"Let me drop you." 

...

I NOD—NO eye contact, no polite excuses, nothing. We walk side by side as he opens the door for me and closes it behind us. Then, without a word, we step out of the building together.

The cool evening air kisses my face and dances with my hair; I look straight to my car as soon as we step outside, and my car waits just ahead. Surprisingly, Tapish Adyanthaya follows me all the way to my car and stops to open the door for me—like a perfect gentleman. 

And I don't think much of it; where I grew up, men did that all the time. Still, just as I'm about to step inside the car, I pause halfway, my chest tightening, my thoughts on the verge of bursting out. Because not saying the truth feels exactly like hiding a lie. I look at the empty road, then turn to him, steady and almost defiant, and ask, "Can I ask you something?"

I shift slightly toward him but haven't made eye contact. I shift a little toward him, close enough to feel the air change—not just the surroundings. A light wind brushes past us, lifting a few strands of my hair across my face. I tuck them back with one hand, sliding it from the side of my neck down to my shoulder—slow, nervous, and unintentional.

I haven't looked at him directly, but I see his hand react—a small, silent flex as the movement betrayed him before he could stop it. It prickles at my skin, knowing he noticed... knowing he's watching without watching.

My eyes meet his for the briefest moment before I drop them to the tattoo on his hand, which soon relaxes on the door rail. I still hate tattoos, but somehow I'm tracing the inked lines just to avoid meeting his gaze while my insecurity pushes against my ribs.

I swallow, my voice broken but trying to sound normal.

"How much did my painting cost you?"

His hand holds the door from the side, but he shifts to face me, and I do the same, like he is ready to stop me if I want to be. 

He nods, and I can tell he's intrigued. "How much do my paintings cost you?"

He pauses for a moment as if taken aback by my question. His eyes flash with an odd mixture of fascination and pride; the brown orbs enlarge slightly, and a tiny smile pulls at the corners of his lips.

A faint chill had touched his cheeks, and the breeze played with our hair, softening his face—something I didn't see the first time I met him, or maybe he just never let me.

"Hmm, 75 lakh each!"

Holy hell, no way.

I raise my eyebrows, my mouth forming a small 'O,' and then I close my eyes, trying to process the price he just mentioned. 75 lakhs for each painting? It's an astronomical amount, far beyond what I had anticipated. I turn my eyes from the painting to him; I see his expression softening. I take a deep breath and shake my head.

I'm embarrassed to admit, "Wrong, they're only worth ₹10,000."

"What?" he asks in surprise, looking at me with disbelief, his eyebrows furrowing. "Are you serious?" he asks, clearly taken aback by my statement.

I turn around. Now going to ignore his expression totally and am about to sit inside the car.

"Miss Sahej," he says in a soft voice. I stop in my tracks.

I don't know why, but his voice does something in my stomach, my back still facing him.

"I've seen many paintings, and in my house, I have paintings that are more expensive than the two that I've seen. I wouldn't have bought them if these paintings weren't worth it."

As soon as he finishes his sentence, I'm just standing there, looking at the darkness around us, with lines of streetlight doing wonders to the street, giving them character.

For the first time, I'm hearing a genuine review about my paintings, not the fake ones I usually get to hear from people trying to be polite. I feel a numbness in my throat as I struggle to find words to respond to his unexpected praise.

I'll tell you later about how I feel about the paintings I make, but right now, I'm just looking into his eyes. I can see honesty in them, and I don't know what happened. I'm speechless. I stick my tongue out slightly, lick my lips, and look down for a moment.

Then, I gently raise my head and attempt to look at him, and he looks me in the eye. We're simply looking into one another's eyes. And then I come back to my senses and give an awkward nod. I turn around, unlock the door, and start leaving this dodgy freaking premise. Feeling overwhelmed because of his comment and the fact that this place is so shady, I just wish I had never come here.

I felt scared. Conscious. Alert. Vulnerable. But I didn't feel uncomfortable with him, and the sensation I had was unexpected. My tummy churned with enticing sensations. The only thing I liked about him was his voice; there was a certain warmth in it.

As I twist the key in the ignition, a hand settles on the window frame.
The act is steady and so unannounced that it sends a small jolt through me.
His fingers grip the frame with a quiet intent that has nothing to do with the car.

Then he remarks, "Happy New Year, Sahej."

