Chapter 31
Messy bun, mascara smudged, soul slightly cracked.
I left the launch right after the final interview.
Smiled. Waved. Lied.
The moment the cameras were off, I slipped out the back and into silence.
I couldn’t pretend anymore. Not when my heart was somewhere else. With someone who didn’t even show up.
I miss him. Like hell.
And Myra—God bless her chaos—is busy rambling about some new bisexual guy she met, trying to figure out if she wants to date him, flirt with him, or get skincare tips from him. All while I’m boiling pasta and debating if it’s edible or a future science experiment.
The stove hisses as I dump half a pack of penne into the water. White sauce pasta. That’s what he used to make for me.
Manav used to say, “You don’t need to cook if I’m here.”
Well, he’s not here.
“Are you sure you can handle that?” Myra calls from the couch.
“Don’t worry. The fire department’s on speed dial.”
“We could just order, you know,” she groans.
The bell rings.
Finally. Her precious pizza. She scrambles to the door like it’s a million-dollar delivery. I stay glued to the stove, poking the pasta like it wronged me.
How much boiled is too boiled?
Manav used to cook like he was solving an equation. Me? I’m just trying not to burn the house down.
My hands are shaking as I chop the vegetables.
Not because I’m nervous.
Because I’m angry. And hurt. And starving.
He said he wouldn’t miss my book launch for anything.
Anything.
And he didn’t even show up.
I want to scream. Or cry. Or throw the pasta out the window and pretend I’m not falling apart over a man who promised to be there.
But instead, I stir the sauce.
And pretend this is just another night.
And that I’m not cooking to fill the silence he left behind.
I was blabbering pure nonsense to myself—about the sauce, about life, about men who promise things and don’t show up—while the pasta mockingly bubbled in the pan like it had something to say.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered to the sauce. “I tried, okay?”
Myra hadn’t returned from answering the door. Which could only mean one thing—she was flirting with the pizza guy. Again.
This girl could not stay single for more than a sneeze.
I squinted at the pan. Why does this sauce look like… paint? Did I forget something? Cheese? Butter? Dignity?
The pasta was clumping into a burnt mass at the bottom of the pot. Perfect. Just perfect.
“Oh god.”
I slammed my palm against the counter and yanked the stove knob off like it personally betrayed me.
I was about to storm off, mid-breakdown, when—a low voice cut through the kitchen.
“Need help?”
I froze. Every muscle in my body stiffened.
Because that voice wasn’t Myra. And it sure as hell wasn’t the pizza guy.
I turned slowly. And nearly passed out.
Because standing in the doorway, tall and quiet and completely out of place in my chaos, was—
Manav.
He looked exhausted. Rumpled. And unfairly gorgeous. And he was here. In my kitchen. Watching me lose a fight with pasta like it was the most important moment of his life.
My breath caught.
He took one step into the kitchen. Then another. No words. No excuses.
Just Manav Oberoi, in all his quiet, maddening glory—standing in front of me like he never left.
I folded my arms, partly because I was freezing… partly because, if I didn’t hold myself together, I’d fall apart.