•| ELEVEN |•
The restaurant was warm, softly lit, and filled with the low hum of conversations, clinking cutlery, and the faint aroma of butter, spices, and freshly baked bread lingering in the air.
A soft instrumental tune played somewhere in the background — calm, almost romantic — which only made the situation feel more awkward for you.
You were seated right beside Krish at the round table, your mothers sitting across from you both, happily discussing wedding functions, guest lists, jewelry, and things that made your head spin faster than a ceiling fan in summer.
Every now and then, Mrs. Mehra would glance at you with fond eyes, while your mom nodded along enthusiastically, already behaving like this alliance was sealed by destiny itself.
Meanwhile, you and Krish sat stiffly side by side like two school kids forced to share a bench after fighting.
You stole a glance at him.
He looked calm on the outside — scrolling through his phone, jaw relaxed, posture composed — but you knew he was thinking. His brows would twitch slightly every few seconds, and his thumb had stopped scrolling long ago.
You hesitated… then lightly kicked his leg under the table.
No reaction.
You kicked again — a little harder this time.
He paused mid-scroll, eyes slowly shifting toward you without moving his head.
You widened your eyes slightly, subtly gesturing with your brows toward your mothers — silently telling him to say something.
He sighed faintly through his nose, immediately understanding the hint. Locking his phone, he placed it on the table and straightened slightly in his chair.
“Mom…” he began.
Both women stopped mid-conversation and looked at him.
He cleared his throat, suddenly formal. “I want to talk with Miss Samira… in person. Can I?”
Your eyes snapped toward him instantly.
Miss Samira?
You looked at him weirdly — suspicion, confusion, and mild betrayal flashing across your face like neon signs.
Both mothers, however, exchanged knowing smiles within seconds.
“Of course, beta,” your mom said warmly.
“Yes, yes… go,” Mrs. Mehra added, almost too eagerly. “You both should talk. It’s important.”
You internally groaned.
Krish stood up first, adjusting his blazer slightly, then glanced at you — gesturing subtly with his head for you to follow.
You rose from your chair, still looking at him like he had just announced a business merger instead of a private conversation.
Without another word, you both walked toward the restaurant’s balcony area — a quieter space separated by glass doors.
The moment you stepped outside, the atmosphere shifted.
Cool night air brushed against your skin, carrying faint city sounds — distant traffic, muffled horns, and the occasional laughter from inside. Decorative fairy lights were strung along the balcony railing, casting a soft golden glow around you both.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
As soon as you both stepped deeper into the quieter corner of the balcony — far enough from the glass doors, far enough that your mothers’ silhouettes were just blurry reflections behind you — the air between you shifted.
Before you could even process the sudden change in his expression, Krish moved.
His hand shot forward, gripping your wrist tightly — not painfully, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.
You gasped softly at the abrupt contact.
When you looked up, you froze.
His eyes… they weren’t calm anymore. The softness from a few seconds ago had vanished completely, replaced by a fierce, burning glare — sharp enough to slice through your composure. His jaw was clenched, nostrils flaring slightly as if he was holding back something explosive.
“Why the hell did you agree to this marriage, huh?” he demanded, voice low but dripping with venom. “Because you want money?”
The accusation hit you like a slap.
For a split second, shock rooted you to the spot — but then your pride flared instantly.
You scoffed loudly, jerking your wrist slightly in his hold.
“Excuse me?” you shot back, eyes narrowing. “I don’t want to marry an old man, okay?”
He stiffened at that.
“And for your kind information,” you continued, voice rising with irritation, “it’s not about money. I just… can’t deny my parents.”
Your tone softened slightly at the last part — conflicted, helpless.
“Why don’t you tell your mom that you don’t want this?” you fired back, chin lifting stubbornly.
That made him pause.
His grip on your wrist loosened — but he didn’t let go.
For a moment, he looked away, gaze drifting toward the city lights beyond the railing. His expression shifted again… not angry this time — burdened.
“I can’t deny her,” he said quietly.
Then after a beat — softer, heavier —
“…and Kiaan.”
You frowned slightly, confusion flickering across your face at the unfamiliar name — but before you could ask, your brain jumped to a different track.
An idea.
A very stupid… but brilliant idea — at least in your head.
Your eyes lit up suddenly.
“Let’s do one thing, Mr…” you trailed, realizing you’d never properly used his name without sarcasm.
He glanced at you suspiciously. “What?”
