16: Initiation Rites

The morning sun filtered through half-drawn curtains, dappling the breakfast table with warm gold. A faint breeze teased the edge of Anya’s robe, and the faint clink of teacups filled the silence before the inevitable riot of words.

Celina was still asleep, tucked into the divan. No one wanted to wake her yet.

The others gathered at the table — a freshly made pot of chai steaming at the center, a platter of toast, and reheated poha and fruit arranged with the kind of collaborative grace only desperation and hunger could inspire.

Bharath sat at the head, hair tousled, lips bitten raw from being kissed half to death.

Priya gave him a look over her cup. “So,” she said slowly, “I’m supposed to say good job. Because it worked.”

Kim perked up. “You mean—?”

“She looks miles better,” Anya confirmed, handing out plates. “Almost no bruises. Her temperature is normal now.”

Kim smiled, radiant in the morning light. “We’ll need at least two or three more sessions like that—”

Priya snorted into her chai. “Oh, will we now? What happened, Romeo? Couldn’t finish the job the first time?”

Bharath groaned, his face reddening. “Priya—”

“No, I get it,” Priya continued, mock-earnest. “You’re just trying to stretch out the ‘healing.’ Truly, a humanitarian.”

Anya laughed, nudging Priya. “Stop. It is real. Kim saw something.”

Kim, ever the scientist in heat-slicked armor, cleared her throat and opened her notebook.

“In the dream,” she said, “the aura around Celina was dull and fragmented when we arrived. But as Bharath—uh—engaged, her field began to brighten. Not uniformly, but along specific energy centers. Most notably—”

“—don’t say the word yoni, I beg you,” Priya prayed.

Kim held her composure. Barely.

“I think Bharath is not just acting as a conduit. He might actually be storing tantric energy. Like ... absorbing and redirecting it. There’s a pattern forming.”

“I don’t know if I’m storing anything,” Bharath said honestly. “But when I first saw Celina in the dream — when she pulled me in — I healed her a little then. Just by holding her. She said she could feel something ... shift.”

“See?” Kim looked vindicated. “It’s real.”

Priya nodded thoughtfully, then said with absolute deadpan, “Of course it’s real. And I’m sure you’re devastated that you’ll need to observe and participate in more sessions.”

Kim blinked, pink rising in her cheeks. “It’s for science. We need to test this out vigorously and frequently.”

“Of course,” Priya replied. “So noble. So pure. So soaked.”

Anya nearly choked on her toast.

Kim threw a napkin at her. Bharath hid behind his teacup.

Once the laughter ebbed, the table quieted again. The seriousness drifted back in.

“So,” Anya said finally, tapping her spoon on the rim of her cup. “What do we do with Celina?”

“Keep her here for now,” Priya said, crossing her arms. “At least until she’s strong enough to walk to the bathroom without face planting.”

“She can’t be seen outside yet,” Anya added, her voice steady, clinical. “She’s too recognizable. If anyone even halfway plugged into the modeling world sees her on the street, we’re cooked.”

Bharath nodded grimly. “She’s also our clearest witness. She knows names. Places. What happens on the inside.”

“And if she chooses to speak,” Anya added, “she’s a blade straight through the Syndicate’s ribs.”

“She won’t,” Priya said gently, perched on the edge of the table. “Not yet. She’s raw. Still fraying at the edges. But I was worse once. And I made it through.”

There was a pause — not heavy, just reflective.

Then Kim, who’d been quietly organizing supplies on the counter, turned toward them.

“I’m already staying,” she said. “So logistics are going to get tighter.”

Anya glanced over, smirking. “You mean the part where you moved in and said that you’re never leaving?”

Kim shrugged with a small smile. “Technically, I told Professor Rao I was extending the immersion. He thinks I’m mapping behavioral adaptation in a high-performance household.”

Priya raised an eyebrow. “You lied to your advisor?”

Kim gave her a level look. “I told him what he needed to hear. This isn’t fieldwork anymore. This is ... home.”

Bharath watched her, eyes warm. “You’re not pretending to belong anymore.”

