“I was medically expressive.”
Shivani bhabhi laughs. Rudraksh mutters, “You screamed.”
I turn to Ishika. “They’re jealous of my athletic past.”
She lifts one brow. “I believe them.”
Betrayal.
Absolute betrayal.
Then she joins in laughing with them, shoulders looser now, posture easier. It hits me suddenly that this matters more than the event itself. She’s comfortable. Maybe not fully. But enough to laugh in a circle of strangers. Enough to tease me in public. Enough to stay.
I didn’t realize how badly I wanted that until now. A waiter passes and I take a fresh drink for her before she asks. She notices. “You remembered.”
“You think I’d forget what you like?” Her eyes flick to mine.
“No,” she mutters quietly. The single word lands heavier than it should. Before I can recover, someone from the board catches my shoulder and starts discussing expansion numbers.
I answer automatically while half listening. Because Ishika is beside Shivani bhabhi now, talking softly. Because she’s smiling at something Gauri said. Because I am deeply distracted and increasingly doomed. Ten minutes later she leans closer to me.
“I’m going to the restroom.” I nod immediately.
“Second corridor left,” Bhabhi says helpfully. Ishika thanks her and slips away. The second her hand leaves my arm, I feel it. The room changes. Too many eyes again. Too much space between us. I watch three men track her path before pretending not to.
My jaw tightens. I try to continue listening to the man discussing quarterly forecasts. I last seven seconds. “Excuse me,” I say abruptly. Siddhant snorts before I’ve even moved.
Rudraksh doesn’t look up from his drink. “Hopeless.”
Bhabhi smiles into her glass. Gauri chuckles, “Go, lover boy.”
“I’m not—”
They all stare. I stop talking. Then walk away. Fast. Because yes, maybe I regret letting her go alone. Maybe I know she can manage perfectly well. Maybe I also know the world asks women to manage too much already.
And maybe—If I’m honest—I just hate being farther than necessary from her.
CHAPTER 33
ISHIKA
I don’t know how to feel about any of this.
The thought follows me out of the ballroom like a shadow. My heels click against polished marble as I walk down the corridor, each sharp sound too loud in the hush outside. Behind me, music still rings through closed doors—laughter, clinking glasses, voices wrapped in expensive ease.
Inside, the room glowed. Outside, I can finally breathe. Or at least I try to. My chest feels too tight for something as simple as air. Everything with Aryan feels wrong in the most dangerous way. Too sudden. Too warm. Too easy to want. And warmth has never arrived in my life without eventually burning me.
I have seen him with people who know him now. Not the polished version he shows strangers. Not the flirting, arrogant man who barged into my office and decided boundaries were optional.
I’ve seen the real one. How he is with his family—how his siblings insulted him with affection, laughed with each other that came easily; history woven through every glance. The kind of home that exists in noise and teasing and knowing exactly how someone takes their tea.
And tonight I watched him with his friends. Men who mocked him shamelessly, stole food off his plate, rolled their eyes when he spoke too much—and still watched him with the kind of loyalty money cannot buy.
People stay where they feel safe. People remain where they are loved. That unsettles me more than anything he has ever said.
Because I do feel safe with me. I feel too much when I am around that man. Most importantly, I feel like I want to…stay.
I never speak about my parents. I give facts if I’m cornered. Dead on paper. End of discussion.
