Chapter 20
The entire social media has officially lost its mind. My Instagram is under siege, flooded with millions of messages every single minute. The hot topic? Me—Kiara Randhawa—the new girlfriend of Manav Oberoi. Yes, that’s right, me.
How did I even get here? I feel like I’ve accidentally walked into some twisted alternate universe. My millions of followers are officially unhinged, and it’s like the entire world has suddenly decided they have nothing better to do than dissect my relationship with Manav Oberoi.
And the worst part? He was right: when I argued about wanting to go home, he warned me this would happen.
There are unscheduled interviews lined up outside my house, paparazzi crowding every corner, and endless speculation circling the media like sharks scenting blood.
So here I am, stranded in the middle of Manav Oberoi’s palace while he works his culinary magic like a five-star chef and conducts back-to-back calls on his phone.
Yes, the palace. Calling this place a home would be a massive understatement.
It’s a white fortress with marble floors, towering ceilings, chandeliers, and enough space to house a small country.
Eight hours ago, Manav practically kidnapped me—okay, rescued me—and brought me here, and since then, he has fed me twice with dishes so delicious they could bring world peace.
Now it’s dinnertime, and he’s at it again, cooking something that smells suspiciously heavenly.
But let’s be real: My life is a circus right now. Sure, the food is amazing, the surroundings are out of a dream, and I’m grateful to be tucked away from the media storm outside. Yet there’s a nagging problem:
Manav Oberoi is not talking to me.
Not a single word. Not since his dramatic airport performance, where he introduced me to the world as his girlfriend.
He’s polite, yes—he made sure I ate, showed me my room, served coffee, and pointed out that I could press zero on the guest room phone if I needed anything.
There were moments, though—moments when I caught him looking at me, his expression lost in thought.
But the second our gazes met, he would abruptly look away, pretending to scroll through his phone or focus on the table.
Unlike Roy’s bustling estate, Manav’s home has minimal staff—a detail I’m profoundly grateful for. Right now, I’m seated in his pristine, luxurious kitchen, waiting for dinner, and judging by his long-standing frown, I can tell something’s bothering him. Is it me?
What did I do?
The signs of his frustration are impossible to miss.
In the last five minutes alone, he’s fired three people over a background clearance issue related to me—an issue I don’t even fully understand.
His voice was practically murderous as he was furious with some poor Mr. Patel over the phone threatening to fire the entire security department if he received one more call about safety protocols.
And me? I’ve decided the safest course of action is to eat quietly, finish my dinner, and retreat to the guest room. Not that I’ll get any sleep tonight—I’ve already accepted that as a fact. But at least I’ll be out of the line of fire.
“Do you want masala rice or plain rice?” Manav’s voice drew my attention to him as he stirred the pan with precision. His tone was casual, but something about the way his shoulders were slightly hunched and the faint circles under his eyes told a different story. He looked… tired?
“Um… anything,” I replied softly, offering a hesitant smile.
“Choose one.” His gaze flicked to mine briefly before returning to the pan.
“Plain is fine,” I said quickly, not wanting to complicate things further.
He nodded, his movements deliberate as he retrieved two plates from the cabinet. I stood and began setting the table, arranging the water glasses and condiments. It wasn’t much, but at least it made me feel a little useful.
Once everything was in place, we sat down to eat. The only sounds were the clink of silverware and the occasional soft scrape of plates. Manav was focused on his food, his jaw set, and his posture radiating tension. Should I ask what’s wrong?
I glanced at him, trying to gauge if it was safe to bring it up. But his expression was unreadable, his eyes fixed on his plate like it held all the answers he was searching for.
So, I stayed quiet.
____________
There’s a girl named Nancy in my room, meticulously making the bed with the precision of a five-star hotel staff. After a brief chat, I learned she’s been assigned to keep me company at night in case I can’t sleep.
What exactly is going on here?
Alright, enough of this confusion. I deserve to know what’s wrong with Manav Oberoi today and, more importantly, what I might have done to upset him.
I’ve already changed into my nightwear, jumped onto the bed, and grabbed my phone, which has been switched off for hours thanks to the never-ending flood of messages.
As expected, there are nearly a thousand missed calls, with a solid 750 of them from Myra. Of course, she must have seen the news or caught wind of the social media circus.
