Chapter 13 Kiara
Oh God, I can’t do this. I’ve got an important interview in the morning, and yet here I am—wide awake, staring at the ceiling like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.
Damn it, Elena!
Fantastic.
Dear neurosurgeons, please abduct me ASAP—and sign me up for brain surgery. While you’re at it, go ahead and remove the nerve cells responsible for these insane midnight decisions.
The door opened, and there he was—Manav. A glass of whiskey in one hand, some files in the other, and absolutely no shirt. Just a very distracting, very toned torso that I was not supposed to notice.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you trying to kill people?”
“No…”
“What the hell are you wearing?”
I blinked. “These are my night clothes—I…”
Brain? Abandoned me.
Eyes? Accidentally dipped to his abs.
Hormones? Screaming in a choir.
Pull it together, Kiara. You’re not a teenager in a Wattpad fanfic.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he was conducting a full visual scan. Probably trying to figure out which part of me was the crime scene—my red eyes, my Medusa hair, or the lace-trimmed red nightwear that was, yes, technically decent, but now suddenly screaming ‘you forgot your shrug.’
“You call those clothes?” he asked in a deadpan voice, gaze glued to mine like he knew.
And there it was—the moment I realized I had hit peak mortification.
Standing barefoot. In sheer panic. At his door. At 3 a.m.
Spoiler: This was a terrible idea.
“I… couldn’t sleep,” I blurted, because apparently, my survival instinct had vanished too.
Manav raised an eyebrow, set his glass down, and leaned against the doorframe—arms crossed over his frustratingly bare chest. “And waking me up was the solution?”
“It’s all Elena’s fault,” I mumbled, fumbling for logic. “She had an emergency and left.”
“Elena?”
“The house staff.”
“She left?” He looked genuinely confused now.
“Yeah. Genius.”
“She took all of your seven million pillows with her, so now you can’t sleep?”
“Can you not be a grumpy CEO for five seconds and just help a person in need?”
He shook his head, rubbing his temple. “You’re sleepwalking. Your room’s that way. Go back to bed, cheeseball.”
“I’m not sleepwalking!” I snapped. “I have a condition!”
He stopped mid-door-close. “A condition?”
I swallowed. “I… I can’t sleep alone.”
He stared. Blinked. Then stared again. “I’m sorry—what?”
“I can’t sleep alone,” I said again, slower this time, face burning hotter than the sun. “It’s… a thing, okay?”
He just kept looking at me like I’d told him I was a vampire allergic to solitude. “You’re serious.”
“Yes, and I have a very important interview in the morning, so if you could stop playing questionnaire, I promise I won’t disturb your alien stock exchange meeting or whatever you're doing.”
He looked like he was debating whether to throw me out or throw himself off a cliff.
Then, finally, a sigh. A long, theatrical, ‘I-hate-my-life’ kind of sigh.
“Fine. Turn off the lamps if you want. I’m working on the couch. I’ll crash there after.”
“No.” I crossed my arms. “I told you—I can’t sleep alone.”
He scowled. “Let me make this clear: We’re not sharing a bed.”
“Oh my God,” I threw up my hands. “We’re both adults—I just need someone in bed. I’m not going to accidentally assault your precious abs in my sleep, okay? Relax. You’re not my type.”
His jaw clenched.
Eyes flicked to the bed.
And for a second, he looked like he was bargaining with the universe for patience.
“This is insane, Kiara.”
“Whatever…” I marched into the room and flopped dramatically onto the bed. “Now, go sell Saturn to the aliens and come back quietly. Your presence is medically required.”
He stood frozen for a long beat, watching me like I was a puzzle with no solution. Then, finally, he groaned again and rubbed his temples like I was giving him early-onset stress disorder.
He didn’t say anything else.
But he didn’t throw me out either.
Victory.
____________
“Kiara…? Kiara…” Manav’s voice cut through my dreams like a persistent alarm that just wouldn’t quit until I finally opened my eyes.
