𝘼𝙣𝙣𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙖'𝙨 𝙋𝙊𝙑
At 21, fresh out of graduation, I decided to pursue an MBA for my master's degree. With that goal in mind, I chose a business major—despite my parents' skepticism. Still, I figured it could be useful for me and my company later on.
Now you're probably wondering, what company?
Let me explain.
To the few who know me personally, I’m Anusha Sharma. But to the world? I’m GRACE—the nation’s secret idol, the mysterious girl behind the voice, and the boss lady of RISE Entertainment.
Now that I’ve picked this course of my own accord, I’ve got no one to blame for my misfortunes. What misfortune, you ask? Well—
Ouch. A piece of chalk whizzed past my face.
"Who’s the genius throwing chalk now?" I grumbled, glancing toward the front—only to freeze. Oh no. The professor.
"Exactly, Miss Sharma," he said dryly. "I must be the fool here—for putting up with your nonsense all this time."
He glared at me with that soul-crushing deadpan. "If you’re not interested in studying, do us all a favor and leave. Stop disturbing the class."
"Fine by me," I shot back, slinging my bag over my shoulder with an exaggerated shrug. "Better than staring at your grumpy face every day." i muttered.
"I don't tolerate disrespect, Miss Sharma." His voice dropped an octave, sharp as a blade. "Go stand outside. That’s your punishment—for your cheek and your consistent lack of discipline. And after class, report to the principal’s office." how does he even hear me from that distance.
i looked around the class no one's intrested . of course it's me the nerd, the useless nerd they don't care about.
"Cool," I muttered lowly and walked out, my face unreadable but my thoughts a firestorm.
This is what I meant by misfortune. The devil inside that room is Professor Sekhawat—our economics professor and the single most infuriating presence in my academic life. He’s made it his personal mission to humiliate me at every turn. Failed tests, impossible assignments, constant nagging—he’s relentless. i don't even understand why he hates me.
And yes, you could argue I’m partly at fault i sometimes don't do the assigned work and sometimes doze off in class too . But I barely sleep. College by day, Grace at night.
Songs, choreography, rehearsals, meetings, brand deals. It’s a miracle I’m even vertical some days.
But how could he understand that? No one knows the truth—except my best friend, and a few trusted team members at RISE.
Still, I can’t stand him. I seriously can’t. The man could just be breathing and it would feel like an insult. Why do I hate him so much? Do I really need a list?
Standing outside, I crossed my arms, letting out a long sigh as the wind played with the edges of my dupatta. My reflection in the glass pane beside the door caught my eye, and for a moment, I just looked at myself.
The real me.
Nerdy round glasses, always smudged. A plain kurta paired with jeans—muted colors, nothing flashy. My hair pulled into a loose braid with soft bangs just brushing my forehead. Braces still clinging to my teeth, the kind that make you rethink every photo. A bit desi, always simple, almost invisible.
I dressed this way on purpose.
To blend in.
To not be noticed.
Because if people saw me—really saw me—they might recognize Grace.
Just then, the bell rang. "Here comes the disaster."
I headed to the principal’s office, where Professor Grinch was already mid-rant. I stood silently with my head bowed, half-listening as he criticized my “lethargy,” “inattentiveness,” and “reckless sarcasm.” The principal glanced at me with concern but said nothing. He had to keep up appearances.
Why the sympathy, you ask?
Because he's my best friend’s dad.
And he knows.
Eventually, he cut off Professor Doom mid-rage and addressed me, face unreadable.
"Anusha, we don’t tolerate this kind of behavior here. One more complaint, and I’ll have no choice but to consider a red card."
"But sir, I—"
"No buts. Do you understand?"
I looked at him, confused by his harshness—until I noticed the professor glaring daggers and the principal... subtly wink at me.
Ah.
"Yes, Dean. I understand. I’ll be more careful from now on," I said, slipping into the obedient-student act like a pro.
“Good,” he replied, dismissing us.
As I stepped out, I muttered, "Is khadoos ki toh mai ek din maar maar ke cat food bana ke billion me bech dungi."
"I heard that, Miss Sharma. I can hear you."
"Good. I said it for you to hear," I replied, utterly unbothered.
He stared at me, baffled. "How are you so casual, while I take everything so seriously?"
"What do you get out of it? Kya mila? Are there prizes for taking life so seriously?" I tossed the words over my shoulder and walked away, heading back to class to grab my bag.
I had to rush home, change, and get to the studio.
And now, thanks to that overgrown hall monitor, I had to start doing assignments, too.
Ugh. I just can't stand him.
ᕙ( • ‿ • )ᕗ
𝐕𝐨𝐭𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞!
Sorry for the short chapter! The upcoming ones will definitely be longer and deeper—this is just the beginning.
Thanks for reading!
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