I hate my body right now. “Ishika.” I glance back. His expression is different now. Less playful. More…something I refuse to name. “Thank you.”
Simple words. Spoken gently enough to undo me. I tug my hand free before I start making poor life choices. “It’s a tie,” I mutter.
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s you.”
I should run. Instead I roll my eyes because survival instinct has left the building. “Say one more dramatic thing and I’m strangling you with it.”
He beams instantly. “There she is.” I hate how relieved I feel when the teasing returns. He offers me his arm again. This time I don’t hesitate as long. I place my hand there, trying very hard not to notice the strength beneath the fabric.
We walk toward the elevator in silence. But it isn’t empty silence. It’s full. Too full. And when the elevator doors close, trapping us inside the mirrored box, I catch our reflection side by side. He looks unfairly handsome.
I look like someone softer than I know how to be.
And together—We look dangerous.
But all I can focus on is the way he makes everything feel lighter. The way he looks at me like I’m more than the worst things that happened to me. The way my walls keep opening doors when he knocks. I need distance from this man. I need boundaries. I need sense.
Instead, I’m wearing a green dress because it reminded me of his eyes.
CHAPTER 32
ARYAN
The moment we step out of the car, I know bringing Ishika was either my smartest decision or the beginning of my downfall. Maybe both. The venue is one of those five-star hotel ballrooms designed to make rich people feel richer. Glass doors, polished marble, chandeliers hanging like they personally know electricity, staff moving around with the kind of smooth efficiency money can buy.
Normally, places like this barely register for me. Tonight, I notice none of it. Because Ishika’s hand is looped around my arm. Lightly. Not clinging. Not hesitant either. Just resting there like it belongs.
Her fingers press through the fabric of my suit every few seconds when we walk, and each tiny shift of her hand sends awareness up my spine like I’m some touch-starved fool. Which, judging by my current condition, I might be. “Relax,” she murmurs without looking at me.
“I am relaxed.”
“You’ve been clenching your jaw since we entered.”
“I do that naturally.” She glances up.
No one should be able to look amused and devastating in emerald green at the same time. “Your lying ability scares me.” I smile despite myself. The hall doors open. And then every male eye in a ten-foot radius commits a crime. I feel it immediately. That subtle shift when people look too long. The double takes. The scanning glances. Men pretending to be casual while staring at the woman on my arm like they’ve never seen one before.
I hate it. Not because Ishika can’t handle herself. She can probably destroy half this room emotionally and the other half physically. Hell, I would be hooting loudly if she decides to do that. It’s not about control. It never is with her. I don’t want to restrict her. Don’t want to tell her what to wear, where to walk, who to talk to. Not that I have any rights on her anyways. But I just briefly want to gouge out six pairs of eyes with cocktail forks.Very different emotions. Her fingers tighten slightly on my arm.
I look down. Sheknows. Of course she knows.
“Try smiling instead of plotting murder,” she says under her breath.
“I am smiling.” I huff.
“You look constipated.”
I laugh immediately. We move deeper into the ballroom. Music hums softly in the background. Waiters weave through the crowd with trays. Business conversations bloom in stiff circles around us. I greet a few people automatically, shaking hands, nodding through introductions. Ishika gives polite smiles when required and terrifyingly blank ones when not. She is excellent at this. I knew she would be.
Still, seeing her hold herself with that cool confidence does something dangerous to me. Like pride. Like wanting everyone here to know she came with me. Which is ridiculous.
When I finally notice Siddhant near the bar, already laughing too loudly at something, and beside him Rudraksh standing with his usual expression of permanent irritation, my lips curl up in a smile. Shivani bhabhi is next to him, elegant and calm, which remains one of the world’s great mysteries. How someone so sweet, so kind, agreed to marry him.
“Finally,” I mutter. “My people.”
“Those men look like they cause headlines,” Ishika says.
“They do.” We head toward them.
