A smirk forms on his face, and a mischievousness glints in his eyes. “Mmm, that would be quite the headline—Mrs. Malhotra stuns in nightwear. You’d still be the most beautiful woman there.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart flutters. He’s impossible. Absolutely impossible.
"You're not helping."
"I am helping," he says, pushing off the wall and walking toward me. He brushes my hair off my shoulder, his fingers grazing my neck as a shiver rolls down my body.
“Wear something that makes you feel like the goddess you are. And maybe,” his lips hover by my ear, “something that’ll drive me insane all night.” He hums, "But I think whatever you wear will drive me insane." The earlier smirk lingers, not wanting to drop off.
“You’re such a menace,” I mutter, cheeks heating.
“And you love it.” He chuckles, stepping back just as I swat at him.
His laughter echoes down the hall as I kick him out of the room, locking the closet door behind him. I need a minute to think. To breathe. To not let his words turn me into a flustered mess.
After what feels like an hour—and way too many outfit rejections—I finally settle on the dress. A black gown that hugs every curve without being over the top. I am getting more comfortable in my own skin, and I have to give most of the credit to my husband for always making me feel gorgeous. The dress is elegant. Classic. And paired with a sheer white cape that drapes down my shoulders like moonlight. I feel regal. I feel…me. Ibought this dress for our anniversary, which is six months later. I just loved it too much, so I bought it anyway.
My heels click softly against the floor as I walk out. I spot him on the couch, scrolling through his phone. When he looks up, he freezes. His eyes roam slowly, reverently. “You look breathtakingly beautiful,” he whispers, voice low, full of awe.
I shift under his gaze, a little shy. “Too much?”
He gets up and walks over, taking his time, until he’s standing right in front of me. “You look... you look like art.”
My heart skips, and I swat his arm, blushing. “Don’t do that,” I whisper. “You’ll make me melt.”
A grin forms on his face. “Then let me catch you.”
I laugh, flustered, and he pulls me into his arms. The warmth of his body against mine is comforting.
"You’ll make heads turn at the party," he murmurs, then his tone darkens slightly. “You look too good.” He pulls me closer if that's even possible, and I stumble into him, hands landing on his chest.
“Should I change?” I whisper, almost teasing.
“I will never stop you from wearing any dress, baby,” he tells me, brushing his lips over mine, his voice coming out firm. “It’s not your fault you’re so beautiful. But I am going to beat up every asshole who looks at you the wrong way.”
I bite back a smile, my heart swelling. He’s ridiculous, and I know he means every word. “Don’t worry,” I whisper back. “They can look, but only you get to touch.”
His eyes glint, and he lets out a soft laugh, tugging me in again.
“Let’s go,” I mutter, holding out my hand. He takes it without hesitation, kissing the top of my head like it's second nature. He senses my nervousness—he always does. His thumb rubs soft circles on the back of my hand as we walk toward the car. I lean into his side, grateful for the calm he brings.
“There will be media, right?” I ask, voice barely audible.
“Yes,” he informs gently. “But I’ve arranged a back entrance for us.”
I look up at him, overwhelmed by love. He is always thinking of protecting me. Always thinking of me, of my comfort. I peck his cheek, then gasp as he pecks my lips. “You’ll get lipstick on your face.”
“So what?” He grins, “It’s yours.”
The rest of the drive passes in comforting silence. His hand never leaves mine. When we reach the venue, the driver opens the door, and Rudra helps me out like we’re stepping onto a red carpet. The music inside is soft, the lighting dimmed, and already I can feel eyes on us.
I tighten my grip on his arm, my nerves creeping back as my eyes roam around the crowd.
“We’ll have to meet a few people. Is that okay, baby?” He asks softly, comfort lacing his tone.
I nod, more for myself than for him. “You’ll be with me,” I say, and that’s all I need to feel brave.
I straighten my spine as I notice a man in his fifties approaching us with a bright smile. “Mr. Malhotra! Thank you for joining us today.”
