🖤 To Love You Was Not a Sin

This isn't just a story. It's a confession

This isn’t a love story.

It’s a storm.

And every look, every silence, every kiss not on the lips but close enough to hurt...

is the thunder before the fall.

❁ Chapter Six: The Old Photograph

Morning in the Suthamchai mansion was never quiet—not truly. Not with the clink of fine china, the murmur of house staff, and the constant hum of generational tension thick in the walls. But on this particular morning, a silence hung in the drawing room that felt less like peace and more like the pause before thunder.

Mihir was sprawled on the old velvet divan, legs hanging off one armrest, flipping through a worn photo album he’d found tucked behind a bookshelf. His brows furrowed as he turned a page, lips parting slightly.

There it was.

A photograph—sepia-toned, faded at the corners. Two young men in their twenties. One was Krit, impossibly beautiful in the way that hurt to look at. The other had dark eyes and a crooked smile, his arm casually draped around Krit’s shoulders.

They looked... in love.

Before Mihir could trace the picture’s edges again, a deep voice came from behind him.

“You shouldn’t be going through that.”

He didn’t jump. “I was hoping you’d find me.”

Krit stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his face as unreadable as ever. But his eyes? They flicked to the photo and stayed there.

“Who was he?” Mihir asked softly.

Krit didn’t answer.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” Mihir added, setting the album down, rising to stand in front of him. “Not with me.”

Krit’s jaw clenched. “You think you know everything, but this—this was another life.”

“No,” Mihir said, stepping closer, “this is the same life. You’re just not living it.”

And then—boldly, unflinchingly—he reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair away from Krit’s forehead. His fingers lingered just long enough to make Krit freeze.

“What are you doing?” Krit murmured, voice hoarse.

Mihir leaned in. “Breaking rules.”

And he kissed him—not on the lips, but on the cheek, right near the corner of Krit’s mouth. Not subtle. Not chaste.

A kiss that lingered.

Krit didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Not until Mihir pulled back, his breath warm against his skin.

“Mihir—”

“Don’t worry,” Mihir whispered. “We’ll both pretend it didn’t happen. For now.”

And then he was gone, just like the monsoon wind that always came before the storm.

Down the hall, Meera stood by the staircase, half in shadow. She’d seen enough.

Her fingers tightened around her teacup, lips pursed in that particular way only mothers knew.

That evening.

A dinner guest arrived.

He was elegant, mid-forties, dressed in a sharp cream linen suit that made him look like he’d stepped out of a European film. He spoke Bengali with perfect fluency and Thai like it was a lullaby.

“Sawadee krap, Krit,” he greeted, eyes dancing.

Mihir, standing beside Meera, caught the flicker of fear across Krit’s face.

“Who’s that?” he asked softly.

Meera’s answer was immediate. “His name is Thanin. An old friend. Very old.”

Krit didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Thanin smiled at him like a ghost who knew all the secrets buried in the garden.

And Mihir? He wasn’t smiling anymore.

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

❁ Chapter Seven: The Ghost and the Boy

The storm that had been teasing the skies all week finally broke that night.

Rain lashed against the arched windows of the dining hall in sharp gusts, the thunder crashing just as Thanin reached for the wine glass, his fingers brushing too close to Krit’s.

Everyone noticed—except, perhaps, Krit himself, who stared at his plate like it held answers to long-buried questions.

Mihir noticed.

So did Meera, whose silence at the end of the table was louder than the thunder outside.

"So," Thanin said, swirling the wine lazily, "I heard you’ve grown the business beyond Bangkok. Congratulations, Kritchai." His voice dripped familiarity.

Only Kartik’s glance toward Mihir cut through the tension, warning.

Mihir’s fork clinked just a little too loudly on his plate. “You two seem... close.”

Thanin smiled without blinking. “We were.”

Krit said nothing.

Mihir, ignoring every social rule ever created, leaned forward. “So why aren’t you now?”

The room quieted.

“Mihir,” Meera said sharply. But Mihir wasn’t listening.

Thanin’s smile didn’t fade. “Life happened. And a very strict father. You know how it is in elite families. Appearances first. Love last.”

Meera’s grip on her wineglass was tight. Kartik stared down at his food.

Mihir, eyes never leaving Krit, spoke softly. “But you’re here now.”

Thanin turned to him. “Yes. And I’m not leaving this time.”

Later that night, Mihir found Krit in the old library, staring out at the rain like it was whispering old sins through the glass.

“Did you invite him?” Mihir asked, voice low.

“No.”

“But you’re not mad he’s here.”

Krit turned to him. His eyes were shadowed, lips pressed tight.

“It’s complicated.”

Mihir stepped forward, anger bubbling just beneath his golden-boy smile.

“You loved him.”

“Yes.”

