CHAPTER 2
The floor was cold.
Divyanka felt it seeping through the thin fabric of her dress, grounding her in a way applause never had. Her breath came in sharp, broken pieces, as if her lungs had forgotten their purpose. The restroom, moments ago pristine and silent, now felt claustrophobic—too bright, too reflective, too honest.
Her hands shook uncontrollably.
“Breathe,” she whispered to herself, the word more command than comfort.
But her body refused obedience.
Her heart hammered wildly, each beat loud enough to drown out the muffled music playing outside. Her vision blurred. Tears slipped down her cheeks without warning, streaking makeup that had been applied by professionals trained to make emotions disappear.
Divyanka Mehra—who negotiated million-rupee contracts without blinking, who faced cameras with practiced ease—was undone by something invisible.
Minutes passed. Or seconds. Time dissolved.
When she finally managed to stand, she washed her face, gripping the marble sink as if it were the only solid thing left in her life. Her reflection stared back, eyes red, confidence fractured.
Get it together, she told herself.
She stepped out, collected her purse, made a graceful excuse, and left the venue before anyone could ask questions.
The car ride home was silent.
The city lights blurred past the window, usually comforting, now indifferent. Her phone buzzed endlessly—congratulations, invitations, praise. She turned it face down.
At home, the penthouse felt larger than usual.
Too quiet.
She kicked off her heels and stood barefoot on the polished floor, suddenly aware of how empty the space felt. No photographs. No laughter echoing in the corners. Just glass, steel, and the hum of the city outside.
That night, sleep refused her.
Every time she closed her eyes, her chest tightened again. Her thoughts raced—unfinished conversations, half-lived relationships, a lifetime of running. At dawn, exhausted, she finally fell asleep on the couch.
---
The doctor’s office smelled faintly of antiseptic and reassurance.
“Classic panic attack,” he said calmly after a brief examination. “You’ve been under prolonged stress.”
Divyanka scoffed. “Stress is my job.”
He smiled gently. “Your body disagrees.”
He suggested rest. Time away. Perhaps talking to someone.
She nodded, already planning her escape.
---
Two days later, her assistant found a message waiting.
Divyanka Mehra is on a personal break. All professional commitments postponed.
Within forty-eight hours, she boarded a flight to Udaipur.
She didn’t tell anyone she was scared.
She told them she was tired.
---
Udaipur greeted her like a pause.
The air felt softer. The pace slower. The lake reflected the sky without urgency. The city didn’t demand explanations.
Her childhood home stood exactly as she remembered—old walls, wide windows, memories trapped in corners. Her mother opened the door, surprise giving way to quiet relief.
“You’re early,” her mother said.
“I needed space,” Divyanka replied.
Her mother didn’t ask questions.
That night, Divyanka lay in her old room, staring at the ceiling fan rotating lazily above. The city outside was silent, unlike Mumbai’s constant roar.
For the first time in years, there was nothing she had to be.
No award-winning filmmaker. No desirable woman. No unstoppable force.
Just herself.
And in that stillness, an unsettling thought surfaced:
What if the problem wasn’t her life…
…but the way she had been living it?
The panic attack hadn’t been weakness.
It had been a warning.
And Divyanka, for the first time, decided to listen.