“I know I belong,” Kim said, stepping closer. “To all of you. But especially to him.”

She glanced at Bharath, and the weight of it landed — not like a confession, but a simple truth already rooted in their lives.

Priya exhaled through her nose, a smirk curling her lip. “Alright then. We’ve got a researcher, a famous model, a reformed seductress, and a rising football god with a glowing torso.”

“Doctor Dream’s research team,” Anya said, giggling.

Bharath groaned again. “Can we not call us that?”

“Too late,” Priya said, smirking. “Badge is printed. Uniform includes a dhoti and nothing else.”

Anya leaned her cheek into Bharath’s shoulder, her fingers curling around his arm. “Let’s figure it out together, hmm?”

He glanced at the three women around him — a scientist with fire behind her calm, a fallen star sharpening herself into a sword, and the girl he fell for without trying.

He nodded.

“We will.”

Celina stirred.

Her limbs ached with the soft weight of healing, and the air smelled faintly of cardamom and something warm. Her eyes fluttered open. A ceiling she didn’t know. Sunlight dancing through gauzy curtains. The sound of laughter — gentle, female, familiar.

She blinked, heart catching.

Am I safe?

The door opened softly. Anya peeked in, tray in hand. Toast, banana slices, and a steaming bowl of oats with jaggery. She set it down on the nightstand.

“Hey,” she said softly.

Celina tried to sit up. She winced. But Anya was already beside her, easing her up with gentle hands.

Then she did something that made Celina’s throat tighten — Anya hugged her. Not with caution, not with distance, but full-bodied and warm, her arms locking around Celina’s shoulders like a lifeline.

“I’m so sorry,” Celina whispered. Her voice trembled as she clutched the bedsheet. “I was horrible to you. I said terrible things. I was jealous. You had everything I didn’t — looks, poise, success, everyone loved you—”

Anya let out a very unladylike snort.

Celina blinked.

Anya cocked her head and raised a perfectly arched brow. “Have you ever looked into a mirror?”

Celina blinked again. “What?”

“You’re literally one of the most beautiful women in the entire goddamn country,” Anya said, waving a hand like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You prowl like a lioness. You pose like a goddess. You have cheekbones sharp enough to cut me.”

Celina flushed. “That’s not—”

“And don’t even get me started on your perfect ass, your big boobs, or those ridiculous eyes,” Anya continued, deadpan. “If you weren’t so sweet when you’re broken, I’d still hate you on principle.”

That cracked something. Celina let out a small, shaky laugh. Then another. And suddenly she was crying and laughing and trying to hug Anya and failing all at once. Anya caught her, cradling her like a sister and stroking her hair.

“Point is,” Anya said more softly, “you never needed to be anyone else. You were always enough. Even when you were mean. Even when you were scared.”

Celina buried her face in her shoulder. “You’re being nice because I almost died.”

“No,” Anya said. “I’m being nice because now you’re ours.”

And that was that.

Celina pulled back slightly, her lips trembling, eyes glassy. “Yours?”

Anya smirked, brushing away a tear from Celina’s cheek with her thumb. “Ours. This whole ridiculous, gorgeous, dysfunctional thing we’ve got going? You’re in it now. There’s no backing out. Sisterhood has no return policy.”

From the doorway, Kim cleared her throat softly. “Does this mean I get a hug too or...?”

Celina turned, startled—and then genuinely smiled for the first time in days.

“You’re that ... that shy girl from the photoshoot?” she said, blinking. “The plain one?”

Kim lifted a brow. “Not plain anymore, apparently.”

Celina’s eyes widened as she took in the curves, the glow, and the impossible fullness of Kim’s now-ethereal form. “Hey Ram, you’re ... wow.”

Anya snickered. “Told you. Our nerdy swan turned into a tantric lingerie model slash Playboy playmate.”

Kim blushed, “Still figuring that part out.”

Celina, overwhelmed again, opened her arms. “Come here.”

Kim walked over and leaned down into Celina’s arms, careful of her healing frame. Celina hugged her tight and gave her a kiss on her cheek.