“Did he break your heart?”

“No,” Krit said, voice steady. “My father did.”

Mihir flinched, but not away. “And you still want him?”

Krit looked at him for a long time. “I don’t know what I want.”

Mihir laughed, bitter. “You say that, but you let him touch you. You let him look at you like you still belong to him.”

Krit stepped closer, face hard. “And what do you think you’re doing, Mihir? Flirting every day, kissing me in the garden like it’s a joke—”

“It’s not a joke!” Mihir snapped. His voice cracked. “It’s the only real thing I’ve felt in years.”

Silence.

Then, softly—Mihir’s voice trembled:

“I don’t care that you’re older. I don’t care that you’re my step-uncle. I care that you don’t see me the way I see you.”

Krit’s breath hitched.

Mihir stepped closer—chest brushing against Krit’s. “Tell me right now, and I’ll stop. If you say there’s nothing here, I’ll never touch you again.”

Krit didn’t speak.

Mihir’s hand lifted—fingertips tracing lightly along Krit’s jaw.

“You don’t say anything,” Mihir whispered. “But you look at me like you’re drowning.”

Krit grabbed his wrist. “Stop.”

Mihir smiled—painful and sweet. “Then stop wanting me.”

And just like that, he was gone again—leaving Krit alone with the storm and the ache in his chest.

Meanwhile, in the guest room across the hall, Thanin stood at the window, watching the rain.

He had seen that look before. On Krit, many years ago.

And he knew this time, he wasn’t the one Krit wanted.

But he wasn’t going down quietly.

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

❁ Chapter Eight: Rumors and Revolutions

By the time the morning sun broke through the storm clouds, the Suthamchai estate was buzzing with hushed voices and sidelong glances.

It had begun.

It started with the house help—subtle exchanges in the hallway, conversations that paused when Krit entered the room. Then it slipped into the family grapevine, the way it always did: soft-spoken aunties at brunch, cousins pretending not to notice, Kaushik’s gaze lingering just a second too long on Mihir whenever he laughed.

Somewhere along the line, someone had seen the kiss in the garden.

Elsewhere, chaos arrived in heels.

Kamya Banerjee entered the mansion in a blur of scent, sass, and oversized sunglasses. She tossed her luggage at the butler like a diva walking onto a movie set and blew a kiss toward Mihir, who was lounging on the staircase like a sulky prince.

“Did you miss me, love of my life?”

Mihir perked up immediately. “I thought you were stuck in Dubai?”

“I escaped the influencer desert and flew home the moment I heard the gossip was chef’s kiss.” She took off her shades and scanned his face. “You look tired. Or post-heartbreak. Same thing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.” She grabbed his chin. “And you smell like longing. Also—is that Krit’s cologne?”

He groaned. “You haven’t changed.”

“I never will. Now spill. Is the uncle still emotionally unavailable and hot?”

“More than ever.”

“Perfect.” Kamya grinned. “Let’s destroy him.”

Later that afternoon, in the sunroom...

Krit sat stiffly, eyes on a business report he wasn’t reading. Thanin had joined him again, lounging on the chaise like a memory that refused to stay buried.

“You were always so serious,” Thanin said, sipping his tea. “You know... I never stopped loving you.”

Krit didn’t look up. “You left.”

“I had no choice.”

Krit’s voice was quiet, but deadly. “You didn’t fight for me.”

Thanin placed his cup down. “What are you fighting for now? A boy half your age? A forbidden secret in your own home?”

That landed.

Before Krit could respond, Kamya waltzed in like she owned the place.

“Hi, strangers. I was looking for Mihir, but oops—I stumbled into your tragic little Thai drama.”

Thanin stood, polite but cool. “You must be the best friend.”

“I must,” Kamya said, all teeth. “And you must be the emotional roadkill we don’t talk about anymore.”

Krit blinked.

Kamya smiled at him sweetly. “You’re welcome.”

That evening, whispers reached Kaushik Suthamchai.

Krit’s father sat in his study, stone-faced as the family lawyer whispered something in his ear.

His hand clenched around the pen.

“Mihir Kapoor. That boy has no place in this family’s future.”

Meanwhile, in Mihir’s room...

He paced.

Kamya sat cross-legged on his bed, scrolling through her phone. “I did some recon.”

“Oh god.”

“Krit’s ex is a snake in silk. He’s been talking to the press.”

Mihir froze. “What?”

“Nothing concrete yet, but if anyone finds out... this,” she gestured between Mihir and the mansion, “is going to explode.”

He sat down beside her, head in his hands. “I kissed him, Kamya. And I want to do it again.”

She was quiet for a beat.

“Then stop waiting for permission,” she said, gently. “And make him choose you.”

