The water was always too cold, and Ahaan's patience was always too thin.

"Again," Ahaan said, his voice dropping into that familiar, terrifyingly gentle register that never once matched the violence of his actions.

"I'm tired," Aradhya begged, her voice raw, trembling against the sterile, soundproofed walls of the recording studio.

"Sing, Aradhya. I don't have the whole day," he replied smoothly.

She cried, a silent, helpless slipping of tears that she had learned never to wipe away. It only prolonged the waiting.

He didn't hesitate. He slapped her-precise, heavy, designed to shock the system rather than bruise the face that the world would soon worship.

"I. Am. Not. Paying. For. Tantrums," he said coldly.

With practiced indifference, he grabbed her by the back of the neck and dunked her face straight down into the ice-filled bucket of water kept beside the console. The shock tore the breath from her lungs. When he pulled her back up, gasping and shivering, he offered no towel, only a command.

"Sing."

She took a ragged, desperate breath, swallowed the panic clawing at her throat, and sang. Her pitch was flawless. Her tone was haunting.

And that was how Aradhya Kashyap recorded her first song.

To the world, she was a phenomenon-a global superstar, a multi-platinum singer, a powerhouse dancer, an award-winning actress, and a high-fashion model. To the public eye, she was the crown jewel of the powerful Ashutosh Kashyap dynasty.

To those behind closed doors, however, she was a ghost. A bastard. A loser to those who knew her best.

The daughter of a mother who had abandoned her in a brothel for a wealthy client, eleven-year-old Aradhya had known only survival: cooking, cleaning, singing, and dancing for strangers. When her mother fled, leaving her behind, the trillionaire politician Ashutosh Kashyap and his wife, Malini, wanted nothing to do with a living reminder of scandal. They already had their legitimate children, Ahaan and Maira, aged eighteen and sixteen. They did not need an eleven-year-old burden .

But Ahaan saw potential where his parents saw trash. He saw market value, raw skills, and an engine for cash.

He took her in, but he never truly raised her. There was no school, no education, and no warmth. Seven years later, he launched her onto the global stage.

Aradhya remained an unloved child, her entire existence defined by a desperate, hollow begging for affection that never came. Because the Kashyap household refused to let her stain their pristine reputation, Ahaan sequestered her in a secluded private mansion. It was a gilded cage equipped with everything a pop idol could possibly need: a world-class dance studio, a state-of-the-art recording room, and a private gym.

It was her own personal hell.

Ahaan was merciless. He never raised his voice, speaking always in a soft, polite murmur-but god, did he hit. With severe, untreated ADHD tearing at her mind, Aradhya fractured under the pressure. In public, she survived only through heavy medication and chemical numbing, a hollowed-out doll performing for millions.

Behind the flashbulbs, the red carpets, and the adoring crowds, the global superstar was starving-craving love, sanity, and a single day of peace that would never arrive.

Hope you like it .