What... is that?
For a moment, barely a heartbeat, his voice drifts with the wind and slips into some hidden corner of me, touching strings I never even knew were there. Something inside stirs, so unexpected that my breath forgets its way in and out.

Is it because of that thick voice... or because, for the first time, I've heard my name curled under his tongue? And all he's said is Happy New Year. Just that. My eyelids almost flutter. It's a tiny instinctive surrender, but I catch it in time.
Whatever this feeling is, it doesn't belong to me, not for a man in ink.
I've barely met him. A stranger shouldn't affect me like this... at least not from the man whose tight blue shirt cages a lethal body and whose skin is carved in inked lines I've never liked. So I force it down, force myself to level.

"Happy New Year, Mr. Adyanthaya."

Quickly, I start the car and drive away. When I look into the rearview mirror, the adrenaline rushes through me as I see him still standing outside, watching my car vanish.

    ✦✦✦     

ＮＥＸＴ ＤＡＹ

Today is my dad's birthday. I always wanted to spend the day with him. I wanted to just cut the cake and have a cozy family gathering, as we used to when Mummy was alive.

Sadly, it never happened again after she left us—left this world. Forever.

My father is a busy man with his never-ending business deals and parties. I find those parties completely useless, boring, and fake.

And the fakeness costs millions.

In the middle of the celebration, when guests are busy over dinner, the night sometimes transforms into serious business transactions. A very weird concept of a birthday plus a business bash, where crazy amounts are frittered away under the guise of gifts, and financial details are cleverly hidden.

Tonight, my father is the host of all this glitzy deceit, and I find myself bound to go to this party. Again!

Here I am, inside the car. Again!

*

On 35th City Street. Again!

Those who live here are 0.1 percenters of the city who possess immense wealth. They don't do regular stuff; they make statements that scream wealth. My family is also one of them. They live here too and also have hotels and properties. I live in the Heritage District on the other side of the city.

Whenever I pass this neighborhood on my way home, I see residents walking slowly, clutching their designer bags. The rent is insane. Sports cars are common, and they roll out of their tall glass towers only to blend into the city until they pull into another overpriced store or hotel.

My rearview mirror now shows only a blurry view of the 35th city street. Just driving by it, my eyes hurt seeing the sidewalk that widens to the main entrance of the hotel as paparazzi beyond the hotel's gate aim their hungry lenses at every guest's car.

The flurry of flashes and cameras makes other pedestrians stop and get excited to see their celebrity cars entering.

To avoid these, I keep the car moving past the chaos, soon taking a turn and driving to the main road until I hit the back entrance a hundred yards out.

Under the starry night, the road is calm and green here. The businessmen's row of bungalows passes by. I listen to Adele's voice in the dark, vibing.

Soon, I reach the back entrance of the Gitanjali Hotel, where a black SUV with tinted windows glides past security without a scan.

I find it... Oddly interesting,

because my car rolls right behind it, and the guards don't check me either.

I thought only Luthras get those treatments.

So who is the person inside that SUV? My car follows the car, gliding up the long driveway.

We move under the heavy stone dome that supports its entry, passing the five massive pillars.

It's quite a transition into another world. Exactly how my dad wanted every guest to feel. The dome itself looks like the crown of a fortress.

My Ferrari is closely following behind the SUV. I just got distracted from the road as the hotel view rises in front of us, a vision of glass coated with gold and pale stone shining under the lights.

It doesn't need a name. It is the skyline.

This address isn't for people who want luxury. It's for people who already have too much of it.

My father built this hotel so audaciously that the entire city is forced to look at his success.

Every pane of glass on that building and every single letter of my mom's name, Gitanjali, on top of the building that gleams under the dark sky, proclaims only one thing: you're disgustingly fucking rich enough to be here.

This was his dream possession.

Don't confuse this man-made structure in my mom's name with his love. Because, from what I have learned, I believe he never loved her at all.

My car comes to a stop in my private spot right next to the entrance.

I step out, grabbing the slit of my dress with one hand.

The cold slightly slaps against my exposed leg, but the rest of my body is warm thanks to my coat.

As I turn and see a guy sliding out of that same SUV and walking straight into the Skyline building, with men following him. I can't see his face, but his men seem familiar.

On the stairs leading to the entrance, men in fine black suits featuring the hotel's logo in dark silver stand at their mapped spot, their eyes profiling everything.

