That’s what he told himself as he carefully slid one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back, lifting her against his chest.
She stirred, nestling instinctively against him. Even unconscious, even after their argument, her body recognized his. Trusted him.
Something in his chest clenched painfully.
He carried her to the bed, intending to set her down quickly. But when he lowered her to the mattress, her hand fisted in his shirt, holding him there.
“You’re home?” she murmured, not quite awake.
“I’m home,” he said quietly. “Go back to sleep.”
“Waited for you,” she mumbled, eyes still closed. “Wanted to make sure...”
She drifted off mid-sentence, her grip on his shirt loosening.
He should leave. Should step back. Should put distance between them before he did something stupid like confess feelings she clearly didn’t want.
Instead, he allowed himself one moment. One small indulgence.
His thumb brushed across her lower lip, soft, perfect, utterly devastating. He wanted to kiss her. Wanted it so badly his hands shook with the effort of restraint.
But she’d been clear. Two years. Then freedom.
He forced himself to step back.
The movement brought his attention to her desk, to the notes she’d been working on. Her thesis research. He moved closer, intending just to mark her place.
That’s when he saw the notebook.
Small. Blue leather. Tucked partially beneath her thesis notes like she’d been reading it before falling asleep.
He shouldn’t look. He knew he shouldn’t.
He looked anyway.
The final page was dated yesterday.
“Today at the industry party, Ayaansh Malhotra touched my arm. Vikram saw it from across the room. Six strides. No smile. ‘Back off.’ His hand stayed at my back for the rest of the night.”
He flipped back. An older entry. The handwriting was younger, less certain.
“Watched Vikram Khanna’s interview on Film Companion today. Sixteen years old and I’m crying over how beautifully he talks about his craft. This is pathetic. I’m pathetic. But God, what I wouldn’t give to meet someone who sees the world the way he does.”
Vikram’s breath caught.
Sixteen. She’d been sixteen when she’d first seen him, first felt something for him.
Then there was an entry, dated two days ago:
“I think I’m in love with him. No, I know I am. Have been for longer than I want to admit. But he married me out of obligation. Out of protecting his reputation and mine. And in two years, when this arrangement ends, I’ll have to watch him move on to someone who actually fits in his world. Someone beautiful and polished and worthy of him.
I’m not sure how I’ll survive it. But maybe it’s better to have these two years than nothing at all. Better to pretend it's real, even knowing it's not. Even knowing he's just being kind.
God, I'm going to get my heart broken so badly."
His hands trembled.
He stood there, staring at the notebook like it might transform into something else if he looked long enough.
