“You don’t owe me anything, Abhimaan,” I whisper, my voice barely holding. “I messed up that last deal. I should be the one making it up to you.”
“I don’t keep score with you,” he says simply. “I never have. I never will. This isn’t about balance sheets or cost-benefit ratios. This is about your heart and what it deserves. And right now, it deserves to be in Jaipur, clapping for your niece and crying like a fool when she waves at you from the stage.”
A laugh breaks from my chest, watery and sudden. “I would’ve cried like a fool.”
“I know you would’ve,” he says, his smile tilting slightly. “And I would’ve regretted not seeing that.”
I shake my head again, biting my lip as emotion clogs my throat. “You’re ruining me.”
“I hope so,” he says with a quiet kind of honesty. “Because you ruined me a long time ago. Might as well make it mutual.”
He pulls into a private terminal minutes later, the guard nodding without even asking questions. I realize then—this was pre-planned. Maybe not the whole thing, but enough that he had this option ready. Just in case I didn’t choose myself.
Just in case he needed to.
We step out of the car, and I follow him up the steps of his jet, the warmth of his hand on my lower back anchoring me to reality. The engines hum to life. The world outside begins to shrink beneath us.
I sit across from him in the plush leather seats, still dazed. Still holding the moment like it might disappear.
“I don’t deserve you,” I say softly, breaking the silence.
He looks up from the magazine he’s pretending to read and meets my eyes across the cabin. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
My mouth twitches. “It’s not.”
“It is. And for someone who’s scarily efficient at remembering exact pitch points and quarterly projections, you suck at remembering the truth.”
I raise a brow. “And what truth is that?”
“That I don’t deserve you and you are way out of my league,” he says softly.
The sky outside is blinding, clouds brushing past the windows like strokes on a canvas. But inside this cabin, it’s calm. Steady. Like him.
I look out for a second, then back at him. “What if the deal doesn’t come through later?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Then we’ll get another. And if not, we’ll build one from scratch again. Like I said, I built it once. But I’ll never get another chance to be the man who shows up for you when it matters.”
I sit there, quiet, letting that settle into my bones. He grins, as if he is proud of himself, and I can’t help but smile back.And suddenly, the guilt, the ache, the impossible balance I keep trying to maintain—it doesn’t feel as heavy anymore.
Because someone else is holding it with me.
CHAPTER 47
ADITI
Simba sprawls lazily on his back, belly up, in the narrow band of sunshine that spills across the cool marble floor of the verandah. Rudrani sits cross-legged beside him, trying to tie a ribbon around his neck while I sit nearby, legs stretched out. My dupatta pools around me as I watch the whole operation unfold. The late afternoon breeze drifts lazily through the verandah, rustling the leaves of the guava tree in the corner and brushing against my skin like a soft sigh.
When we landed yesterday, we had to immediately rush to Bhabha Hall, where Rudrani’s annual function was going on. Everyone was so surprised and happy, but what I loved the most was the way they were gushing over Abhimaan—well, except Bhai, but the soft smile on Abhimaan’s face was worth it.
Simba lets out an unimpressed mewl when Rudrani adjusts the ribbon too tight, and she immediately gasps, apologizing like a guilty little criminal.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to strangle you, Simbu,” she says, kissing his furry head dramatically.
I laugh. “He’s not a soft toy, Rudrani. Let him breathe.”
She scowls at me with that same scrunched-up expression she gets when her drawing doesn't turn out right. “He’s my model today. For my fashion show. See, this is his bowtie look.”
Simba responds by twisting away and climbing into my lap like I’m his savior. I stroke behind his ears, and he settles in, purring with contentment.