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

❁ Chapter Nine: The Ultimatum

Krit had always believed he could manage control the same way one tamed a bonsai—cutting the roots before they grew wild, shaping what should bloom, and discarding what didn't. But Mihir... Mihir was chaos incarnate. A living monsoon.

And now, that monsoon had teeth.

The confrontation came just after dusk.

The house had quieted, the help tucked away, the corridors dim. Krit was in his study, back turned to the door, sipping black coffee and pretending it didn’t taste like guilt.

He heard the door open but didn’t look up.

“If this is about Thanin—”

“It’s not.”

Mihir’s voice was low. Controlled. Too controlled.

Krit finally turned. Mihir stood there in a black kurta that clung a little too well, curls damp, a cut above his brow from earlier training. He looked like sin and sincerity in equal measure.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Mihir said. “Ever since the garden. Ever since I touched you.”

“I had work.”

Mihir stepped forward. “You had fear.”

Krit’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand what’s at stake.”

“I do,” Mihir snapped. “I’m not stupid. I know what people are saying. I know what your father thinks of me. What Thanin is trying to do. I know exactly where I stand.”

Krit’s voice was sharp. “Then stop making this harder.”

“No,” Mihir said simply. “I’m done waiting. Choose.”

Silence crackled like dry leaves.

Mihir walked right up to him—too close. Again.

“I’m not asking you to hold my hand at the dinner table. I’m not asking you to parade me around like a prize. I’m just asking you to stop pretending that this—us—isn’t real.”

Krit looked at him. And for once, he looked tired.

“Tum mujhe barbaad kar doge.”

(You’ll ruin me.)

Mihir laughed, bitter. “No. You’re ruining yourself.”

And then he reached up, brushed Krit’s cheek again—like in the garden—but this time, lower, fingertips resting against his collarbone.

“I kissed you once,” Mihir whispered. “And you let me. You didn’t say no. You haven’t said no once.”

Krit closed his eyes. “Because if I say yes, I’ll never be able to stop.”

Mihir leaned in—forehead to forehead. “Then don’t.”

A knock shattered the moment.

Kamya burst in, heels clicking. “Sorry to ruin the sexual tension, but we have a problem.”

Krit stepped back immediately. Mihir looked at her, heart still thudding.

“What happened?”

She waved her phone. “Thanin just made a call. To a gossip blog. They’re running something tonight. He’s planting a story about Mihir being ‘inappropriately involved’ with a family elder.”

Krit’s blood ran cold. “He wouldn’t.”

“He just did. And guess who leaked a photo from that stupid garden security camera?”

Mihir cursed under his breath.

Kamya crossed her arms. “If you don’t get ahead of this, your father will find out. And he’ll make damn sure Mihir is erased from this family.”

Across the hall, Kaushik Suthamchai sat in his reading chair.

A tablet in hand. A paused headline on the screen.

"Scandal in Kolkata Elite: Step-Nephew and Heir Apparent?"

His face was stone.

He picked up the phone.

“Call Krit to my study. Now.”

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

❁ Chapter Ten: House of Glass

The tension in the Suthamchai study was suffocating.

The room—rich with mahogany bookshelves, ancient oil paintings, and the heavy silence of patriarchal authority—had witnessed decades of family decisions. Marriages arranged. Businesses built. Wills rewritten.

Tonight, it would witness something far less elegant.

Kaushik Suthamchai stood behind his desk like a monarch, the tablet placed neatly in front of him as if it were evidence in a courtroom. His fingers were laced together. His eyes, cold and unreadable, landed on Krit like crosshairs.

Krit stood tall, but the edge of his jaw twitched. A barely-there tremor that only someone who knew him would catch.

Like Mihir—standing just outside the door, straining to listen. Kamya beside him, eyes narrowed, ready to throw metaphorical knives.

Kaushik finally spoke.

“I gave you freedom, Kritchai. I let you handle the business. I let you stay unmarried. I tolerated your—what did they call it?—‘eccentricities.’ But this?”

He pushed the tablet across the desk.

Krit didn’t need to read it. He’d already seen the headline.

Kaushik's voice dropped. “A boy, Krit. Your step-nephew. What will people think? What does this say about our family? About you?”

“It says I’m in love,” Krit said, steady.

Silence. Then—

SLAP.

Kaushik’s hand cracked across Krit’s cheek.

Outside the door, Kamya gasped. Mihir’s fists clenched.

“You are selfish,” Kaushik hissed. “You will not destroy everything I built for the sake of your... your filthy desires.”

Krit didn’t flinch. He tasted blood and shame, but he didn’t step back.

“You did that yourself the day you tore Thanin and me apart,” he said quietly. “You’ve spent your whole life building this house of lies and glass, and now you're shocked it's shattering?”

