Chapter 11: The Fight

I fought back. Ritika shrieked, grabbed my hair, and I swung back, years of rage making me strong. We rolled on the floor, coffee and notebooks flying.

We scratched, pulled, and were finally dragged to the academic office. The peon scolded us: “Good families’ girls don’t do this,” glaring harder at me. Ritika sniffled, dabbing her eyes.

She hadn’t expected me to fight. For once, I had the upper hand, all my bottled hatred exploding. My nails scratched her arm. I didn’t care about being polite—I wanted her to feel my pain.

I knew she’d spread my story at school, led the class to shun me. She’d laughed when I was locked in the bathroom, her voice rising above the rest.

I’d endured for years, but when the cold coffee hit, I snapped.

The humiliation of a thousand cruelties burst out.

The fight made the counsellor furious. After a private talk with Ritika, she looked at me with cold distance. Rich girls cry, poor girls pay.

“Ritika’s parents have been called. Have you thought about how to handle this?” The question landed like a slap. My heart dropped.

I stared at my shaking hands. Ritika, clutching her scalp, glared: “Ananya Sharma, just you wait.”

All my bravado drained away. For a second, I forgot my own name. Old fear, old shame, flooded back.

I’d forgotten—Ritika was part of the Sharma family.

The old web, the old curse, knotted tight around my throat.

In that moment, I wondered if I would ever be free.