Prisha Rathore

NEW YORK CITY—

“Did you catch the Paris Fashion Week livestream last night?” Alice’s voice buzzed with excitement as she tossed her scarf onto the bed.

Jenna grinned, scrolling on her phone. “Yeah! Those silhouettes were wild — vintage vibes mixed with futuristic edges. And those bold colors! Deep reds and emeralds everywhere.”

I looked up from my laptop, the soft hum of my fan blending with their chatter. “Sounds like I missed out.”

Jenna shrugged. “You were busy with your assignment. But seriously, oversized outerwear is back. I’m thinking of trying something with exaggerated proportions for my final project.”

Alice nodded enthusiastically. “I’m all about sustainability. Organic fabrics, upcycling… it’s tough but feels right.”

I smiled, watching their energy. Their passion was contagious.

“I want to mix tech into my designs,” Jenna added. “LEDs or conductive fabric. Imagine interactive clothes that light up or change color.”

“Futuristic and eco-friendly,” Alice mused. “That’s the future of fashion.”

Their voices blended into a comforting background as I tapped the final words of my research paper. This was my first semester at Parsons, and every day was a whirlwind.

I glanced around our cramped hostel room. The soft rustle of pages, the distant city sounds drifting through the cracked window—honking cars, a siren in the distance, footsteps on the pavement. Emily was chatting on the phone, her laughter light and airy, while Alice and Jenna’s conversation floated around fashion and dreams.

I leaned back on my pillow, fingers still warm from typing. My heart raced with a mix of nerves and excitement. This assignment was basic—just about inspiration sources in fashion—but it felt like the start of something much bigger.

Fashion had always been my refuge. Growing up in India, styling my brothers’ outfits was my secret joy. From choosing colors to mixing textures, I loved creating something unique, even if it was just for family dinners. My passion had slowly blossomed into more — a silent promise I made to myself to carve my own path beyond the towering legacy of the Rathore family.

My family name carried weight—The Rathores weren’t just wealthy; we were powerhouses in the business world. One of the few families from India to consistently rank among the top five richest in all of Asia. Boardrooms whispered our name with respect, and headlines often paired it with words like “legacy,” “dynasty,” or “empire.” But beneath all that glitter and glory, I had made a quiet vow to myself.

I was the only child—the youngest in a long line of overachievers, entrepreneurs, and empire builders. While my cousins mapped out paths already paved with gold, effortlessly launching ventures with the backing of our family’s name and fortune, I chose a different route. Not because I had to. But because I needed to.

It wasn’t rebellion. It was purpose.

I didn’t want my success to be credited to privilege. I wanted the struggle, the learning curve, the late nights staring at fabric swatches, and the thrill of seeing a design come alive from nothing. I wanted to prove—to the world and more importantly, to myself—that I was more than a Rathore. I was a designer. A creator. An artist. Every sketch I drew, every seam I stitched, was a quiet rebellion against the easy path I had turned down. My dream wasn’t just to make it in the fashion world—it was to earn my way into it, one honest design at a time.

The days blurred. Lectures, assignments, small campus moments where smiles and glances spoke louder than words. Then came Friday.

Golden light spilled through my curtains, warming the walls with soft oranges and pinks. Outside, the city’s pulse slowed—the distant laughter of children, the rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. I curled up on my bed with a paperback romance, the worn edges familiar and comforting.

The story swept me away—electric touches, stolen glances, impossible love. My pulse quickened. My cheeks flushed. I breathed in the scent of the paper and felt the story’s heat curl around me like a secret.

Time slipped away. Past six o’clock and still no desire to look up. The weekend had finally arrived, and for these few hours, I was lost in a world of passion and dreams.

Suddenly, the door swung open. Alice burst in, twirling like she owned the room. “Guess what? Our hostel has a weekend rule—no curfew! We can come and go as we please till Sunday night.”

Emily’s eyes lit up on the phone. “No way! That’s freedom.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Sounds too good to be true.”

“It’s real. Let’s celebrate—club night?” Jenna suggested, her smile daring.

I hesitated. Almost a month in New York and I hadn’t explored beyond the essentials—a clinic, a corner store, my classes. Maybe it was time.

An hour later, I stood before the mirror, adjusting the bold red bodycon dress I had bought on impulse. The sweetheart neckline and ruched detailing hugged my curves, while the long puffed sleeves added a touch of elegance. The fabric whispered against my skin—smooth, cool. My heart thudded with a mix of excitement and nerves.

The club was everything New York promised—opulence dripping from crystal chandeliers, neon-lit marble floors reflecting the vibrant energy. The bass thumped deep in my chest, syncing with my quickening heartbeat.

Cocktail glasses clinked, laughter buzzed like electricity in the air. The smell of expensive perfume mingled with the sharp tang of spirits. Velvet lounges glowed under golden lights, while the DJ’s beats wove an irresistible spell.

I let the music take over, moving instinctively, losing myself in the rhythm. The world melted away—only the pulse of the bass and the warmth of the alcohol flowing through me mattered. Each shot burned, dulling worries and loosening fears.

An hour or more later, I realized I was alone. The crowd had swallowed my friends. Panic fluttered, blurred by the haze in my mind.

I pulled out my phone, dialing Emily again. The scene around me twisted—couples entwined in dark corners, the sharp scent of spilled drinks, a few stumbling, one retching nearby.

A sudden touch brushed against me—a hand, bold and unwelcome.

“Want to sleep with me?” The voice was low, casual, dangerous.

I tried to step away but my limbs felt heavy, unsteady. Before I could react, strong arms wrapped around my waist.

The world tilted.

How’s the first chapter?

Thoughts on Prisha Rathore?

Please vote, comment, and share!