Velvet Knives Act II – Cracks in the Mirror

Rhea always sensed a shift in the air before a storm.

She noticed it in the way Aanya didn’t flinch when spoken to.

In how she no longer asked for things, she observed instead.

In the quiet steadiness of her eyes that had once brimmed with hesitation.

And most of all, she noticed it when she found her bedroom door almost fully closed one afternoon, not quite as she’d left it.

Something had changed.

That night, over dinner, Rhea placed her fork down with delicate precision and sighed, dabbing at imaginary tears.

“Rajeev,” she said softly, “I’m starting to feel unsafe in my own home.”

Aanya froze with her spoon midair.

Rajeev turned immediately, concerned. “What happened?”

“It’s Aanya…” she whispered, voice quivering just right. “She’s been… lurking. Outside my room. Listening in. I don’t know what she’s thinking. I’m honestly afraid she might lash out.”

Aanya’s stomach turned. Rhea was turning the tables before she could even speak.

“Wait—what? That’s not—”

“See?” Rhea leaned back, fingers trembling faintly. “This tone. This defensiveness. I’ve tried so hard to bond with her, to be a mother figure, but she’s… distant. Angry. I don’t want her to hate me, Rajeev. But I won’t live in fear.”

Rajeev looked between them. Confused. Hesitant. But Aanya could see it—the seed had been planted. Again.

A familiar ache bubbled in her throat. He wanted to believe his wife. Not because he hated Aanya,

but because it was easier to believe she was just a teenager going through a phase than admit he had made a mistake.

Later, in her room, Aanya paced.

The recording was there. The truth.

And yet… showing it now felt like lighting a match in a room full of gasoline.

“Pick the right moment,” Nisha had warned over text.

“Not in the middle of a war. Choose a crack—when your dad starts to doubt. Then strike.”

Aanya opened her sketchbook and stared at the printout.

Rhea’s words, word for word.

“I’ve worked too hard for this life to let some moody brat ruin it.”

She slipped the page into an envelope, wrote “Read Me Alone” on it, and tucked it into her father’s briefcase.

No name. No signature.

A test.

The next morning, she watched him pick up the briefcase and leave for work, oblivious to the storm he now carried inside.

And she waited.

And wondered…

If truth were enough.