She should’ve stayed home. Every second her smile clung to her face, it felt like a betrayal of herself. The corners of her lips were stiff and forced, a fragile mask over the hollow ache curling in her chest. Her jaw throbbed from holding it there, the muscles sore from smiling when she felt anything but.

The ballroom was breathtaking. A cathedral of light and glass, where crystal chandeliers glittered like frozen stars and soft jazz wove through the air, wrapping every guest in its warm, velvety hum. Servers glided past on polished shoes, balancing trays of champagne flutes and bite-sized hors d’oeuvres with names she couldn’t even pronounce. Women floated in silken gowns that whispered as they moved; men were sculpted in sharp tuxedos, confidence stitched into every seam. The elite were all around her, untouchable, spinning in a glittering world where she didn’t belong.

She hugged the dim corner she’d claimed like a shield, twisting the ring on her finger as though the small motion could anchor her, could ground her in a world that felt alien. Her gaze swept the crowd, restless, searching for a familiar face—then it landed on him.

Veeraj Khurana. The man of the hour. The rebel who had somehow become the family’s golden boy tonight. He drew eyes like a magnet. Men clapped him on the back with easy camaraderie, women leaned just a little too close, laughter spilling like a spell around him. Everyone whispered about him, but none of it surprised her.

He had changed. That much was undeniable. The sharp jawline, a faint shadow of stubble catching the chandelier light, gave him an edge she had never seen before. His once-boyish face had hardened into something carved, commanding—dangerous in the most magnetic way. He was taller, broader, every inch the man who could break rules and people alike. His dark hair swept back, his eyes dark and unflinching. But it wasn’t just his looks—it was the way he moved. Every step measured, every glance deliberate. He carried the room with him, swallowed it whole, as if it were always his.

And she—she shrank.

Her throat tightened, and she looked away, heart twisting. And there he was. Aariv. Leaning casually against the marble bar, an easy smile on his face, a woman draped in a short, shimmering dress laughing at his words. Straight hair, perfect posture, legs that seemed designed to turn heads. He leaned close to her, whispering something, the tilt of his head intimate, private. And her chest sank.

It wasn’t jealousy. It was the slow, unbearable sting of disappointment. The realization that the fairy tales she’d spun—where he would see her, where he would notice her, where she might exist as more than a shadow in his world—were just that: stories. Because no matter how many scenarios she imagined, no matter how many nights she had dreamt of being someone he could see, he had never really looked at her. Not as a woman. Not as a possibility.

And maybe… maybe he never would.

“Vanya beta,” Mr. Khurana’s warm, fatherly voice cut through the fog of her thoughts, soft yet commanding attention. “You’re not going to sit in the corner all night, are you?”

Startled, she looked up, her chest tightening at the genuine kindness in his eyes. He extended his hand with a smile that could quiet any storm inside her. “May I have this dance with the prettiest girl in the room?”

Her lips curved into a laugh, light and unpracticed, the sound almost foreign in the glittering ballroom. “You’re too kind,” she murmured, taking his hand.

As he led her to the center of the floor, some of the weight in her chest eased, just a little. Mr. Khurana had a way of making her feel as though she belonged, as though her presence wasn’t a mistake in this sea of silk, champagne, and glittering eyes.

The music wrapped around them, a soft jazz melody that coaxed her to relax. They moved slowly, deliberately, their steps a quiet conversation of ease and familiarity. He spoke about Veeraj—his growth, his triumphs, and the surprises life had offered him. He spoke about family, change, and new beginnings, each word threading warmth through the chill of her insecurities.

When the song ended, she dipped her head slightly, a graceful nod of thanks. “Thank you for the beautiful dance, Uncle.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he said, squeezing her hand briefly before releasing it, “but I think someone else is waiting his turn.”

She turned. And suddenly, her carefully built composure threatened to crumble.

Aariv.

Charcoal grey suit, hair perfectly styled, smile smooth and effortless. His eyes caught hers and a shiver ran down her spine. He extended a hand, and before hesitation could creep in, she took it. Her chest fluttered. Her cheeks warmed. This—this was the moment she had imagined in a thousand dreams: the room full of people, music swirling around them, and him asking for her hand as if she were the only one who mattered.

