•| SIX |•
Wearing your blue anarkali dress, you stood in front of the mirror for the fifth time in ten minutes—turning slightly from one side to the other, smoothing the fabric over your waist, adjusting the fall near your ankles.
The dress was simple… but elegant.
The deep blue shade complemented your skin beautifully, the delicate embroidery near the neckline catching the light just enough to make it look festive without being overdone.
“Damn… it looks so beautiful,” you whispered to yourself, a shy smile forming on your lips.
You rarely got chances to dress up like this—between university, part-time work, and household responsibilities—so today felt special.
Carefully, you reached for your matching oxidized earrings, fastening them slowly while tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. A small bindi, a light swipe of kajal, and finally—a faint dab of perfume along your neck.
Not too strong.
Just enough to feel fresh.
You took one last look in the mirror, inhaled deeply, and smiled.
“Perfect.”
Today was your brunch date with Riya—your best friend, your safe space, the one person you could laugh freely with without worrying about responsibilities.
Grabbing your bag, you stepped out of the house and began walking toward the bus stop at the end of the lane.
The late morning sun was warm but pleasant, a gentle breeze moving the hem of your anarkali as you walked. You held the dupatta carefully over one shoulder, making sure it didn’t slip.
Reaching the bus stop, you stood near the pole, adjusting your dress again out of habit while glancing at the road every few seconds.
You checked the time on your phone.
11:46 AM.
“It’s getting late, uff,” you muttered, biting your lip slightly.
Riya hated waiting—and you hated making her wait even more.
After another minute of no bus in sight, you sighed and stepped a little closer to the roadside, scanning for an auto or taxi instead.
Your eyes moved from one passing vehicle to another—hopeful each time… disappointed seconds later.
You were so focused on spotting a ride…
You didn’t notice the speeding car approaching from the puddle-filled edge of the road.
It happened in a split second.
The car zoomed past—
And the tire sliced straight through the muddy water pooled near the curb.
A loud splash followed.
Cold, dirty water sprayed across your dress—from the hem all the way up to your side—staining the beautiful blue fabric with ugly brown blotches.
You froze.
For a moment, you couldn’t even react.
You just stared down at your dress in disbelief, watching droplets slide down the embroidery you had admired minutes ago.
“What the—!”
The words died halfway in your throat, shock replacing anger for a second.
But then frustration rushed in fast.
You looked up sharply, ready to glare at the reckless driver—
And that’s when you noticed…
The car had stopped.
A few feet ahead of you.
I straight marched toward the car, anger bubbling inside my chest, my wet anarkali clinging uncomfortably to my legs. The sound of my bangles clinking against each other echoed as I knocked sharply on the tinted window.
“Excuse me!” I called out, my voice louder than I had intended, but at that moment I didn’t care.
The window slid down smoothly, revealing a man sitting inside. He looked like he was in his early thirties — sharp jawline, neatly styled hair, expensive watch glinting under the sunlight, and an expression that looked more irritated than apologetic.
Before I could even speak again, he stepped out of the car, towering over me with an air of authority that immediately annoyed me more.
“How much?” he asked casually, pulling out his wallet.
For a second, I thought I had heard him wrong.
“What??”
“How much for your dress?” he repeated, as if he were asking the price of vegetables in a market.
My mouth fell open in disbelief.
“What the— wow. Just look at your audacity!” I snapped, my brows knitting together. “You just ruined my dress and now you’re throwing money at me like it’ll fix everything?”
He looked me up and down, completely unfazed by my anger.
“Uncle, are you crazy?” I blurted out in frustration.
His eyes narrowed instantly.
“Uncle??” he repeated slowly, stepping closer. “Yeah, you — kid. I’m offering you money already. Just take it and leave.”
His tone was arrogant, dismissive… like I was nothing but an inconvenience in his day.
Such a jerk.
“I don’t need your money,” I shot back, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.
By now people had started slowing down near us. A couple of college girls whispered to each other, an old uncle paused his scooter, and an auto driver openly stared. Heat crept up my neck — half from anger, half from embarrassment.
He exhaled sharply, clearly losing patience.
“What do you want then? A branded dress?” he said, voice laced with sarcasm. “Fine. I’ll buy it.”
I blinked at him, stunned by the sheer arrogance dripping from his words.
“Is he real…?” I muttered under my breath. “For God’s sake, how can someone be this arrogant?”
He heard that.
“Listen,” he said, running a hand through his hair as if trying to stay calm, “I don’t have time for drama. You came in front of my car, water splashed, it happens. I’m compensating you. End of story.”
“I came in front of your car??” I repeated incredulously. “You were the one speeding through a puddle like this road belongs to your father!”
“It practically does,” he replied without missing a beat.
My jaw clenched.
