© 2025 Alena. All rights reserved.
No part of Twisted Lies may be copied, reproduced, or distributed in any form without the author's written permission. This work is protected under copyright law. Unauthorized use, reproduction, or adaptation is strictly prohibited and punishable by law
The music room hallway was dimly lit, the fading golden hour casting honey-tinted shadows along the polished floor. From behind the slightly ajar door, soft piano notes filtered out—imperfect, stubborn, like someone was trying to make sense of chaos using melody.
Ishika Malhotra leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, gaze fixed on the distant wall. She wasn't supposed to be here. Not after what happened last week. Not after what she promised herself.
But the music called to her like muscle memory. And in this corridor, away from eyes and whispers, singing still felt like hers—private, sacred, untouched by the weight of being a Malhotra.
She exhaled, turned to leave, and—bam.
Her shoulder collided hard into someone.
The phone in her hand slipped, but it never hit the ground.
Long fingers caught it midair, fluid and effortless.
Her heart stuttered. Not from surprise.
From him.
Ruhaan Agnihotri.
Black shirt. Loosely cuffed sleeves. That signature smirk playing at the edge of his lips like he knew every secret the school whispered behind closed doors. Hair perfectly disheveled, jaw too sharp for seventeen, and Ocean like eye's they could strip you bare if they wanted to.
No one looked like that at this school. No one carried sin and charm like a second skin.
He was beautiful, in the most dangerous way possible.
Ishika cursed under her breath.
He twirled her phone between his fingers with obnoxious ease. "Didn't know the Malhotra princess sings for ghost audiences now. Is this your secret concert series or just a failed audition?"
Ishika rolled her eyes and snatched the phone from his hand. "Didn't know the school's most inflated ego had a music kink. Or are you here to criticize everyone not wearing Prada?"
He laughed, low and amused, like her defiance entertained him.
"Inflated ego, huh? That's rich—coming from someone who once dared to kiss me in front of half the amusement park and then vanished like a ghost."
Ishika's breath caught in her throat.
So he was still holding onto it.
Three months. And he still hadn't let go.
"Stop acting like that with me," she said, voice quieter now, more raw.
Ruhaan chuckled, stepping in closer. Not touching her, but too close—close enough to taste the tension in the air.
"Come on, Sour Candy," he murmured, voice low. "You can't ignore me forever."
She froze.
Her jaw clenched. "Don't call me that."
His eyes gleamed with challenge. "Why not? It suits you. Sweet for exactly two seconds, and then bam—tongue burns."
"Don't."Her voice dropped, sharper now. She tried to move past him, but he blocked her path casually, leaning one hand on the wall beside her.
His cologne hit her first—spiced citrus and something darker underneath. The kind of scent that clung to your memories without permission.
"You think if you keep ignoring me long enough, I'll forget how your lips tasted that day?" he whispered, gaze heavy.
She stiffened. "It was a dare."
"I know." His expression darkened slightly. "But you didn't back away. You didn't stop me either."
Her lips parted in disbelief. "It was three seconds, Ruhaan. And three months ago."
"But I remember it," he said. "Every. Damn. Second."
A tense beat passed.
She lowered her voice, controlled and quiet. "Is that why you've been acting like this? Picking fights. complaining about me. Talking to me like I'm the enemy?"
He didn't deny it.
So she continued, voice firmer now. "I get it. You're still angry about the park incident . But I'm telling you—that kiss was just a dare. I didn't mean to lead you on. It was just a stupid challenge."
He leaned closer, and this time she felt the wall behind her back like a trap.
"You think I'm angry because you kissed me for a dare?" His voice was nearly a whisper. "No, Ishika. I'm angry because after that—you pretended like it never happened. You erased me like a mistake."
She looked away. "We're. Strangers"
A long silence stretched between them. Their breaths were uneven. His hand dropped from the wall, fingers brushing against hers unintentionally—or maybe intentionally.
"You stopped talking to me," he murmured. "After the Argument … you shut me out."
"I had to," she said softly. "You were getting under my skin."
"I don't want your silence."
"Well, you're not getting my words either."
Her voice was steel. But inside, she was shaking.
He smirked, eyes intense. "Still am, it seems."
After the vase incident last week—Ishika decided. No more Ruhaan. No more heat. No more staring contests that left her sleepless.
But he wasn't letting her go so easily.