He murmured something about the crowd, the endless small talk, the exhausting hum of celebration. She nodded too eagerly, laughed too quickly, clinging to every syllable as if it tethered her to him. She could smell his cologne, feel the deliberate lightness of his hand on her waist.

And yet… it was hollow. The music slowed again, a softer tempo, almost intimate. She leaned into him, waiting for that spark she had imagined so many nights, the kind that made hearts race and bodies melt into rhythm.

But instead, he was practiced, distant, polite. And in a dizzying turn, she found herself spinning—twirled away from Aariv’s careful, measured hold—her dress fanning out, the crowd blurring, and a sense of emptiness settling like ice where warmth should have been.

The lights shimmered around her, laughter and chatter a distant echo. And in that moment, even in the thrill of being in his arms, she realized that some dreams didn’t hold the promise she had given them.

And then—suddenly—she was twirled into Veeraj’s arms.

The breath was stolen from her in one sharp inhale. Her heels slipped slightly against the polished floor, and she braced instinctively, palm flattening against the solid plane of his chest. But he caught her with an effortless grace that made her feel ridiculous—like she weighed nothing, like she was always meant to fall into him.

The room blurred. The music softened into background noise. All she could hear was the thundering, dangerous beat of her own heart, echoing in her ears.

His hand rested at her waist. Not lightly, like Aariv’s polite hovering. Not tentative, careful, distant. No. Veeraj’s palm pressed firmly, deliberately, against the bare strip where her blouse ended and her dress dipped low, the heat of his skin searing through the fragile barrier of fabric. Goosebumps erupted along her arms and spine, crawling upward, tightening her throat, stealing her words.

She gasped softly, attempting to shift back—but his grip tightened, just slightly, just enough to remind her escape was not hers to choose.

He leaned closer, dark eyes catching hers, a single brow arched. The crooked smirk she remembered from their childhood fights lingered—but it was no longer mocking. It was dangerous. Male. Possessive. And it made her pulse stutter as though her chest had been unprepared for the storm of him.

“You always wear things that don’t belong to you?” His voice was low, gravelly, a smoke-and-steel rasp that brushed against her ear.

Confusion flickered across her flushed face. Her brows drew together, her lips parting, unsure if she should answer or flee.

His gaze drifted downward for a heartbeat, along the neckline of her dress—the one Aariv’s ex had once flaunted in a glossy magazine spread, the one Vanya had bought in secret to feel a step closer to her fantasy. Then it traveled back up slowly, deliberately, shamelessly, until his molten eyes locked onto hers again.

Veeraj leaned closer, just enough that his breath tickled her temple. “Confidence looks good on you, Professor Kapoor,” he murmured, his words hot, deliberate, and knowing. “You should wear it more often.”

Her breath caught sharply. Not because of what he said—but how he said it. Every syllable seemed designed to ignite her, to set her nerves ablaze.

Her fingers curled unconsciously into the fabric of his shirt, gripping like it was the only anchor in the storm he’d created around her. Her knees wobbled, betraying her, and she hated that he could feel it, that he probably enjoyed it.

She turned her face, searching desperately for air, distance, sense—but he didn’t release her. His eyes were molten, unblinking, and somehow, in the sea of glittering chandeliers and swirling dancers, she felt like the only person he could see.

Nobody—not in twenty-nine years—had ever looked at her like this. Not with the kind of intensity she’d read about in her hidden, dog-eared romance novels, the ones she kept tucked under her pillow. Not with a gaze that made her feel like she was fire, not invisible. Not ordinary.

And in that moment, Aariv’s smooth, polite smile vanished from her mind. Every fantasy she’d nursed since childhood, every carefully imagined dance with him—gone. There was only Veeraj. The same man from that bathroom, eyes hungry, heavy, unforgiving.

Something was definitely wrong with him Or maybe… something was wrong with her.

Because she should have hated this. She should have pulled away, laughed it off, called it one of his cruel pranks—the way he used to shove her books off a table or mock her handwriting as kids. But her skin still tingled where his hand pressed. Her heart still tripped over itself under his gaze.

This wasn’t nothing. And that terrified her more than anything.