the first glance

Mid 1850s, Calcutta.

The sky bled orange as dusk settled over the crowded ghats. Temple bells rang in the distance. The scent of marigold, river mud, and incense clung to the air like a lover’s ghost.

Sarika mishra walked barefoot across the stone steps, her golden dupatta dragging behind her like a secret. Bangles clinked softly on her wrists, and her long braid swung gently down her back. She held a silver thali — offering for the evening puja — but her mind was somewhere else.

Or maybe it wasn’t hers anymore.

Because he had seen her.

From the upper balcony of the cantonment barracks, Captain Julian Rhodes lit a cigarette with one hand, the match flaring just enough to illuminate the jagged scar on his left cheek — a souvenir from a rebellion long buried in official reports.

He exhaled smoke.

Then stopped breathing altogether.

There she was.

A girl. No — a woman. Dressed modestly, but moving like temptation carved in gold.

Not meant to be seen. Not meant to be touched.

Not his.

Yet.

Julian watched the way her eyes scanned the river — not in awe, but with the detachment of someone too smart for her surroundings. She was young. Soft. Defiant.

And she looked up.

Straight at him.

A second. Maybe less.

But in that second, something dark and irreversible locked into place.

She looked away first.

Mistake.

Later that night.

The British cantonment staff filed their reports, saluted, and left. Julian poured himself two fingers of scotch, not even tasting it.

He couldn’t get her out of his mind.

What was her name? Who was she promised to?

Does she scream when she’s angry? Or moan when she cries?

The glass shattered in his grip.

“Bring her to me,” he said to the Indian servant standing at the door. Calmly. Coldly. Like he was ordering wine or a gun.

The man hesitated. “Sahib… she is—”

“I didn’t ask what she is,” Julian said, wiping the blood from his palm. “I said bring her.”

The next morning.

“Miss Sarika mishra?”

She turned, startled, the fabric of her saree pulled tightly around her.

The two British soldiers stood tall. Out of place. Out of context. “Captain Rhodes would like a word with you,” one said.

Her father, emerging from behind a spice cart, paled. “Why—? She is only a girl—she’s done nothing—”

“It’s not a request.”

Inside his office.

She stood stiffly in front of the large oak desk, eyes darting over maps, guns, and documents she couldn’t read. Her heart thudded against her ribs.

He sat with his legs spread, hands folded loosely in front of him, staring.

“So you’re the girl who couldn’t look away.”

She said nothing.

“Are you scared?”

She swallowed. “No.”

He stood slowly. Walked around the desk. Stopped inches from her.

“Good."

His hand brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, and she flinched.

“That’s a lie,” he murmured. “You should be scared of me, Sarika.”

He circled behind her, and she felt the weight of his presence like heat against her spine.

“I could destroy your reputation. Have your father’s business burned to the ground. Make your fiancé disappear into a ditch somewhere on the Assam railway line.”

Her breath hitched.

“Is this what you do?” she said, voice shaky but laced with fury. “Take girls from their homes because they looked at you?”

Julian stepped in front of her again. Closer now. So close she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

“No,” he said. “I take girls who lie to themselves.”

She slapped him.

The sound cracked like gunfire.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just slowly turned his face back to her with a quiet, dangerous smile.

“I like you even more now.”

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