You have to earn your steps in this place, and I? I've earned mine simply by being the daughter.

  * 

I ride the elevator up to the nineteenth floor while drafting a caption for my Insta post. The silence I had enjoyed is now gone as I step out of the elevator.

I walk through the lobby; here on every floor we have staff for everything. At the help desk, one of the two women politely directs me to a large welcome board in the corner with the words "Happy Birthday," making me stop at the banquet hall entrance.

I start by clicking the picture of the board, as it's aesthetically beautiful.

The caption I wrote for my painting back in the elevator—I've uploaded it while stepping into the banquet hall.

I look up from my phone screen.

A luxurious, carpet-snug floor before me opens up with an abstract black and gold mosaic pattern.

And over the center of the hall, I see a formally arranged dining area, with a string quartet occupying either side of the space. They're seated with instruments, playing music that's smooth and quiet to everyone's ears. The crowd here, so familiar with each other, gathered in a circle with their spicy scent in the air. I move confidently through the crowd, who are sipping champagne and chatting. My gliding steps take me deeper into the room until a few guests pause me.

Those who've heard my name through mutual friends are eager to ask if I have any dates free for a painting commission.

And their smiles are the usual!

Showing precisely eighty percent of their teeth, I've tolerated it since the day my dad decided I needed to be at these events for "social exposure." If not for him, then supposedly for my profession.

To some I genuinely give smiles and hugs, but to some, I give a fake smile.

Ten minutes since I walked in, and I haven't seen my friends.

Where are they?

My phone pings.

bloodn_inkpreet and 10.8k others liked your post.

Then a DM:

[PREET]: Bitch, wy u always fckin so late?

[ME]: whr r you guys? Just a sec, stuck in social taxes.

[PREET]: Hahaha, the downsides of being a Luthra. Come to the bar, princess.

Yeah, social taxes. Hmm, better to pay now so I can enjoy myself later.

When my greetings with the guests are finally done, I run for the lounge. Its corridor ceiling transitions into stately barrel vaults. The aisles are all decked out with maroon velvet columns and cool walls, leading you right into the lounge area.

As I get closer, I find myself in a spotlight, where heavy masonry crops my view of the room, reducing my world to that one open doorway. And then I see them.

It's those four Gravitational Assholes from the infamous rich street I was talking about. They're standing by the fireplace holding a wine glass in one hand and the city's economy in the other.

I keep my confidence high, ignoring them even though I know they have a framed, perfect view of me walking.

The second I step into their orbit, their eyes lift and lock onto me in sync. They drag their gaze through my hair, down the length of my dress, following the slow tease of the slit.

They're seeing just enough to keep their pulse steady and their greed awake.

Their eyes aren't just impressed by the woman walking confidently; they're calculating.

Calculating the price.

Specifically, the price of direct access to my dad.

Once again, I ignore them, thanks to my sexy, edgy laser-cut mask, letting them know I'm both the glittering temptation they want and can't afford.

I'm priceless in every damn fucking sense.

And then, the contagious laughter follows, calling for my name. There they are.

My friends are gathered at the corner of the bar area. They're half-lit by yellow light strips that flow like a waterfall under the counter. They laugh and clink their glasses, putting on a show as if they're desperately trying to fit in.

They see me and wave.

In a room full of civility, I find my chaos.

My comfort.

The air around the bar shifts the way it always does instinctively. Seeing me walking towards them, Pratik's eyes catch me first.

He doesn't wave, just whispers something to the group. Then I see them turning away from the table they'd been leaning against.

Sai, draped in a beautiful sari, has her phone near her ear, and Preet, in a sexy black slit dress with daring cuts, flaunting her inky tattoos, almost slams her drink on the counter to leap over me.

We instantly crash into each other to give each other sisterly hugs.

"You three only met a few hours ago. Remember?" Pratik says.

The way he's drifted behind, leaning on one elbow on the counter, shows he has no excitement about parties or anything. But he loves to drink, swirls the liquid in the glass, and looks all sexy in blue, like a hotshot guy in the room.

Next to him, Nil stands in the blue panther shirt paired with the classy black suit. Turning on his heel, his back rests against the bar, both palms braced behind him like he's posing for the camera.

Nil is always like wearing extra; he loves to show off his model's body.

"What the fuck, girl? You're so late that I went to the loo a hundred times," Nia bursts out with the joke.