"You can hate me all you want, sourcandy," he murmured, his eyes scanning her like he was memorizing the war in he "But Tell me something, Ishika If it meant nothing, why haven't you looked me in the eye since?"
She clenched her fists.
"Can't you understand it was just a fucking dare," she said again. But even she could hear the tremble.
He stepped back then, just slightly. Enough to let her breathe—but not enough to escape.
"I'm not playing your games anymore, Ruhaan," she said as she walked away. "Don't call me Sour Candy. Don't follow me. Don't bring up that kiss again."
But he didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he turned his head slightly and said, just loud enough for her to hear as she walked off:
"Too late. You already left the taste behind."
________________
The smell of chalk, worn-out textbooks, and betrayal filled the air as Mrs. Pratika Malhotra walked in. Her heels clicked with precision, echoing off the classroom walls like a gavel in a courtroom. She wasn't just a teacher—she was the queen of controlled chaos, a force no one dared to defy.Her tightly pulled-back hair, crisp saree, and killer stare had students sitting straighter in their seats before she even opened her mouth. If the mob boss ever needed a schoolteacher, they'd have hired her.
"Alright," she said, dropping her notes onto the desk with a sharp thud, "settle down before I settle it for you."
The class instantly obeyed. Even the class clown swallowed his joke.
"We're starting a new topic today—National Income," she announced, eyes scanning the room like a sniper seeking a target.
Prakriti groaned softly and leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. The topic was already a buzzkill. She hated economics. She hated when her mom turned into this terrifyingly academic avatar. But something told her today would go beyond her usual suffering.
And she was right.
Pratika looked up, her lips curling into a smirk that could make grown men rethink their lives.
"Aditya, come sit next to Prakriti."
The room fell silent.
Prakriti blinked. "…Sorry, what?"
"You both will be seat partners from now on," Pratika declared like a royal decree. "He's the topper. You're… trying. He'll help you focus."
The class exploded into giggles and whispers. A few whistles. A few mock gasps.
Prakriti turned crimson. "Mummy!" she hissed.
But Pratika just raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem, Miss Malhotra? Because I can always shift you next to the skeleton model in the lab—it listens better than you."
Aditya stood, picking up his bag with a calm that bordered on arrogance. He walked over like this was just another task to check off his list of achievements. His uniform was crisp, tie knotted perfectly, hair slick like he was in a shampoo commercial.
He didn't say a word. Just gave her one cold glance as he dropped into the seat beside her like he owned the place.
Prakriti stared at him like he'd just brought a hurricane into her personal space.
No hello. No side-eye. Just silent judgment in human form.
Prakriti turned slowly, dramatically, to look at her mother. "You do realize this is a human rights violation, right?"
Pratika gave a tight smile. "I do realize your last test score was a crime. Sit straight."
Prakriti muttered something about switching schools.
"This is punishment," she muttered, "not partnership."
She hated how his notebooks were already open, color-coded and tabbed. She hated how he didn't even flinch at being called next to her. She hated that her mom was giving them the kind of proud look directors give couples during a Bollywood climax.
With a dramatic flair, Prakriti slammed her Eco book down beside Aditya.
"Don't talk to me."
"I wasn't planning to," Aditya replied without looking at her, flipping his notes.
She scowled. "Great. Keep it that way, Aadimanav Perfection."
He finally glanced at her. "If you paid half the attention to this chapter as you do to your tantrums, you'd actually pass the test."
Her mouth dropped open. "You—!" She raised her pencil like a dagger.
He calmly took it from her hand and pointed at her graph.
"Fix your labeling. That's not a war zone—it's a supply curve."
She snatched it back with a glare. "Shove your curve."
From the front of the class, Pratika smiled like a mastermind watching her enemies destroy each other.
"Look at them working together," she cooed. "So much chemistry."
Both of them shot up instantly:
"WE'RE NOT!"
The class burst into laughter.
Pratika raised her hand and the noise died instantly. "Good. Because if I see even a spark of drama, I'll have both of you cleaning the lab. With toothbrushes."
Aditya went back to writing, jaw tight. Prakriti groaned under her breath, dramatically whispering, "This is the worst day of my life."
Aditya didn't look up. "For me, it's Tuesday."
Prakriti glared. Aditya wrote another equation with soldier-like precision.
TO BE CONTINUED....