“I was jealous of you too,” Celina whispered.

Kim blinked, startled. “Me?”

“You were so quiet. So kind. I didn’t know how to be that.”

Kim swallowed. “Well ... I didn’t know how to be stunning like you. So I guess we’re even.”

They hugged a little tighter, laughing through sniffles.

From the back, Priya leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching them. “You’re all very sappy for a group of dangerous women.”

Anya waved her in. “Shut up and get in here, you scary badass.”

Priya hesitated, then strode over and allowed herself to be pulled into the group hug — arms, hair, giggles, and tangled limbs.

Anya perked up. “Oh, right! Celina — meet Priya. Bharath’s adopted sister. Our official badass, expert in running from both Syndicate goons and emotional intimacy.”

Kim added helpfully, “Also the reason we are all still alive. And the person who made sure you were found.”

Celina blinked. “You’re ... the one who rescued me?”

Priya gave her a long look, then stepped closer. “No. You can thank Bharath for that and of course, you rescued yourself by pulling him into that dream. We just caught you on the way down.”

There was a beat of silence. Celina’s throat tightened.

And then Priya did something that surprised them both — she sat on the edge of the bed, reached out, and gripped Celina’s hand.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Priya said quietly. “I know what it’s like. What it does to you. The shame. The nightmares. The way the mirror becomes your worst enemy.”

Celina’s lip quivered. Her hand clutched back.

“But you’re here,” Priya said. “That means you already won.”

Celina swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

Priya nodded, her voice soft. “You ever want to scream? Break shit? Talk to someone who won’t flinch when you say the worst things out loud ... come find me.”

Celina nodded. The tears came fast. Kim passed her a tissue. Anya wrapped her in another hug. And Priya stayed right there, hand still on hers.

“I’m really in this, aren’t I?” Celina whispered, breath shaky.

“You are,” Kim said.

“For good,” Anya added, nuzzling her shoulder.

“Welcome to the dysfunction,” Priya finished. “We braid each other’s hair and plot world domination.”

Celina laughed through her tears. “It’s ... it’s not a cult, right?”

Anya grinned. “No, but there’s a very demanding god involved.”

Kim sipped her tea. “With a glowing yantra. And a surprisingly sweet mouth.”

“Also,” Priya added, rising and smirking, “he does the dishes and makes food sometimes.”

They all burst into laughter.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Celina didn’t feel broken. Just ... held. Human. Home.

The sisterhood was strange, sharp-edged, and absolutely real.

And it was hers now.

Celina looked around at them, eyes shining. “This is real?”

Priya spoke softly, her voice low but sure. “This is yours.”

Celina nodded slowly. “Then I’m in. For good.”

Anya squeezed her tighter. “Forever.”

The four of them sat there on the bed, tangled and grinning like fools.

Sisters.

A little broken. A little dangerous.

But finally, together.

The scent of chai and toast still wafted through the air. Celina, now wrapped in a robe, settled gently into the couch, cradling a mug. She looked a little stronger, but still delicate.

She glanced at the others. “I ... I want to find out if my uncle’s okay.”

“We will,” Priya promised. “We’ll check every hospital in Mumbai if we have to.”

“I need to see him,” Celina whispered. “I need to know he’s still here.”

“You will,” Kim said. “One thing at a time. First, you heal.”

Celina nodded. Then glanced down. “I should probably tell you everything. About how I came to Calcutta. About what Rekha did. About ... what I saw.”

Anya rubbed her back. “We’re listening.”

Celina took a breath and began — talking about her childhood, her parents getting into an accident making her an orphan, her loving uncle who could not cope with the reality of being a single father, his drinking and debts, how she was promised a way to save him not knowing how deep he had sunk. How the glamour turned into chains.

She talked about how Rekha called her to Calcutta and she agreed thinking it was her big break. How her smile never reached her eyes when Celina had arrived. How she’d been prepared, dressed, paraded. How she was sold and how she fought back. How Rekha told her about what happened to her and her uncle. How she had given up on life and then - how Bharath had come. How he’d pulled her from the brink.