His words are plain and simple, but they cause an immediate drop of sophisticated silence because it's Nilambar Roy—everyone loves his cheesy jokes and quick zings.

That's how Preet piles on.

We can't stop our laughter, and we are still at the public gathering. When I look around, through the soft music, I see people engaged in conversations over their drinks.

We are still standing by the bar. It seems like more people are coming in.

This lounge is usually for those who need a space.

So we've left the bar and are moving to the fireplace.

There's a fun fact about us: we never compliment each other at parties anymore because it's become so regular that we all feel like we look the same at every party.

"What were you saying, Nil? I'm always late?"

"Well, still, you all manage to earn my respect," I say, loving my tone. Their laughter dies down.

Haha, sarcastically, me.

"You guys actually made it. Last night looked lethal. If I hadn't been there, you would all be dead by now."

Last night, at the New Year's Eve party, the seaside was memorable but burned until four in the morning and almost ended in a jail cell.

The local police had already been called to the beach.

Only I know how I managed to get my friends into the car with the help of Sai, as she was less tipsy. I then drove us out minutes before the police arrived. But en route, we were flagged down at a checkpoint. By the look of it, the cops figured out the drunk state of my friends. Not just that, but my friends were all geeked, but luckily, if I hadn't been cold and sober and also the one behind the wheel, we would all be posting bail right now.

Then I drove the bodies, one by one, to Nilambar's house, as he kept looping about his house key, so it was the only place to hold our drunken mess. And that was the greatest idea of that night, as he left alone.

And now, just seeing their faces makes my chest begin to loosen up.

I was so sure and a little bit sad that they'd ghost the party. Like, obviously, they all were obliterated.

Pratik fires back instantly, thrashing my thoughts.

"And, common classic you, don't cover up and be this Luthra princess who doesn't drink... Rolling in late to your own party is the teasing topic of the day."

Pratik tries to get on my nerves by shoving a glass filled with alcohol right under my nose, saying, "Oh, you miss the smell, don't you? Go on, just one little—" only to yank it away the second I flinch and pull my face back from the noxious smell, and he continues to tease me.

"Oops, I forgot you don't even need shots to trigger your dad's rage. Man's karma follows him like a shadow." He throws me a wicked wink, because of course he does.

He knows I'll ignore the dad comment.

Nil jumps in, not about to miss his moment, as he turns towards the bartender and says, "Man, please, cranberry juice for the Luthra," and turns around, "By now, Sahej's got, like, a trillion ways to get under her dad's nose."

Pratik fakes a cough. "A trillion? Bro, she's unlocked new dimensions at this point."

"Both of you, shut up," I snap, even though I'm smiling, as they are casually talking about the dynamic between me and my dad. "Have some manners, or I swear I'll throw you out of my party."

They exchange a look, then Pratik smirks.

"We don't get thrown out of parties, baby," he corrects smugly. "We get thrown into them."

Then start acting like they're gagging.

Preet cut them off in the middle of their acting, hitting them in their chests, as they both do to score.

"Oh, suck up, you dick. And keep your fart in your ass."

Since we have time, we shift closer to the fireplace as we go for another round of drinks.

This time we've all taken drinks from the passing bar staff. Pratik and Preet have taken up a corner, without having us around them, making their own space.

I can see Preet laugh, her eyes fixed on Pratik, who is already settling back with a drink and enjoying Preet's company. It's now that I clearly notice the intimacy they have with each other that is fundamentally different from what they have with us. The shift is so casual; his body inclines towards her while talking, and his ears are all up when she is talking.

I lean against the high marble counter with Sai and Nil, who has already ordered another round.

The bartender places a usual mocktail in front of me.

But since I don't usually drink, I treat the glowing liquid as a prop.

My focus drifts back to the corner.

Instead of sipping the drink or taking out the blueberry from the toothpick, I absentmindedly use it to stir the pulp in the glass. The thought of Pratik and his playfulness, shoving the alcohol just moments ago, triggers a scary, chilling niggle in me.

Twinklingly, a flash in my mind.

"Sahej, do you notice?" Nil's voice breaks my trance state. "Look, someone's been watching you all this time." Nil raises an eyebrow, his tone dropping conspiratorially.

"Who?" I turn without giving a warning, and fuck, I regret it—there he is.

Arjun Motherfucking Nanda. Just last month, I went on two dates with him. I remember my father's conviction about Arjun: that he is a good guy.

