Kash and I keep yapping about designs and things men wouldn’t understand. Sometimes we’d switch to Hindi—justbecause. She uses that opportunity to cuss Liam out with a stupid, sweet smile painted still.
Lucian stays crouched beside me like some henna guardian angel while the artist lady finishes up. His arm must be sore. His knees probably hate him. But he doesn’t flinch.
I sip slowly, like the dramatic queen I am, as I feel my brain finally come back online. Hydration ismagic.
Once the henna is done and the glass is empty, Lucian casually picks up my phone and helps me up, steadying me as I wobble—my legs tingling with pins and needles.
“Get that bowl too,” I tell him, pointing with a delicate nod. “It has... um... lemon and coconut oil.”
Without hesitation, he grabs it. No questions.
We make our way toward my room. My left hand is dry now—the artist started with it—so I’m not completely helplessanymore. But I mean... let’s not waste a golden opportunity.
They say once themehendidries, you rub on lemon juice and coconut oil to deepen the stain and make it last longer.
Could I do it myself? Absolutely.
Will I? Not a chance.
Because why would I, when Lucian Vale can do itforme?
Which is why, a few minutes later, we’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, facing each other in silence as he gently dabs the lemon juice and coconut oil mixture onto my dried mehendi with a cotton ball.
The quiet, for once, feels beautiful.
He’s focused—far too focused for such a simple task—and somehow, that makes me melt. Every so often, he pauses to admire the intricate designs, trailing his eyes along each swirl like it’s sacred.
And I wonder—will he find it?
The little message I had the artist hide in the design?
Shit.
I hope not. Not yet. Not before I say what I need to say.
So I begin. Because there’s no point delaying anymore.
“What if...” I whisper, and he stills. “What if all this—you coming to India, helping me, apologizing,confessing—what if it’s just another elaborate plan? Part of something bigger I don’t know about yet?”
His jaw tightens. He exhales softly, not defensive—just... sad.
“I think,” he says carefully, resuming the dabs, “you asking that question tomemeans you don’t really believe it’s true. But you’re scared itcouldbe.”
I nod slowly. The cotton ball swipes gently over my hand again.
Then, without thinking, I blurt, “I... I can’t have sex without clothes on. Not yet.”
His hand freezes.
His head snaps up, and for a full minute, he doesn’t move or say anything. His lips part slightly, but no sound comes. Lemon-oil droplets slip off the cotton and land on my hand, but neither of us care.
He just stares at me—with something between sorrow and devastation. And I stare back, unsure if I should’ve said anything at all.
Then he whispers, “What the hell have I done?”
His voice is raw. Fractured. He swallows hard and finally resumes the soft dabbing, his touch now even gentler.
“It’s not just you,” I say quietly. “Lucian... I was doing better, okay? You were kind, patient, careful. You made me feel like I was sexy to you. But after everything... I spent months wondering if all of that had been a lie. A long con.”
