All Chapters of Until I Wrote Him : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Chapter 32 India's POV My car rolled to a slow stop in front of the workspace, my so-called “creative nest,” though today it felt like a sterile monument to the life I pretended to have control over. Through the tinted window, I could see the reflection of the city, tall glass towers blinking awake, cabs slicing through puddles, the first breath of caffeine-hungry commuters. “Miss Seethal,” my driver’s voice floated back softly, breaking the silence. “We’ve arrived.” I blinked, dragging my gaze from the window. “Thank you, Daniel.” My tone came out too even, the polished kind of calm that only hid exhaustion. On my lap sat the yellow tote bag, half-zipped, bulging with loose scraps of paper. Scribbles from last night. Half-thoughts. Emotional shrapnel. Every note was an echo of the same disbelief: You’re not pregnant, you have a cyst. My handwriting had trembled through that sentence until it became barely legible. I pressed my fingers against the tote as if I could

Chapter 34 India's POV The morning air feels too clean for how messy I feel inside. It’s one of those crystalline New York mornings where everything seems too sharp, the sky rinsed pale blue, the pavements wet from an early wash, glass towers catching sunlight like they’re showing off. There’s movement everywhere, a woman hurrying with coffee, a man on a call that sounds like an argument disguised as ambition, taxis weaving through lanes like impatient wasps. And in the middle of it all, me. Still. Hesitant. Standing in front of a set of glass doors that shimmer with my reflection, the letters Veridian Medical Group etched elegantly across them. My reflection looks competent enough, black cigarette trousers, ivory silk blouse, gold hoops small enough to seem tasteful, and hair twisted neatly at the nape. But beneath that calm exterior is the tremor. The one at the corner of my mouth, the slight unevenness in my breathing, the quiet betrayal the mirror never hides. For

Chapter 36 Roman’s POV The city looks like it’s holding its breath when I pull up to the curb.Glass towers glint in the last light of evening, each window catching a fragment of fire from the sinking sun. The driver cuts the engine, and for a moment, all I hear is the soft tick of cooling metal. I don’t move. Not yet.Because she’s back.The thought lands like a punch, sharp, unwelcome, too familiar. Rory. My sister. My goddamn twin.It’s not the first time she’s come running home.Every time the oxy money runs dry, every time her world starts to rot from the inside, she comes clawing her way back here, to me. To the one idiot who still answers her calls.I should be used to it by now. I should know better.But even as I sit there, staring up at the façade of my building, I feel that same useless pull, the mix of anger and relief that she’s alive enough to cause trouble.Because no matter what she’s done, she’s still my sister.I

Chapter 38 Roman’s POV Her eyes meet mine, wide and startled and for a heartbeat, the noise of the room just dies.The low murmur of conversation, the soft clinking of glasses, the weighted hush that always follows power, all of it fades, leaving only the sound of her sharp inhale and my pulse pounding like a war drum in my ears.She looks like sin wrapped in silk.A sequined mint dress that clings to her like it was painted on, catching the light with every shallow breath she takes. Her hair falls in glossy waves, skin glowing under the dim gold light. She doesn’t belong here. She’s too clean for this place, too painfully, stupidly pure for the kind of darkness that runs beneath this polished casino floor.And yet… she’s standing here.In my world.Before I can stop myself, I cross the room in long, precise strides. The crowd parts without a sound, some because they recognize me, others because they can feel the storm gath

Chapter 40 Roman's POV The cool night air hits me like a reset button the moment I step out of the casino. The glow from the golden “La Siren” sign spills onto the pavement, pooling around my shoes in ripples of reflected light. The sound of muffled laughter and rolling dice fades behind me, replaced by the rhythmic hum of distant engines. It’s quieter out here, too quiet for a night meant to celebrate excess. I spotted her immediately. India Seethal. Standing near the valet, arms folded tight against her chest, chin lifted like she’s daring the night to mess with her. The mint-green dress she wore became transformed into glitters under the streetlights, clinging to her curves in a way that makes it impossible not to look and even harder to breathe. She’s tapping one heel impatiently, eyes flicking toward the road as if she could summon their car with sheer will. Her entire body hums with contained anger. Or maybe… denial. When I step forward, the motion draws her a