“Fuck it,” I mutter under my breath.
Kajal blinks. “What?”
“I said—fuck it. I’ve handled worse. I’ll handle this too.”
A grin spreads across her face, smug and wide. “There she is. My delusional, dramatic queen.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“You know you’re going to call me crying the minute he breathes in your direction.”
I smirk. “Absolutely.”
“Good. I’ll keep my phone charged.”
And with that, we hang up—but the tension doesn't leave me.
It settles in my chest, somewhere between longing and dread.
I breathe through it, trying to steady myself.
Jaipur. Work trip. Boss. Secret identity. Family. How hard can it be?
Right? Right.
CHAPTER 32
ABHIMAAN
The moment she sees the key card in my hand, her face scrunches like she’s smelled something unpleasant. I blink, confused for a second, until she snatches the card and reads the room number. “There’s only one room?” she whispers, voice sharp but quiet enough not to catch the attention of the staff. Her eyes widen, her brows knit together, and then come the hands. Waving in the air like she’s conducting an invisible orchestra of exasperation.
I almost roll my eyes at myself. What the fuck is wrong with me? Because instead of explaining myself or pretending like it was an oversight, I’m just standing here trying not to smile. Which is strange. Smiling isn’t my thing. Not naturally. Not anymore. But watching her go off in her muted fury, trying so hard to keep it professional in public, makes my lips twitch like they have a mind of their own.
“We’re going to be working late,” I say casually, picking up the pace so the bellboy leading us to the room doesn’t stop. “We won’t be sleeping much anyway.”
She huffs. “You could’ve booked two rooms. Or you know—said—something?”
I shrug. “You sleep on the bed; I’ll take the couch.”
She looks scandalized. “And if you are still uncomfortable,” I add, “I’ll get out. I don’t sleep much anyways.”
Her eyes narrow, and she mutters under her breath, “I’ll force you to sleep if it kills me.”
That… shouldn’t sound as endearing as it does.
We follow the staff down the plush corridor lined with intricate gold-leafed mirrors and pale marble floors that reflect the soft glow of chandeliers. The room opens with a soft click—large, elegant, warm lighting and tastefully done in creams and muted golds. There’s a king-size bed with a headboard that looks carved by hand, a small velvet couch near the French windows, and a low coffee table with two chairs beside it. It smells faintly of jasmine and wood polish.
The staff places our bags inside, nods, and leaves.
Before I can say anything, she drops her laptop bag on the coffee table like it’s the anchor holding her down. She ties her hair up in a messy bun—loose strands falling around her face—and opens the screen. I can already hear the click of keys. She’s in work mode. No questions about dinner, no whining about long meetings, no hint of the tantrum from downstairs. That was five minutes ago. Now, she’s pure focus. I hate that it’s hot.
I sit on the couch, my laptop open too. But I don’t give her everything—only bits and pieces of what tomorrow’s meeting is going to entail. Because where’s the fun in that? Watching her try to fill in the gaps, her nose crinkling in concentration, is its own kind of entertainment.
She glances up, confused. “Wait, what do you mean by ‘we’ll have to double-check the client’s brief?”
“You’ll see.” I hide my smirk behind the screen.
She glares. “You’re enjoying this.”