“Oh wow. Money really can’t buy manners, can it?”
He stepped closer again, lowering his voice so only I could hear.
“Careful with your tone.”
“Or what?” I challenged, lifting my chin. “You’ll buy the road too?”
For the first time, a flicker of something — irritation mixed with amusement — crossed his face.
“You talk a lot.”
“And you think money solves everything.”
He pulled out a card and held it toward me.
“Take this. Go to any store, buy whatever you want, send the bill.”
I stared at the card but didn’t take it.
“I said I don’t want your money.”
A tense silence stretched between us. Cars passed, horns blared faintly in the background, but in that moment it felt like the world had paused just to watch our argument.
He sighed, this time longer, like I was the most exhausting problem he had dealt with all day.
“Then what do you want?” he asked again, slower now.
I pointed at my dress.
“You could start with an apology.”
That seemed to catch him off guard.
“An apology?” he repeated, as if the word was foreign to him.
“Yes. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ won’t bankrupt you, Mr…?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied my face — properly this time — noticing the stubborn set of my lips, the anger in my eyes, the water stains spreading across the blue fabric.
“You want me to say sorry to you?” he asked slowly, like the idea itself was ridiculous.
I nodded my head without hesitation, folding my arms across my chest, trying to look as firm as I felt inside.
“Yes. That’s exactly what I want.”
For a second he just stared at me — silent, unreadable — then suddenly he scoffed, the corner of his lips lifting in disbelief.
The sound made me frown instantly.
“Krish Mehra never says sorry to anyone,” he said, his voice dripping with pride and arrogance. “Got it?”
I gasped softly at his sheer insolence.
Never says sorry?
What kind of man even says that out loud like it’s an achievement?
“Wow…” I let out a dry laugh. “Should I clap for you then? You ruined my dress and you’re proud that you don’t apologize?”
He didn’t respond.
Instead, he just adjusted his watch calmly, like this whole conversation bored him.
I stepped closer, anger bubbling again.
“You know what? Money really can’t buy class. Or manners.”
His jaw ticked slightly, but he still said nothing.
I opened my mouth to continue — to give him a piece of my mind — but before I could speak, he turned away from me entirely and walked back toward his car.
He opened the door, got inside, and shut it without even sparing me another glance.
My mouth fell open.
“Excuse me?!” I called out.
No response.
He started the engine.
“Wow… seriously? You’re just leaving?” I said louder, disbelief mixing with irritation.
The car window slid up.
He didn’t even look at me.
“Yah… you uncle!” I shouted in frustration, throwing my hands in the air.
Without listening to another word, he drove off, the car speeding away from the curb as if I had never existed.
I stood there for a moment, stunned.
Then I huffed loudly.
“Stupid uncle,” I muttered, looking down at my soaked blue dress.
The muddy water had stained the hem badly, the fabric clinging awkwardly to my legs. I tried to shake off the droplets, brushing at the cloth uselessly.
“Great… just great. Perfect start to the day,” I grumbled, fixing the dupatta on my shoulder and trying to smooth the wrinkles.
People were still glancing at me as they passed.
I sighed, embarrassed, and turned slightly away from the road, focusing on cleaning the dress as much as possible.
—
Meanwhile…
Inside the car, Krish drove in silence, his grip firm on the steering wheel.
“Dumb kid,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.
But the image of your angry face — those furious eyes, the way you demanded an apology without fear — kept flashing in his mind.
He exhaled sharply.
“Why am I even thinking about this?”
He loosened his tie slightly, irritation creeping in — though he couldn’t tell whether it was irritation at you… or himself.
“You want me to say sorry…” he repeated mockingly, but his voice lacked its earlier arrogance now.
A faint crease formed between his brows.
For a brief second… he felt guilty.
He remembered how the water had splashed hard… how your dress had darkened instantly… how embarrassed you had looked when people started staring.
His fingers tightened on the wheel.
“Focus, Krish,” he said to himself firmly, as if snapping out of something dangerous.
“It was an accident. And you offered money. That’s enough.”
Still… the word sorry lingered in his mind.
He clicked his tongue in annoyance.
“I don’t owe anyone apologies.”
A few minutes later, his car entered the parking lot of his company building.
He parked smoothly in his reserved spot, the engine going silent.
But he didn’t step out immediately.
Instead, he leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes for a brief second.
Your voice echoed again —
‘Money can’t buy manners.’
His jaw clenched.
“…Annoying girl.”
Yet strangely… the faintest trace of guilt still sat heavy in his chest.
He opened his eyes, shook his head once more, and stepped out of the car, slipping back into his usual cold, composed businessman persona as he walked toward the building.
“Focus on work,” he muttered.
But despite himself…
That stubborn, blue-dressed girl stayed somewhere in his thoughts.