Dear Readers,
Welcome to Atreyi: His Sinful Desire — a story of longing, loss, forbidden love, and everything in between.
This isn’t just a romance. It’s about the ache of unspoken emotions, the kind of love that waits in silence, watches from the shadows, and still dares to hope even when it shouldn't.
Atreyi’s journey is one of reclaiming herself, her heart, and her place in a world that always told her “no.”
If you’ve ever loved someone who never looked your way…
If you’ve ever had to smile while your heart shattered…
Then maybe, just maybe, you’ll find a little of yourself in these pages.
Take a deep breath—because this story is slow, intense, painful, and yes… sinful.
– With all my heart,
[Moupiya]
It wasn’t raining when she left London. But Kolkata greeted her like an old, weeping friend—grey skies, soaked streets, and a soft drizzle that felt less like weather and more like grief hanging in the air.
Atreyi hadn’t set foot in this city in nearly seven years.
She hadn’t planned to.
And certainly not like this.
Her fingers tightened around the handle of her suitcase as the car turned into Ballygunge Park Road, a narrow lane lined with old banyan trees and memories she’d buried deep.
The Roy mansion appeared slowly—its pale cream exterior standing solemn behind rusted iron gates and wild gulmohar branches, blood-red flowers scattered like shattered hearts on the ground.
The scent hit her first.
That familiar mix of sandalwood, teak, and rain-kissed earth that wrapped around her like memory. It filled her lungs the moment she stepped out of the car, her heels sinking slightly into the wet gravel driveway outside the Roy mansion.
She inhaled, sharply.
It still looked the same.
Except for the fact that her sister was dead.
It had been seven years.
Seven years since she last stood here. Seven years since she ran away with a broken heart, passport in one hand and silence in the other.
Atreyi took a shaky breath and pulled her dupatta tighter around her shoulders. Her hand trembled slightly—not from the cold, but from everything that this place still held.
She closed her eyes tightly feeling the weight of everything.
The memories of her sister hit hard.
Riddhi.
Her elder sister. Her anchor. Her idol. Her destroyer.
Atreyi’s heart ached with a thousand memories—birthday cakes, shared diaries, matching bindis, fights over borrowed kurtis—and then… the memory that mattered most:
Riddhi walking down the stairs as a bride. And Siddhant Roy waiting for her.
Riddhi had looked beautiful that day. Radiant.
And Siddhant....
He had looked like he belonged to her.
Because he did.
Atreyi had clapped and smiled that day. She even held the pallu of Riddhi’s lehenga when she walked around the fire.
But no one knew that she cried herself to sleep that night, curled in a corner of her room, fingers gripping the pillow and the only sound filled the room was her sobs.
She never told Riddhi. Never told anyone.
Only her journal knew the truth.
The truth that she had loved him.
Long before he ever looked at her sister that way.
Long before anyone knew.
She had been invisible.
She was seventeen then.
And foolish enough to believe that love was about waiting.
Now, she was twenty-four.
And still foolish enough to believe he might see her differently.
“Ma’am,” the driver said gently, holding her luggage. “Should I take this inside?”
She nodded and followed him to the grand wooden door. Her heart pounded faster with every step.
Would he be there?
Would he speak to her?
Would he look at her with anything more than cold and polite detachment?
She didn’t know.
The door opened with a slow creak.
And then—
There he was.
Siddhant Roy.
Wearing a simple black kurta, his sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled, and stubble shadowing his sharp jaw. He stood at the end of the hallway, staring at her with eyes that held the weight of unshed grief and unsaid words.
His face was thinner. Not gaunt, but sharper—cheekbones more defined, hair slightly longer, a line of stubble running along his jaw.
But it was his eyes that had changed the most.
They used to be intense. Focused. Cold, sometimes—but never empty.
Now, they were. Hollow. Tired.
He hadn’t aged much. But he looked… heavier. Not in body. In soul.
He was once her world. Now, he was her sister’s widower.
Her heart clenched.
She stood still.
And he just watched her for a long second before finally speaking.
“Welcome home, Atreyi.”
Her name on his lips—deep, low, distant.
She opened her mouth, but no words came.
What would she say?
"I am sorry?"
"I missed you?"
"I still love you?"
None of those would do.
Instead, she forced a tight smile. “It’s been a while.”
Siddhant gave a short nod. “Your room’s ready.”
Just like that. No hug. No warm greeting. Not even a question about how she had been.
He turned and walked toward the staircase, his back stiff, his shoulders tired.
And her heart twisted.
She knew he wouldn’t welcome her with open arms.
She knew he would still see her as the younger sister.
But a small, foolish part of her had hoped that maybe—just maybe—Riddhi’s absence would open a space in his life she could step into.
Not as a replacement.
But as herself.
The Atreyi who had waited for far too long.
The room was untouched.
The old bookshelf still had her favorite Rabindranath volumes, their edges worn from teenage fingers. The walls still bore faint signs of the posters she used to tape up. And on the desk sat a dusty photo frame—one she had forgotten she owned.
A photo of her, Riddhi, and Siddhant.
Taken at a beach in Puri, all smiles and salty air.
Atreyi, in that photo, was laughing too hard—her eyes locked on Aarav’s face, even though the camera was focused elsewhere.
She sank into the bed slowly, letting her fingers touch the frame.
She had loved him before she even knew what love really meant.
And now… he was a widower.
But the tragedy was, he wasn’t free.
He was haunted.
She thought death might change things.
That grief might create space for her.
But one look in Siddhant's eyes told her—he was still lost in Riddhi.
Atreyi stared at the ceiling and whispered the same words she had whispered every night for years:
“See me, Siddhant. Please, just see me.”
She opened the window and let the breeze touch her face. Her phone buzzed with a message from her best friend in London:
"You okay? Did you see him yet?"
She stared at the screen and typed back:
"He looked at me like I was a stranger."
And yet, deep inside her chest, something stirred.
Because he had looked.
And she had returned.
This time, she wasn’t a girl chasing her love
This time, she had grown into a woman.
One who was done hiding behind loyalty and guilt.
One who was ready to claim the love she had been denied.
No matter the cost.
Tell me—what did you feel reading this first chapter?
Did her silence echo in you? Did his coldness hit a nerve?
Leave a comment, hit the like, or share your thoughts—I read every word. Your support fuels this story, and trust me, it’s going to get far more intense from here.
Because some love stories aren't meant to be gentle.
They’re meant to burn.
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