So I tested my theory.

On the second date, I kissed him. Ew. I know.

My theory says that if I kiss someone, I need to feel a fire, and he needs to give me butterflies and, of course, make me weep down there.

"Tell me? Did you—" Nil asks, taking a long drink from the counter. "—become his canvas?" Nil asks, and Sai giggles beside him.

"Ew, Nil, that's so personal." Only Nil's vulgarity makes me forget things. "No, I didn't become his canvas."Neither did we have sex. But I will kill you, Nil, for asking me that."

Nil laughs, wiping genuine tears of mirth from his eyes.

"What?" He looks to Sai, as she's still holding her laugh. "I just asked if she'd spread her legs to him yet or if she let him lick her coochie."

"Dude," Sia nudges him, but she can't suppress her laughter.

"You really know how to push my buttons, Nil," I say, eventually also breaking into chuckles. It takes me a moment to realize how his extreme comment didn't trigger a true sense of shock in me. I can't help but join him. Regardless of the irritation I feel when someone tries to get too involved in my personal life.

"If I had known you guys were shameless, I would have never become friends with you in school," I say with a playful smirk.

"Yeah, true that." Nia laughs hard.

  *

I skip the lounge, go straight to the bar, and put my phone down on the onyx counter. I start adjusting the drape of my dress. Once I'm all set, I zone out and begin scrolling through my notifications.

"I'll take a temperance drink—cranberry, lime, and a dash of ginger ale."

I'm in the middle of ordering when my phone pings.

I click on the new Insta notification.

Someone hit that heart on the recent post of my artwork: a lifeless tree with a lone leaf falling beneath it.

The only leaf the tree held dear, and the tree thought that the leaf would never leave him, but guess what? It's life, and everyone, at some point, leaves you.

But the thing that's hitting differently is...

tapishadyanthaya, xoin and 96.6k others liked your post. 53 sec

I just met him yesterday. And he chose to engage just like that?

tapishadyanthaya started following you from your post. 4 sec

Holy fuck! Just drill my head. How did this happen?

And then another, liking pictures of me from last night: a solo picture of mine, pouting straight into the camera. My hair was open, the ivory ribbon was tied around my neck, and the fireworks were spreading across the sky in the background.

I force myself...Reminding myself that people can obviously notice me, for obvious reasons, I try to look normal.

I grab it and click on his profile.

Long-pressing on his PFP, I see a nice picture of him in boxing gloves, reclining on the couch with red sheets covering his half-naked body. It's a photoshoot

Curious, I check his first three posts.

The first one's a quote; I skip it.

The second one is a family picture.

But as I scroll, as soon as I see the third one, the immediate heat catches me when I see a picture of him.

Following that, I have no understanding of myself for a second; that's how my hand slams the phone screen down on the cold counter of the bar.

I yank my phone away, embarrassment and curiosity flooding me. I carefully check around, hoping no one saw my accidental tap.

I see the bartender holding out my drink, bringing me back to the bar library, with that trademark, energetic smile on his face.

"Sahej, darling! Here it is—your perfect crimson and cure!"

His enthusiasm makes me smile; he is an expert at making drinks. "Also, your boyfriend looks lickable," he whispers.

His words have my heart in my mouth.

"He's nobody, and especially not my boyfriend. You know my type."

"Okay, but you do look like a type of this guy."

"Shut up."

It's just for a second as he left me with my drink. Alone.

I look at it with a smile, staring at the crimson color, as I think about the picture again. It just so happens to be an NSFW post that shows off his six-pack abs. But that's not all; his dark briefs were riding low enough to display the deep cut of his V-line bone that cuts down into that private groin area. The line of his dark and curly pubic hair is so visible. Then following above the red elastic ribbon of Tom Ford, is a groin tattoo. I saw the outline of his bulge too, thick and defined under the tension of the slack.

I have simply been freaked out. Not because I wasn't meant to witness that, but because I'm imagining how I saw him yesterday in that sleek suit. How could the sophisticated man I saw transform into this seductive and unapologetic figure?

My eyes close, and I keep my phone set down.

It's okay, Sahej. You have 5.6 million followers, and he's one of them. Consider it normal that you have seen more than this.

Just then, the bartender hands me the water I always request, as he knows. I gulp it down in seconds.

"One red wine, please," someone standing beside me orders.

