Love brewed

Chapter 1

Ashwin

The café was quiet after hours. Tables wiped down, chairs stacked in neat rows, the aroma of roasted coffee still lingering like a memory that refused to fade. Ashwin sat at the corner booth, his usual place, one hand on a black coffee that had long gone cold.

The man who owned a chain of cafés across the city, who had become the envy of his peers, sat like any other customer after closing time silent, tired, lost in thoughts that had no end.

His phone buzzed, a late-night message from one of his managers about next week's promotions. He typed a curt reply, the kind of efficiency he was known for, then tossed the phone aside. Work had never been the problem. Work was easy numbers, expansion, strategies. People were the problem. Love was the problem.

The vows he had once made to Ritika at the altar, the warmth of a family dinner, the playful laughter of his son in the garden all of it had collapsed like a house of cards in a storm. And the storm had been his own doing.

Ashwin exhaled, running a hand over his face. The dimple on his chin caught the faint café light, that same dimple he had once teased women about, calling it the mark of flirtation. Now, it felt like a cruel joke. A reminder of a man he no longer was.

The stitch mark above his eyebrow itched sometimes when he was tired. College days, he had told everyone. A wound from a fight, a silly accident. But the truth was simpler: it was a scar he had grown to love, because it made him look imperfectly human, approachable. Women had always noticed it, along with the mole on his right cheek. That mole had been his signature, his so-called charm. Once upon a time, people said women were drawn to it. Now, it was just another mark he avoided catching in the mirror.

He stirred his coffee absentmindedly.

He had loved Ritika once loved her enough to stand against his family's hesitation, loved her enough to build a home with her. They had a son, Shivank, the only innocent thing that still tethered him to some version of joy. But somewhere between ambition, routine, and temptation, Ashwin had lost himself.

He remembered the girl young, twelve years younger, reckless, intoxicating. At first it had been lust, undeniable, consuming. But then it had grown into something else. Something he had mistaken for love. She filled the spaces Ritika no longer did. She laughed at his jokes, she held his hand like it was oxygen, she looked at him as if he was the only man alive.

And for a while, he had believed it. Believed her. Believed himself.

Until it all collapsed. Until she betrayed him, parading her new man into his café, forcing his rage to boil over in public. Until she stormed to his house, to Ritika, to his parents, unraveling every thread of dignity he had left.

That day, he had lost more than his marriage. He had lost his identity. His parents' faith in him. His son's trust. His wife's love. His own peace.

Now, he vowed never to love again.

It wasn't a decision born of bitterness alone—it was survival. Love was weakness. Love was a wound that never healed. Love was a luxury he couldn't afford.

He leaned back in the booth, staring at the ceiling. The café lights dimmed automatically, leaving him in a soft glow. His empire was intact. His reputation had somewhat recovered. His staff respected him. But none of it mattered when the nights stretched endlessly and he had no one to share his silence with.

And so, Ashwin lived. Successful. Controlled. Alone.

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Khushboo

Across the city, in a high-rise office where the walls gleamed with motivational posters and the hum of air-conditioners never stopped, Khushboo sat at her desk, finalizing a report for an upcoming school audit.