“What time is your interview?” he asked, his face frustratingly flawless, like he’d been up for hours doing a photoshoot instead of, you know, existing like a normal human.
“What time is it?” I croaked, my voice still thick with sleep.
“Nine o’clock.”
“Holy shit!” I yelped, bolting upright. “They’ll be here any second!” Panic surged through me as I scrambled out of bed, sprinting toward the washroom without a second thought.
“Hey… that’s…” Manav’s voice trailed off behind me as I slammed the door shut, cutting him off just as a knock echoed from the front door.
I’m in Manav Oberoi’s bathroom!
First his bed, now his bathroom. And, of course, everything in here was drenched in his intoxicating scent—subtle, woodsy, and entirely too distracting.
My reflection in the mirror wasn’t helping either. Wild hair, puffy eyes, and the faintest trace of drool on my chin.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
I stared at the mirror in sheer disbelief. How did this happen? I’d only wanted to quickly wash my feet, but instead, I’d walked right into Manav’s shower—the showerhead hit me square in the face and soaked me from head to toe.
I cracked the bathroom door open, only to be greeted by not one gasp—but three.
Meeta and Kartik were standing in the doorway, staring at Manav and me like we’d just committed a murder.
Manav’s voice broke through the chaos, dripping with irritation as his scowl deepened. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”
Oh. Right. Somewhere between realizing my lacy sleepwear was soaked and panicking about the interview, I’d grabbed his shirt hanging on the door. It was a bit… oversized. And clung to me in all the wrong places.
Kartik cleared his throat awkwardly, his face a careful mask of neutrality, though his twitching lips betrayed him. Meeta, however, wasn’t so subtle—she elbowed Kartik hard in the side, her attempts to stifle her laughter failing miserably.
“Rough morning?” Meeta teased, her grin impossibly wide.
“Who even leaves the shower on?” I muttered, crossing my arms in annoyance as water dripped from my hair onto the floor.
Kartik and Meeta burst into uncontrollable laughter, while Manav, mid-cough, nearly choked himself trying to suppress whatever was left of his composure.
“Seriously, someone needs to tell your friend to see a doctor before he ends up choking on air,” I said, throwing up my hands in frustration and glaring at the giggling couple.
Meeta grinned, still unable to contain her laughter. “You two are not what I expected.”
Her grin widened as she whispered something to Kartik, who responded with a nod and a snicker.
Meanwhile, Manav shot them a death glare so intense it could’ve singed eyebrows. “Don’t you have some unfinished kisses to deal with instead of ruining my morning?” he narrowed his eyes at Kartik and Meeta.
Meeta stifled a giggle, dragging Kartik out of the room. Finally, they were gone. Manav, however, was still glaring at me—or maybe at the fact that I was wearing his shirt. Honestly, I couldn’t tell.
____________
The camera flashes, the crowd, and the relentless, rapid-fire questions were more than enough to drain me. I had somehow convinced the publishing and production team to wait another week for the final manuscript.
I have exactly one week to finish the final chapter, the one that’s held me hostage for what feels like forever.
The editorial team loved the first draft. My manager was practically obsessed with the dialogue. And now, after years of doubt and delay, my story is finally about to step into the world.
It was a big decision… but I’m ready.
Ready for things that once terrified me.
My publishing house in France is almost complete—the contractor’s thrilled about the interiors, and the marketing team is already prepping for the big launch. Every document I’ve received so far—the blueprints, branding layouts, and launch projections—feels like a dream finally aligning.
I’ve always dreamed of building a platform for stories that deserve to be heard—stories that haven’t been able to afford the steep price tags of traditional publishing.
There are writers out there with voices powerful enough to change the world— brilliant minds who just need guidance, belief, and a little push to shine.
That’s the vision behind my publishing house: to open doors where none existed before.
Everything is falling into place.
“Hey…” Meeta’s cheerful voice broke through my spiral of thoughts.
“Hi…” I replied.
“How was the interview?” she asked, “It looked intense!”