"Can I have one more glass of water?"

"Sure, darling," and once again, I chuck it down.

Placing the glass on the table, I say, "Thank you, see you soon." I wink.

I make my way back to my friends.

  * 

I'm sitting at the dining table with Preet and Sia.

And my name is on a place card. From here, I watch the whole greeting line freeze the minute Mr. Ahuja and Mr. Rai walk in with their wives and all their sons.

The sons are Pratik and Nil.

These gentlemen aren't just my dad's friends; they're his fixers. They're the only ones who refused to ditch him years ago during that devastating legal case—the one where a young boy reportedly died.

Their bond is about survival, not just loyalty.

Guests are still waiting for my dad to cut the cake. And yet I haven't stood up and wished Dad a happy birthday in person.

I'm avoiding him; that's why I went to the bar. Why? Mrs. Luthra has been glued to his side since they walked into the party. That woman wears the nicest sari I've ever seen; she is beautiful and has greenish-gray eyes.

From the table, I watch their romance, the eye contact my dad has made with her while gently brushing her locks as they chat over drinks.

My dad clearly loves her.

Then, Dad looks over toward my table.

I instantly turn my face, faking that I didn't even notice.

"Sej, come on. It's his birthday. You already excused it. Can't do it for the whole event." Sai holds one of my hands.

I have to do this; I don't have any other option. I don't like it, but I have to.

I stand up, and just like that, Sai and Preet look over. They immediately get the signal and stand up before I can even change my mind.

Watching the three of us walk straight toward him. Dad instantly leaves his wife's side and takes a step toward me, wearing a huge smile.

Is he seriously waiting for me to wish him? It's not like I haven't wished him at all—I called him this morning. "Dad, happy birthday." That's it.

I say it again. "Happy birthday, Dad."

He takes me by surprise as I am taken into a hug, a hug that's taking so long that it does, "Thank you, my little butterfly." He pulls back, which totally messes up a few strands of my hair, and he immediately fixes my butterfly-shaped masquerade mask.

"Stop calling me that, and is that why you chose this mask for me?"

Side note: My dad has a whole team to customize everything, not just the cards but also the masks everyone is wearing right now for the party.

"Oh, why not? My daughter loves butterflies. You know, Vibha?" Turning to his wife, "When she was little, she would wake up early just so she could chase the butterflies in our garden. She'd ask, 'Daddy, where do the butterflies live? Why do they always fly?' She was so cute."

"Dad, stop it!"

I'm feeling totally embarrassed.

My friends are watching the whole thing; it's a wholesome moment they barely get to see all year, and I can hear them snickering.

But this is just the start.

I face the woman I've given Dad about a hundred excuses not to see. "Hello, Mrs. Luthra," I say, putting that sarcastic pressure on the title. But she completely brushes off my scorn, flashing that 80% of the teeth smile right back at me.

"It's so nice to see you! Look at you, looking so pretty. You should come home sometime. Eka and Niv miss you a lot."

"Oh, thank you. Yes, I'll definitely visit if I get time."

I feel acidic, not from the bubbling inside me but from my own behavior. Sometimes, seeing that smile on her face, I feel like maybe I'm the ugly bitch in all this, and everyone else is actually so nice, like a beautiful angel.

But then it all rushed back—every filthy word she had said for my dead mom and me that night.

That one night changed my whole world, man. Now, she acts like this person I just refuse to believe. Sure, people change; she might have.

Who knows? But her smile now and those ugly words back then, about the same person standing right in front of her—I just can't stomach that contradiction.

Yeah, it's all in the past. I forgave her, and I moved on. But forget? That part never happened.

And thank god my stepsisters are not invited because Dad has his own rules.

Time is just flying by. The host invites all the guests to the front area for the cake cutting.

Fifteen minutes later, Dad calls me to the photography suite.

I offer a smile as the photographer clicks our joint photos.

On my left, the solo stage is waiting. Its sides are covered with a dark black velvet curtain and a white backdrop and surface.

I step in as softboxes light the area and create a harsh professional glare. The "eldest daughter of Luthra" is taking her place.

I pose.

Left profile, looking over my shoulder as the photographer readies his lens.

My eyes drift over to the second stage, just a couple of feet away. Dad is there, posing with a group of business partners. I notice, almost with surprise, how young he looks tonight. Despite being fifty-nine years old. His salt-and-pepper hair and mustache give him an aura.

