest insight that silenced even the noisiest corners of the circle. For a moment, everyone was listening only to him.
And Zoya hated it.
She leaned to her friends, her smile sharp as glass. “Watch this.”
When the professor asked if anyone wanted to respond, Zoya rose gracefully. Her voice was honeyed, confident, every word polished. She didn’t attack his interpretation outright—she twisted it, turned it into something naïve, something childish. And when her friends laughed at her clever little digs, others joined, unsure but unwilling to oppose the queen of the campus.
Ayaan sat silent, his gaze steady on her. He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend. He simply closed his notebook, as though the conversation wasn’t worth a battle.
That silence was worse than any rebuttal.
Zoya smirked, soaking in the attention, the restored whispers of admiration. But deep inside, something trembled. Why didn’t he fight back? Why didn’t he at least try to win?
Because to him, winning didn’t matter.
And to her, it was everything.
Later that evening, as her friends replayed the scene, giggling about how she had “crushed him,” Zoya’s smile felt hollow. Victory without his reaction wasn’t victory at all.
For the first time, she admitted it to herself:320Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkRgInNaixM
It wasn’t enough to ignore him.320Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSBpS4g3Ebk
It wasn’t enough to outshine him.
She wanted him broken.320Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5w8MB1cubf
She wanted him to feel the humiliation she had felt.
And so the game began—not of love, not of friendship, but of revenge.
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and then Add to home screen.