Bonus Epilogue （Kiara）
Five years later
“I hate this… I hate this. Why on earth did they grow avocados?” I groaned, slumping over the counter like the weight of the world—and my avocado-infused diet—had finally broken me.
Across the kitchen, Manav chuckled, eyes sparkling with entirely too much amusement as he stirred some pink abomination in the blender.
“Your cheeseballs are ready, baby,” he called out.
Then, holding up a glass of smoothie like it was sacred, he added with a smirk,
“But you don’t eat them anymore… remember?”
Murder, I decided, was still illegal. Unfortunately.
Oh, right. Did I forget to mention?
After Dadi gave us her heartfelt blessings—and called us both “emotionally constipated idiots”—Manav took her advice about staying close to nature very seriously.
So now? He’s a full-time farmer, part-time businessman… and 100% insane.
And what does this beautiful lunatic grow?
Organic. Freaking. Avocados.
Endless, eww-worthy, green mush balls that he proudly harvests and lovingly feeds me like it’s foreplay.
I hate how much I’ve started to like them.
Help.
If someone had told me five years ago that my life would revolve around avocados and love stories, I would’ve laughed them straight out of the room.
But here I am—living on a farm, drinking smoothies I once considered a punishment, and somehow… happier than I’ve ever been.
Three months after our dramatic, tear-soaked confession, we got married at The Cape House in Beaufort—the most magical place on Earth. And we never really left.
Manav runs the business remotely, his phone buzzing with a hundred calls a day from Justin and Sasha. Yet, he still finds time to grow vegetables, charm the village committee, and make me feel like the center of his universe.
My publishing house in France is thriving—elegant, independent, and somehow running like clockwork. I visit once a year, and every time, I beam with quiet pride as thousands of books roll off the press.
Books that matter. Stories that deserve to be heard.
After Manav exposed Vihaan’s truth to the media, my father finally reclaimed me as his daughter.
We’re not close. Not the way I once wished we could be.
But we meet now and then. And for the first time in years… he doesn’t look through me.
And that’s enough.
For now.
“Cheeseball… your smoothie is ready,” he calls, rounding the counter with that boyish grin that still makes my heart trip over itself.
And I think—maybe love isn’t about grand gestures or perfect timing.
Maybe it’s avocado smoothies and stolen kisses in sunlit kitchens.
“Kill me now,” I groaned, reaching for him dramatically.
But before I could launch into my daily smoothie protest, he leaned down, kissed my forehead, and placed the glass in front of me.
“Are you okay?” he asked—for what had to be the hundredth time today.
I rolled my eyes. “You’ve already asked me a hundred times. It doesn’t change the fact that I look like a pumpkin about to explode.”
He smirked, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You don’t look like a pumpkin.”
I raised a brow.
He grinned. “Pumpkins look like you.”
I narrowed my eyes and grabbed a tissue to throw at him, but he was faster. In one smooth move, he pulled me into a hug.
“I love you,” he murmured into my hair.
“Once these babies are out, I’m eating ten thousand cheeseballs a day,” I declared. “No avocados. No smoothies. Just cheese.”
“Deal,” Manav said, laughing as he handed me the dreaded smoothie anyway.
Did I mention I’m eight months pregnant? With twins?
And apparently, these two tiny humans have inherited their father’s obsession with avocados. They won’t let me eat anything but toast, salad, sandwiches, smoothies—you name it.
And yet… I can’t wait to meet them.
Manav insists they’re girls. He talks to them every night—tells them bedtime stories while rubbing my belly like it’s the most sacred thing in the universe.
Sometimes I catch him smiling at my bump like it holds every answer he’s ever searched for.
And somehow, in this absurd, avocado-filled chapter of our lives… I’ve never felt more whole.
And in those moments, I realize something.
Love isn’t a grand destination. It’s a journey of a thousand imperfect moments, stitched together with laughter, tears, and whispers in the dark. It’s not about finding someone who completes you—it’s about finding someone who stands beside you as you both grow into who you were always meant to be.
It’s the chaos of everyday life—the forgotten anniversaries, the silly arguments over who finished the last slice of pizza, the uncontrollable laughter over jokes no one else would understand.
It’s in the avocado smoothies you hate but drink anyway, just because the one who made it looks at you like you’re their favorite thing in the universe.
It’s the quiet, unspoken moments no one writes songs about—the way their hand finds yours in the middle of the night. The way they remember how you take your coffee. The way they just know when you need a hug and don’t ask why.
It’s in those little things. The things that whisper, “Even in this chaotic world, you are someone’s peace.”
Believe in that—not because love is easy, but because it’s worth it.
Not because it completes you, but because it reveals you. The most authentic version of you. The version brave enough to be vulnerable—to show someone every scar, every flaw, every fear—and trust that they’ll hold those pieces with gentle hands. Not to fix you, but to love you exactly as you are.
And maybe… that’s what it means to be truly drunk on love.
Not blinded by it. Illuminated.
So if you’re lucky enough to find it—hold it tight. Nurture it. Celebrate it.
To the dreamers, the cynics, the hopeless romantics, and everyone in between—if you’ve ever been drunk on love, you know it’s the best kind of intoxication.
And if you haven’t?
When it finds you, it’ll hit harder than any cocktail ever could.
It’ll leave you dizzy, glowing, and grinning like an idiot—wondering how you ever lived without it.
Here’s to love: messy, beautiful, and absolutely worth every damn hangover.