A man approaches.

Finding myself surprised that my dad walks towards him before the stranger joins the stage. Like Dad was waiting for him.

Dad hugs him affectionately and pats his back like a proud father.

I've never seen my dad hug someone like that, not even Pratik or Nil.

I can't see his face.

Curious, I try to peek while posing. His outfit tells a tale of untamed energy.

He feels familiar.

The memory of him is marked so deeply in my mind that looking isn't enough.

The lethal curve of his body. Wide shoulders, that hot jawline.

I know what's hidden under those clothes.

Stop, stop, stop.

He slowly removes the mask.

Our eyes lock.

His gaze darkens.

I quickly avert my eyes, looking straight into the lens.

I start posing, falling naturally into the moves I know work best.

"Great job, Miss Luthra. We're almost done," the photographer calls.

One more click. Done.

I move toward the monitor to select my shots, then to the next monitor for my dad's.

That's how my dad is; he always wants me to handle this (pictures for his media PV) as he thinks I have good taste in selecting pictures.

My focus is on the screen, scrolling through my father's images.

"Wait, stop there!"

I see it. "Back."

"Back."

"Now pause."

My eyes unintentionally, yet again, stop at Tapish Adyanthaya.

We are caught in the same frame.

I thought I was being low-key, but the screen doesn't lie. There is clear evidence. His gaze was darkened and fixed on me because mine was on him.

Does he feel the same? He also failed to hide it. I feel threatened by the sheer force of this attraction.

I can't be attracted. Not to a man who is so inked as fuck.

A promise is a promise. I won't break mine for a man like this. It doesn't matter how long I've been numb. And now my body is waking up to wanting a man sexually.

I'm trembling. I'm terrified. But I won't look back.

I look at the screen. He's wearing a black suit with a black-and-white Burberry check scarf, draped perfectly over his shoulders, falling down his tall frame.

Dad turns to check on me as his photo session is over; he's standing off the stage and chatting with Tapish and his bodyguard. What was his name?

Sankalp?

I try to look at Dad, but it's the eyes beside him that I feel.

What's wrong? Why suddenly do I feel so centered that everything around me feels like a shadow? Why is he the only thing in the light?

I look at the tech staff, my voice strict and authoritative. "Delete this one. Now. And select these two."

"Sure, ma'am," the tech mutters, clicking away.

I watch the screen go blank, feeling some relief.

"Sahej, sweetheart, come here if you are done," Dad calls out, his tone soft and affectionate.

I walk toward him, uninterested in the glitz of the party. Everyone around me looks so busy and happy. And I'm bitter.

Among them, they are both standing, holding red wine. "Dad, do you mind if I go join my friends now? If we are done, I'm tired."

With an overwhelming amount of love, he grabs my shoulder and draws me to his side, making me completely stop. I find myself facing the man standing beside him, and I have to crane my neck just to look at his magnanimous height.

"No, we aren't. Your friends can wait—"

"And since you have already met Mr. Tapish Adyanthaya... I'm just so sorry for last night. You know, sometimes she becomes too stubborn. But thank you for taking care of her."

"Dad," I whisper.

I don't want this. I don't want to be introduced.

"Please, don't apologize, Mr. Luthra."

Tapish pulls his hand out of his pocket. "Miss Sahej, nice to meet you once again."

I keep my face a blank slate with my father standing right next to me. "Yes... indeed. Glad you came," I reply, extending my hand to his with a previously faked smile.

The moment his warm hands touch my cold ones, my lips slightly part. I hate that I'm reacting to the pressure of his palm against mine. I can feel the burn of white phosphorus deep within my bone.

I hate how my blank slate is suddenly brittle, a thin, glass-like mockery of my self-control that cracks the moment he applies pressure.

He doesn't look at my face at first. His gaze drops, focused entirely on our joined hands, as if he sees something that I fail to.

"I had to," he says, finally lifting his eyes to mine.

His voice has dropped an octave, thick with a private, dark intent that makes the glitz of the party feel so fake and our meeting too real.

His grip tightens slowly, gently, right under my father's nose, refusing to let the butterfly fly away just yet.

Then I see the edge of a tattoo around his neck, covered by his scarf.

I pull my hands back.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, but I have to go."

. . . . ╰──╮𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪╭──╯ . . . .

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XOXO💚
streetlight389 ❤️‍🩹