“I owe him everything,” she said softly. “And all of you. I want to help. I want to burn her world down.”

Priya gave a fierce smile. “Then welcome to the war.”

“And to the family,” Anya added.

Celina smiled. “Let’s destroy them.”

Kim clinked her cup against Celina’s. “One dream at a time.”

And as they sat there, together, the next stage of their fight began to take shape.

The plan was unclear.

But the family?

The family was real.

—

The sheets were silk. The air smelled of sex and sandalwood. The city roared somewhere beneath the fourteenth floor, but inside Suite 1421, the world was silent and heavy with satisfaction.

Rekha Das lay stretched out in the dim morning light, her bare legs tangled with those of the young man dozing beside her. Twenty-five, gym-built, too pretty to be clever. She didn’t remember his name. She’d called him “baby” the whole night.

He stirred, tried to nestle against her.

She lit a cigarette.

“Don’t get clingy,” she murmured, exhaling toward the ornate ceiling fan. “It’s too early to pretend.”

He gave a sheepish grin and rolled away.

She reached lazily for her clutch, dug out her gold-plated Nokia, and powered it on.

She had turned it off last night. No disturbances. No drivers panicking. No anxious staff fumbling orders.

The screen lit up.

17 missed calls.
6 voicemails.
Text: “URGENT – it’s Celina.”
Text: “Please call – there’s been a breach.”
Text: “Elgin house compromised.”
Text: “She’s gone.”

Rekha froze.

Her fingers tightened around the phone as if trying to strangle the device into silence.

She stabbed the voicemail button, leaned back, and listened.

“Ma’am, sorry. It’s me. They—they took her. The girl. Celina. She’s gone. Guards hurt bad. Three unconscious. We didn’t hear anything till it was over. Someone helped her — no one local. We think it was the buyer. Please call. Please.”

Another voice. Quieter. Shaky.

“Rekha-di ... The house is not secure anymore. The neighbors heard screaming. We paid them off but it’s messy. One of the guards said it was the beggars — but that doesn’t make sense. Please come.”

Rekha didn’t blink. Her face turned to stone.

She stubbed out the cigarette on the suite’s bone-white ashtray. Sparks hissed.

Then she stood.

“Get dressed,” she told the man on the bed. “Take a cab. Forget my name.”

He looked up, confused. “You okay?”

She gave him a long look, cold and clinical. “You were better with your mouth shut.”

He flinched, gathered his clothes, and scurried out.

She turned back to her phone.

Celina was gone?!

She couldn’t have run away. She had been extracted.

But by whom?

Not the police. There’d be heat already — reporters, calls from the Commissioner. This was something else. Quieter. Surgical.

She knew Celina had no family here. Just that useless drunk of an uncle, now lying in a coma in some hospital ICU. No friends. No lover. No one who’d risk their neck for her.

Except maybe...

Rekha’s brow furrowed.

The buyer.

Of course. Humiliated. Assaulted. His prize had escaped. Of course he’d want revenge. Men like him always did.

She’d underestimated his pride. Maybe he bribed the maid. Maybe he had someone waiting near the service lane. Maybe he decided if he couldn’t have her, no one would.

That was worse than a police raid. If Celina turned up dead, she would be blamed. The Syndicate didn’t tolerate damaged merchandise or scandal. Especially not scandal involving VIP clientele.

She dialed.

“Get me Bansal,” she said coldly when the assistant picked up. “Now.”

Pause.

“And tell him—” Her voice turned honeyed and lethal. “Tell him if he’s trying to teach me a lesson, he’s picked the wrong woman to play professor.”

She ended the call before they could respond. Then she turned to the window, eyes scanning the city skyline.

Somewhere down there, Celina was breathing. Bleeding. Or buried.

Whichever it was, Rekha would find out. And someone... someone would pay.

—

The blinds were half-closed. Her assistant had been dismissed with the excuse of a migraine. The scent of lavender incense — her signature — hung faintly in the air, but it brought her no comfort today.