We sit in silence for a moment. “Why are you here?” I ask slowly.
Harsh's face shifts. The teasing disappears, replaced by something sharper. “Someone’s following me,” he says.
My entire body stiffens. “Anil’s men?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs, but it’s forced. “Could just be paranoia. But… I didn’t want to be in Delhi for a while.”
I stand, my hands sliding into my pockets as my gaze lands on his prosthetic hand. “You saved my life, Harsh. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
He rises with me, stepping close. “No. You don’t owe me anything.” He says, as if it’s a fact, but we both know I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t there, “I owe you mine. But that’s not why I came.” He adds.
“Then why?”
“I just want you to be safe,” he says simply. “I’m in Mumbai for Ila’s charity gala. You’ll come?”
I stare out the window, watching the city stretch out beneath me.
“Hmm,” I murmur, a noncommittal sound, but we both know I will. I can’t miss her events, even if I don’t like attending events. She’s the closest I have had to a sister.
Harsh claps my shoulder once more and heads for the door. I stay there for a while, watching the city blur behind glass, heart heavier than it was this morning.
Because the one person I want to fix things with won’t even look at me anymore. And I have no idea how to earn back something I didn’t even know I had.
CHAPTER 26
ADITI
The mirror reflects someone I almost don’t recognize.
The dress is royal blue—midnight sky meets velvet moonlight. It hugs my frame like it was sewn on me, sculpted to every curve, the fabric smooth, with a quiet shimmer that catches light only when it wants to be seen. Long sleeves, high neck, but a slit that climbs far up my thigh. Modest and bold at the same time. Just like him. Of course he’d pick something like this. Sleek, elegant, and impossible to ignore.
I smooth my palms over the fabric, exhaling slowly as I stare at my reflection. I look… different. Like someone who belongs in those glossy magazines Maa buys. And the dress… it’s from him. He said he needed a plus one. For a charity gala. And being his assistant, I was the natural choice. His words, not mine.
I could’ve said no. I should’ve. Technically, it’s not part of my job. I book his meetings, not attend them in couture. I’m not his date; I’m his assistant. But the truth is… I didn’t want to say no. Not really.
This week has been brutal. Keeping my distance. Keeping the banter buried under professionalism. Smiling only when necessary. Avoiding those fleeting glances. Ignoring the way my chest tightens every time I hear his footsteps approaching mydesk. It's more than attraction. More than curiosity. It’s that he makes me forget things I swore I’d always remember. Makes me question rules I carved into my bones.
And now I’m going to be seen in public, wearing a dress he chose, standing next to him, not as an assistant, but as... what? A plus one? Maybe? A placeholder?
I don’t know.
All I know is I look at myself in this dress, and for a second, I feel like I could be someone else. Not the girl who watched her mother shrink herself for a man. Not the girl who still hears every fight her parents had as lullabies. Not the girl who doesn’t miss her father even though she sometimes thinks she should.
I grab my clutch and phone, double-check I’ve got my keys, then step out of my penthouse, locking the door behind me. The hallway smells faintly of lavender and industrial cleaner. The elevator ride down is silent and smooth, but my heart pounds like it’s trying to remind me this is a bad idea. My phone buzzes. The cab is waiting downstairs.
The driver glances at me through the rearview mirror as I slide into the backseat, eyes lingering a little too long. I stare out the window, arms crossed tight. He doesn’t say anything, just starts driving. The city moves past in blurs—lights and shadows and people with places to be.
I pull out my phone, just to look busy. I’d googled the gala earlier, out of habit. Nothing came up. No press releases. No big headlines. Just whispers on niche pages—private, invite-only, extremely low-profile. Which is strange. Everything Abhimaan does is deliberate and calculated. He doesn’t waste time on things that don’t serve a purpose.
So why is he going? Why bring me?
The cab pulls up in front of the venue—a hotel that looks like it was carved out of old money and gold-plated privilege. I step out, heart stuttering, the night air cool against my skin.
And there he is. Abhimaan. Waiting by the entrance, black tux tailored to sinful perfection, a watch that probably costs more than his house glinting on his wrist. His hair’s styled back, not a strand out of place, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. He’s not just handsome. He’s… magnetic. And when his eyes land on me, everything slows.
He doesn’t smile. He never really does. But something shifts in his gaze, like he’s paused just to take me in.
I walk up to him, heels clicking against the stone driveway, and place my hand on his bicep, because that’s what people do when they arrive somewhere together, right?
