Book 4 in the Proposal Series.
YUGANTIKA IYENGAR
"You cannot fight your doom. It will fucking destroy you, Pookie."
She laughed, wrecking it deep within her guts. A voice that could slice through all the weak hearts. "No one can bring doom on me."...
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There was a price for every action.
Either a breath, sweat, blood, or peace of mind.
Every single action in this life came with a price and never left without it. It was like a street vendor, giving products and taking the cash without missing a beat.
It was blunt, outrageously offending, and unrestrained civility.
An invisible price tag mocking right infront of your eyes and laughing. It does not speak but screams for payment. But not in cash, but in an abstract.
Yugantika had paid one at almost every turn, every new milestone, and at every first.
She had wished to be carefree, and enjoy a night to herself. Quiet, mild, and without any hindering events worth memories. Guess, she had expected more out of her little soon-to-be exhausting stars that now were far too gone in the bleak of this blaring sun. It may have gobbled them up for all she knew.
Yet, she wouldn't be surprised.
"Close those bloody curtains." She screamed inside her pillow. Hungover? No, she was crawling towards the hellfire because of this intense headache.
No one followed, so no chance of requesting again.
Throwing the cold comforter away, she sat up disoriented. Almost breaking the flower vase, she reached the window on her two left feet and yanked the white drapes over this floor-to-ceiling, east-facing window.
Who in their right mind would want to watch the sunrise on a holiday?
Never her.
Dialing on her speed dial, she waited for the only woman who knew the cure to her illness to answer.
"Morning, Highness!" Lalitha laughed.
"I am dying," Yugantika mumbled falling back in her bed.
"I will send black roses to your funeral." This woman and that man, she should kill them both.
"Shut up and get me a coffee."
There was no point in preparing a comeback. She didn't have enough active cells to perform the analytical task.
Glaring at the shower gel as if it had personally offended her, she squirted a lot more than required and washed herself off. She had been too drowsy and busy planning a murder that washing the ammonia off from her not-so-graceful dip in the water did not make it to her to-do list.
She wrapped herself in a soft black bathrobe and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Red eyes, swollen eyes, deep frown lines on the temple, and her clenched jaw would not look good with a bright color.
She dropped the pastel green suit back and procured a pair of wine trousers, a black lace corset top, and a blazer to match. If she had to go all out to teach those men some lessons, shouldn't be dressed to kill?
