Chapter 9 Kiara #2
“Uh… umm…” Manav stammered, clearly flustered, which only made him look more absurd.
For a guy who practically owns half the world, you’d think he could string a compliment together without breaking into a sweat.
I mean, I’ve even managed to nod along when my aunt asked if she looked like a queen, while she was looking like a villain straight out of a horror movie.
But here he is, struggling to form a single sentence as if saying something nice would set off an alarm.
Or, you know, send a message to the zombies about an apocalypse—they might want a heads-up, too.
And while we're at it, maybe notify the long-gone scientists that we've ditched the classic light bulbs for a rainbow of LEDs, solar lights, and whatever else we can think of. Why? Because, of course, we went all out on every last resource, and now we’re left with just a gaping, ozone-deprived darkness.
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The party hall was a vision of grandeur and sophistication.
High, vaulted ceilings glittered under the light of ornate chandeliers, their crystal accents casting a delicate, golden glow over the room.
Crisp white linens covered the tables, and the fine china and polished silverware gleamed under the soft ambient lighting, creating an inviting yet refined atmosphere.
Classical music played gently in the background, enhancing the air of sophistication that permeated the hall.
The room buzzed with the mingling of voices, laughter intertwining with the soft clinking of glasses.
As I descended the grand staircase, applause erupted throughout the room, echoing off the walls like thunder.
Roy, standing tall with a beaming smile, called out.
“Here comes my life… my world… my little sister!”
Could someone please inform my brother that his “little sister” is a certified idiot?
Apparently, I can’t even handle a flight of stairs without nearly face-planting and needing the strong, steady hand of the ever-grumpy, annoyingly sexy, and surprisingly caring Manav Oberoi.
The only reason I managed not to go sprawling was thanks to his quick reflexes.
All of this, of course, because my so-called best friend decided I should be wrapped up like a decorative cabbage in this ridiculously beautiful saree while she's probably off dreaming up new forms of sexting to revolutionize the world.
He held my hand without a word, steadying me with that silent, steady presence that people might call “gentlemanly.” But they’d be wrong.
Manav Oberoi is no gentleman; he’s a mystery wrapped in muscles and brooding silence, and I’m not sure if he’s being nice or just silently judging.
And honestly? The jury’s still out on whether I’m grateful or embarrassed.
Yes, I know—he protected me from that devil Rocky.
Word has it he punched the guy’s face just because he wouldn’t stop talking about me.
And it didn’t stop there; Manav fed me about five hundred times a day and taught me how to cook beyond just boiling pasta and vegetables (it turns out you need to mix them in a saucepan for a meal).
But here’s the thing: Manav Oberoi doesn’t forget.
He checks my wrist bruises and the fading wound on my arm almost daily; his eyes clouded with some unreadable expression each time he asks, “Does it still hurt?” It’s been over a couple of hours since that brat attacked me, and Manav has probably asked me five thousand times about the pain.
What throws me off is the frown that follows, as if he’s got a plan to end anyone who’s ever hurt me.
And I can’t decide what bothers me more—that frown or the warmth of his care behind it.
The applause grew louder, the hum of scattered conversations fading as guests turned their attention toward me. Manav left my hand free gently, and suddenly I was cold… so cold.
Roy made his way over, his eyes gleaming with pride as he raised his glass in a toast. “I love you, baby sister…” he announced, pulling me into a warm, brotherly hug that made me feel, just for a moment, like the most cherished person in the room.
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As my eyes roamed across the room, Manav was engrossed in conversation with a cluster of business elites. But when our eyes met, he froze for a split second, his gaze faltering as he swallowed hard before quickly turning back to his discussion.
Is there ever a moment when he doesn’t look like he’s just stepped off the cover of a magazine? And in a tuxedo? Really? Is he auditioning to be James Bond tonight? Whoever his tailor is deserves an award because it’s like they sewed him straight into that tux—flawless.
I can’t handle him in that suit without a drink in my hand—a strong drink.
I threw back a few more shots, feeling the heat spread through me, loosening my nerves, and giving me just enough distance from the scene around me.
The bartender, a cute guy with an amused smile, watched as if tallying up my count with interest, probably wondering if he’d need to cut me off soon.