“Yeah… it was… tiring,” I said, letting out a long sigh of relief as I slipped off the heels that had been plotting my demise all day. My feet practically sighed in gratitude.
“I know what you need…” Meeta said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “A night out. Let’s go. We’ll have some drinks and celebrate!”
“Celebrate what?” I asked.
“It’s Manav’s birthday eve!” she said with a wink.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah… but you can’t tell him we’re celebrating his birthday.”
“So we’re celebrating his birthday without letting him know it’s about his birthday?” I asked, blinking at the sheer ridiculousness of the idea.
“Exactly!” Meeta said, her grin so wide now it was a wonder her cheeks didn’t hurt.
“Deal. Let’s go not celebrate the birthday of the sulkiest, grumpiest, and most handsome man in the history of mankind.”
“I like you, Kiara Randhawa.”
Kartik strolled over, casually wrapping his arms around Meeta and kissing her nose. “What’s going on here?”
“What’s wrong with you two… and your public kisses?” We turned to see Manav standing there.
“Hello to you, too, buddy,” Kartik said. “And should I remind you about the number of magazines flooded with kissing pictures of you and your ex-girlfriend—” He stopped mid-sentence, his face suddenly sheepish.
Manav didn’t even flinch. He simply walked over to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and took a long, deliberate drink. No response, no reaction—just pure, unbothered grumpiness.
And that’s when my brain decided to betray me. What did I tell you about his hands? Correction: Big Sexy Hands.
But no, I couldn’t stop there. Now my eyes were following the subtle movement of his Adam’s apple as this incredibly masculine man drank water. It was vexatious and hypnotic.
Oh God… I’ve gone insane.
I need help. No, scratch that—I need serious help! Preferably from someone who specializes in unnecessary attraction to moody, shirtless CEOs with impossibly attractive throats.
So this man kissed someone but rejected me. Am I now supposed to run across every digital archive in the universe just to read about his stupid kisses? Because now my brain is stuck on the thought of Manav Oberoi’s lips melting onto somebody else’s.
I shook my head violently, trying to shove the ridiculously inappropriate thoughts away.
Focus, Kiara, focus!
This is not your business. It’s not even remotely your concern who his lips are currently—or previously—occupied with.
But there’s no way I’m sleeping tonight without imagining what Manav Oberoi looks like when he’s kissing someone.
____________
“What can I get you guys?” the bartender asked, her gaze focusing a little too long on Manav’s muscular arms. I couldn’t blame her—those arms were worth staring at.
We settled at a corner table. Meeta and Kartik dove straight into one of their endless, overly affectionate conversations.
Meanwhile, Manav remained glued to his phone—his face unreadable, his fingers flying across the screen like he was shutting down a country.
But every few seconds, I swore he glanced up. Just once. Or maybe twice.
And me? I sat there, trying not to overthink it, but the writer’s block that had haunted me for weeks was finally easing—and yet, I was still grasping for something solid to keep it going.
A few rounds in, laughter, teasing, and casual banter gradually uplifted the vibe among us. Meeta and Kartik eventually decided to step outside for some air, leaving just Manav and me sitting at the table.
Manav’s voice broke through my hazy thoughts. “Where’s Elena tonight?”
“Her family had an emergency,” I replied, turning to face him. “I’ve arranged for someone to stay with me.”
His expression remained firm. “You’re not going to let any stranger in your room.”
I blinked at him—or rather, drunk Kiara blinked at him.
His eyes, his lips, his perfectly messy hair, that straight nose, and even his annoyingly symmetrical ears…
everything about him was so perfectly in place it was borderline unfair.
Yet tonight, he looked different—somehow even more striking.
Maybe it was the dim lighting, or maybe it was the alcohol turning my brain into mush.
“Stay in my room until Elena comes back,” he said, his frown making its signature appearance. Correction—his very cute frown. “And don’t touch my shirts again.”
“At least someone is wearing them.” I said, glancing at the time: 11:59. I tipped back my wine glass, downing the rest in one swift, reckless gulp.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile—just looked at me with those ridiculously unreadable eyes.