But I ignored it all for now, choosing instead to type out a message to the grumpy Manav Oberoi.
Me: Why are you avoiding me?
Almost immediately, my phone buzzed with his reply.
Manav: I am not avoiding you.
I sighed, typing quickly.
Me: Have I done something to make you mad? Or is this just how you behave as a host?
It took a minute for him to reply:
Manav: Are you not feeling comfortable here?
Me: I miss talking to you…
His response came quickly:
Manav: What do you want to talk about?
Me: Obviously not about the dark and long beautiful hair of Nancy.
Manav: Is she bothering you?
Me: Can I hug her?
There was another pause, and I stared at the screen until his reply finally chimed in.
Manav: No physical contact with her.
Me: I’m damn tired tonight, my brain is technically fried, and I need to hug someone.
Manav: There are five million pillows in your room; go ahead and hug one.
Me: I need to go home.
Manav: Wait till tomorrow. The media are camping at your doorstep. Unless you want to tell them gossip about our relationship, I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Me: There is no relationship.
Manav: For the world, we are madly in love with each other.
Me: It was a very, very insane mistake announcing me as your fake girlfriend.
Manav: I don’t think so.
Me: Social media is telling me otherwise.
Manav: I don’t care.
Me: Can we talk? Like in person…
Manav: Tomorrow.
Me: Is this how you behave with your girlfriend, with whom you are madly in love?
Manav: Go to sleep, Kiara.
Me: I’m not sleeping until you tell me what’s going on.
Manav: I’m just… tired. It’s been a long day.
Me: We need to talk.
There was no response for the next ten minutes.
Manav: Not tonight. Good night.
Frustrated, I stared at my phone screen for a few more moments before tossing it onto the bed. Nancy, comfortably sprawled on one side of the bed, lay fast asleep.
I couldn’t lie there anymore, not while my thoughts screamed louder than my silence.
My chest felt too tight, the walls too close.
I needed air, light, noise—anything but stillness.
I stood up and quietly stepped out of the room, heading toward the kitchen.
I needed something to calm my overworked mind—a strong coffee to process everything that had happened.
As I entered the kitchen, the dim lights cast a soft glow across the marble countertops, making the entire place look both eerily silent and strangely comforting.
The air was still, the only sound being the soft hum of the refrigerator.
I moved toward the cabinet, searching for the coffee powder, when I felt an odd presence.
Turning around, I saw him—Manav Oberoi—sitting on a stool, typing on his laptop while his piercing gaze fixed on me. His shirt was slightly crumpled, and his usually sharp appearance was replaced with a weariness that softened his edges. “What are you doing?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I replied, fumbling with the jar in my hands. “Need some coffee.”
He stood up and stepped closer. “Caffeine won’t fix whatever’s keeping you up.”
My breath caught, my heart pounding louder than I would’ve liked. I swallowed the lump in my throat and met his eyes.
“And what exactly will?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he walked past me, his arm brushing mine as he reached for the coffee jar. “Let me make it…”
I stepped aside, watching him work. His movements were slow and methodical. After a few moments, he slid a steaming mug across the counter toward me and leaned against the opposite side., “What do you want to talk about?”
“Your extra grumpiness…”
“I’m always grumpy,” he replied, avoiding my gaze.
“No. Something has changed since I left Beaufort, and I want to know what.” I set my coffee mug down and stepped closer to him, placing my hand over his on the counter. His body stiffened, and I noticed the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.
“Why do I feel like I’ve lost a friend?” My fingers curled into his.
He opened his eyes and gently pulled me closer. “You haven’t lost anything. You couldn’t, even if you tried.”
One of his hands tightened around mine.
“I thought I was fine, you know?” His voice was low, almost a whisper. “Before you came in… I thought I’d figured out how to live in the ruins I’d built around myself.”
He paused, eyes flickering downward. “But you—”
A breath. A shake of his head. “You lit a match.”
I swallowed hard, my chest pulling tight.
He looked up.
And this time, his gaze wasn’t just grateful—it was bare. Open in a way that made something deep inside me ache.
“And the person who made me breathe again…” His voice broke. “Left with a note.”
My breath caught.
And my heart—
It cracked wide open.
“I…” I started, but the words fractured before they could form. “I didn’t mean to…”