Around me, people were buzzing, conversations weaving through the air about business ventures, exaggerated family bonds, and their polished facades of perfect lives.
Mr. Heinsken was loudly boasting about his company’s latest electric car model, his pride evident in every word.
But what he didn’t mention—what no one here would—is the reality behind closed doors.
The daughter he pressured out of her dreams of becoming a dancer, dismissed for fear she’d tarnish the family’s tech-driven legacy.
Mrs. Skew, in her usual tone of entitlement, was droning on about her belief that Indians should “know their place” and stay economically limited. I couldn’t help but smirk as Manav responded with a charming smile. “Yes, otherwise it’d be a serious threat to the entire world.”
Meanwhile, Dr. Shroff, fresh off a flight from India, had brought along his stunning daughter, who was eyeing my brother as if he were some form of carrot ready to be eaten by a hungry rabbit.
Yet, in all this glamor and gold, it’s refreshing to see that Roy has held onto something these people seem to have lost—the essence of humanity.
Despite his seamless fit into their world, he hasn’t let it strip away his compassion.
In this room of polished surfaces, he’s still grounded, reminding me why, in all this opulence, he stands out for more than just his success.
And here I am, surrounded by people wearing masks thicker than the walls in this room, taking another sip and pretending it all doesn’t get under my skin.
People sipped their drinks, ladies disappeared into the washrooms to powder their noses, men sealed deals with firm handshakes, and a few women entrepreneurs signed contracts in the corners with the same intensity.
The music was loud—loud enough that I couldn’t help but notice a growing crowd on the dance floor.
Fantastic… I’m a cabbage tonight. And cabbages don’t dance. They’re just chopped up and tossed into a salad. But a cabbage can watch, right? So, after telling the bartender to finally cut off the endless supply of drinks, I decided to head toward the dance floor.
Manav was already there with some girl—of course. The way he looks tonight, he probably needs Z-level security just to keep these drooling girls, barely dressed except for their designer heels, at bay.
The irony? He’s dancing with her, but his eyes keep scanning the room. How rude. The least he could do was look at the girl practically leaning in, ready to kiss him in three… two…
But why should I care? He can dance with whomever he wants. Kiss whoever he likes. Care about someone. Cook for someone. He…
“Leaving already?” Just as I was about to turn and make a discreet exit, Manav’s hand caught my wrist.
“No one’s going to be paying attention to your ‘sexy moves’ once I hit the floor.” I can’t believe this man.
“Alright, let’s see what you've got.” He signaled the DJ to start the music.
“It’s a bet. Whoever stops first loses.” I… sorry… the alcohol spoke. Because I can’t even intimidate a fly while I’m wrapped up in this hundred-meter-long saree.
He stepped closer, his eyes extra blue tonight. “The dress you're wearing says somebody's losing hard tonight.”
“Good luck,” my forefinger poked his suited chest gently.
“Careful… cheeseball!” he said, slipping off his jacket and tossing it aside as the crowd erupted in cheers. I stared at him, completely bewildered.
Is he drunk? Has he hit his head?
Yes. That’s the only explanation.
The music kicked in, and we hit the dance floor together, moving perfectly in sync with the rhythm. The entire room seemed to pulse with energy, eyes glued to us as we matched each other step for step.
And I have to admit—he's good.
If every day, Manav is already the most attractive guy on the planet, then Dancing Manav is something else entirely. His smooth, effortless moves, combined with the fierce intensity in his eyes, were enough to leave everyone in the room breathless.
The crowd was going wild, their cheers growing louder with every beat, and Roy was practically losing his voice hooting for us.
Manav extended his hand towards me. I hesitated but then accepted, and suddenly it felt like we were in a world of our own as he led me across the floor with ease.
I am going to murder Myra tonight. This saree—her brilliant idea—feels like it's going to come undone any second now. But I can’t stop. I can’t lose to him, not tonight, not ever.
The song is coming to a close, his fingers softly gripping my waist, while his other hand rests on my shoulder.
Shit… I can’t breathe… I don’t remember my name when he is this close.
My mind was screaming for me to step away, but my body refused to listen.
“Who was she?” I managed to speak.
“Who?” he tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
“The girl you were dancing with earlier?”