Kaushik pointed a trembling finger. “You will end this. Now. You will send that boy away. You will marry—publicly. I’ve already contacted the Roy family again.”

“That’s enough,” came Mihir’s voice, suddenly sharp and unrecognizably angry.

He strode into the room, ignoring Kamya’s hissed “No!”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not real,” Mihir said, stepping between Krit and Kaushik.

Kaushik stared at him like he was dirt. “You don’t belong in this family.”

Mihir smiled—calm, cutting. “No. I belong with him. Which clearly terrifies you.”

Kaushik laughed—dark, cold. “You’re a child. You think this is love? This is a scandal. This is disgusting.”

“And you,” Mihir said, stepping closer, “are a coward.”

Krit’s eyes widened. “Mihir—”

“No. I’m not hiding anymore. And I won’t let him hide either.”

He turned to Krit. “You told me I’d ruin you. But it turns out... you’ve been ruining yourself for years.”

Krit looked at him—eyes raw, defenses crumbling.

“You want to choose silence again?” Mihir whispered. “Go ahead. I won’t stop you. But I’m done fighting alone.”

And then he walked out.

This time… he didn’t look back.

Outside, rain began to fall again.

Kamya followed Mihir out, heels clicking like punctuation. “Do you want to cry or drink?”

Mihir didn't answer.

So she added, gently, “Then let’s do both.”

Back inside, Krit sat alone.

Kaushik had left, satisfied with silence.

Krit touched the side of his face, where the sting still lingered.

And whispered, brokenly, in Thai—

“Chan sia chai nai tua eng.”

(I am ashamed of myself.)

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

❁ Chapter Eleven: Ashes

The next morning, the sun rose on the Suthamchai estate like it didn’t know what had happened the night before.

Like the walls weren’t still vibrating with silence.

Like Krit’s cheek didn’t still sting from his father’s slap.

Like Mihir’s room wasn’t already half empty.

He’d started packing before the sun came up.

Not because he wanted to leave.

But because he had to.

Kamya sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, watching him fold his clothes with uncharacteristic precision.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said, softly. “You know he—”

“He’s not ready,” Mihir interrupted.

“You could give him time.”

Mihir smiled—tight, fragile. “Time doesn’t fix people who’ve chosen fear.”

Kamya stood, walked to him, and hugged him without a word.

Krit found him by accident.

He turned the corner near the private garden wing and froze at the sight: Mihir, suitcase in one hand, Kamya’s sunglasses on his head, laughing softly at something she whispered.

His heart stopped.

“Mihir.”

Mihir turned. The smile vanished.

Krit looked at the suitcase, then at him. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Mihir said simply.

Krit stepped forward. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes,” Mihir said, calm now. “I do.”

Krit swallowed. “Please. Let’s talk.”

Mihir tilted his head. “What’s left to say? That you’re sorry? That you want me but you can’t because your father threatened your inheritance, your legacy, your reputation?”

He smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s okay, Krit. I’m giving you the easy way out.”

Krit’s hands trembled. “Don’t—”

“I’m removing myself from the story,” Mihir said, stepping forward until they were toe-to-toe. “You can marry the nice businesswoman. Restore the name. Make everyone happy.”

He reached up and fixed the collar of Krit’s kurta—gentle, almost tender.

“This way,” Mihir said softly, “you don’t have to choose.”

Krit’s breath caught.

Mihir leaned in and kissed him again—not on the lips, not even the cheek. Just the corner of his shoulder. A goodbye.

“You’re free now,” he whispered.

And then he turned, suitcase rolling behind him. Kamya followed, silent and fierce like a shadow.

Krit didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t chase.

Not yet.

But the echo of that kiss stayed on his skin like a scar.

Later that day, Meera entered the empty room and found only a note on the bed.

It read:

“I’m not leaving because I stopped loving him.

I’m leaving because he still doesn’t know how to love me back.”

She folded the note gently.

And cried.

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

🖊️ Author’s Note

These chapters are the break.

The glass shatters. The truth slips through the cracks.

This is where love stops being longing—and becomes choice.

Are you with me for the fall?

— Nox Veil

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

💬 Leave a Whisper...

Was it the slap?

The shoulder kiss?

The suitcase moment?

Tell me what wrecked you. Or just leave a 🖤 if you can’t speak.

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

📅 Coming Soon:

✨ Chapter Twelve: The Man He Chose to Be

✨ Chapter Thirteen: The Ghosts You Don’t Chase Anymore

✨ Chapter Fourteen: Reunion

✨ Chapter Fifteen: Touchpoints

✨ Chapter Sixteen: Lines and Lapses

✨ Chapter Seventeen: The Reckoning

The storm isn’t over.

But the sky is changing.

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

💬 Follow me where the shadows linger:

Let’s stay veiled together.

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