“Some acquaintances… I don’t know her name,” he replied casually, “Are you jealous?”
“Don’t flatter yourself… You are not my type.” I scoffed,
I saw it—the way his eyes flickered down to my lips for a moment before settling on my waist. His fingers grazed my side softly as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “How much did you drink tonight?”
“I lost count after five…” I countered, trying to ignore the way his touch was sending shivers down my spine.
He leaned in, his warm breath tickling my ear as he whispered, “You look beautiful…” His lips hovered just an inch from mine.
I stopped breathing. My heart waited. But then—he stepped back, the ghost of a smile on his lips…
and walked away, leaving me standing alone amidst a roaring round of applause.
I stumbled back to the bar. I am planning to get super drunk tonight.
What is the harm? Being lost in another world would mean escaping everything—no swirling neurons, no intense theories, no racing heartbeat or painful memories, and no reminder that my father hasn’t spoken to me since I was born.
He believes I took away his wife, my mom, just by coming into existence.
My mom—who apparently looked just like me—was a writer too.
A successful one. Not like me, stuck on page 217 for the last 246 days.
I’ve read everything she left behind: her books, her journals, even the one she kept while pregnant with me.
She poured love into those pages, waiting for the daughter she’d dreamed of having, the daughter she wanted so much… the daughter who… took her away.
“Hey… you’ve had enough.” A familiar hand gently grabbed my wrist.
“Have you heard… I won.” I blinked dramatically, swaying slightly.
“Are you trying to set some record tonight?” he gently took the glass from my hand.
“Depends… What's the motivation?” I murmured, reaching out for my glass, determined not to share any more of my precious drink with him.
“What have you done to the real Kiara?”
“She’s pathetic… always whining,”
His playful smirk faded for a split second. And that silence… it said more than any lecture ever could. “Yeah? And who are you?” He tilted his eyes to search my eyes.
“I’m the fun Kiara…” I shrugged.
“Yeah?” he asked, a cute frown forming on his face.
“Drunk Kiara is my favorite Kiara.” I grabbed another shot, grinning widely. “Wanna play a game tonight?”
“Kiara… slow down. You’ve had enough,” he said quietly.
“Seriously? Do you have to argue every single time?”
He raised an eyebrow, skeptical as ever. “What game?”
“The Real Spill…” I said, trying to sound casual.
“I don’t know what that is…”
“We’re going to talk with no filter. Whatever comes to mind—just spill. Random thoughts, no overthinking. Just honesty.”
“Absolutely not.”
I tilted my head, challenging him. “Afraid you might accidentally reveal something you’re trying to hide?”
And then, Whoa… Oh God. Before I could process what was happening, he leaned in closer, his deep blue eyes locked on mine.
Slowly, deliberately, he tucked that stray strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering just a fraction of a second too long.
It was as if he were determined to eliminate any tiny distraction standing between us.
My breath hitched, and my heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it. His hand, large and warm, gently covered mine as it rested on the bar counter.
I froze, every nerve in my body hyper-aware of the electricity between us, of the way his gaze seemed to linger on me, heavier than it had any right to be. My heart skipped a beat—maybe several—as I watched him unconsciously run his tongue across his lips.
“It’s late… You should go back to your room…”
“I don’t think you realize how much I need this,” I whispered. The noise around us faded. It was just his hand covering mine—warm, grounding.
“Real Spill?” He paused for a minute while speaking again. “Here is one… I don’t like these parties.”
“Me neither,” I said quickly. “The fake smiles, the shallow conversations. It’s exhausting like everyone’s wearing a mask, playing a role.”
His gaze lingered on mine, and I felt my heart skip an annoying beat. “You know, for someone who doesn’t like these parties… you’re surprisingly good at making people stay.”
“And for someone who claims to dislike complications.” I blinked. “You sure like sticking around.”
His smirk faltered for just a moment, his blue eyes searching mine. “Maybe… some complications are worth it.”
I downed the whiskey in one gulp, hoping it would silence the storm inside me. “I cut Roy’s hair once while he was sleeping, and he looked like a crow.”
“Did he kill you afterward?”
“Oh, he was furious! He had an important meeting the next day. I think he wore a hat for a week straight.”
“Remind me never to fall asleep around you.”