A slow, mischievous smile spread across your lips — the kind that instantly made him wary.
“Cancel this marriage.”
He blinked.
You nodded proudly, clearly impressed by your own genius.
“Yes. Simple.”
He stared at you like you’d just suggested robbing a bank.
“Please,” you continued enthusiastically, grabbing his arm with both hands now. “Tell them you don’t like me and don’t wanna marry me.”
His brows knitted together.
“You’re the groom — they’ll listen to you more. Just say I’m childish, irritating, immature… whatever you want.”
He let out a short, disbelieving exhale.
You, however, were already smiling like a problem had been solved.
“Okay, let’s go,” you said quickly, tugging at his hand. “We’ll tell them right now before dessert arrives.”
“Come on,” you insisted, trying harder — but he remained rooted like a statue.
Slowly… very slowly… he looked down at your hand wrapped around his wrist. Then his gaze lifted back to your face.
There was disbelief there. And something else — something unreadable.
“You think it’s that easy?” he asked quietly.
You faltered slightly — but your stubbornness didn’t let you back down.
“Yes.”
He let out a humorless chuckle, running his free hand through his hair in frustration.
“You really are a kid.”
You frowned. “Stop calling me that.”
Ignoring your protest,he turned and began walking back toward the restaurant.
You walked back inside the restaurant beside him, your mind still spinning from the conversation on the balcony. Your heartbeat hadn’t calmed yet — irritation, nervousness, and confusion all mixing into one restless storm inside your chest.
Still… you forced a smile onto your lips the moment you reached the table.
Your parents had raised you well — no matter what chaos was going on inside your head, you knew how to compose yourself outside.
So you sat down gracefully in your chair, smoothing your dress under the table, fingers slightly trembling but hidden behind the napkin resting on your lap.
Krish pulled his chair beside you, his expression unreadable — calm, almost indifferent, as if the heated argument from five minutes ago had never even happened.
That annoyed you even more.
You kept throwing side glances at him, your eyes practically screaming say no… say no… say no…
He didn’t even look at you.
Instead, he picked up the menu card again, casually flipping the pages as if he was more interested in dessert options than the life-altering conversation about to happen.
And then —
“So, Krish…” Mrs. Mehra’s voice chimed sweetly across the table.
Both of you looked up.
She was smiling — that hopeful, glowing motherly smile that carried years of silent prayers in it.
“Do you like her?” she asked directly, gesturing toward you.
Your breath hitched.
Your eyes immediately darted to Krish.
This was it.
This was the moment.
You widened your eyes slightly, trying to signal him — Say no. Remember the plan. Say you don’t like me. Say I’m childish. Say something!
Your foot nudged his under the table.
Once.
Twice.
Harder.
He finally glanced at you.
And instead of irritation… you saw amusement flicker in his eyes for a split second.
Your brows furrowed in warning.
Don’t you dare.
But he already had.
Krish turned back to his mother… and nodded his head.
Yes.
For a second, your brain refused to process what just happened.
Then your eyes widened so much they almost popped out of their sockets.
He nodded.
NODDED?!
Air got stuck in your throat.
You tried to swallow but failed — and the next second you were choking, coughing uncontrollably as if the universe itself was protesting his answer.
“Omggg, dear!” Mrs. Mehra panicked instantly, pushing her chair back.
She grabbed the water glass and hurriedly handed it to you.
“Careful, careful… are you okay?” she asked, rubbing your back gently.
You grabbed the glass, gulping water quickly — more to hide your shock than your cough.
“Y-yes… I’m fine,” you forced out, nodding with an awkward smile.
But the moment you lowered the glass… your eyes shot straight to Krish.
If looks could kill — he would’ve been cremated on the restaurant floor.
You glared at him with full intensity, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a tight line.
He, however, looked completely unfazed.
In fact — he had the audacity to sip his juice calmly.
That made your blood boil more.
The rest of the dinner continued with cheerful conversations — wedding dates, shopping plans, guest lists — all the things that made your stomach twist tighter with every passing minute.
But you barely heard any of it.
Because your entire focus was on the man sitting beside you.
Every time he spoke politely to your mom… you glared.
Every time he nodded obediently to his mother… you glared harder.
At one point, he reached for the bread basket — and you moved it slightly away out of pure pettiness.
He paused.
Glanced at you sideways.
You stared back sweetly — but your eyes screamed war.
He almost smirked.
Almost.
To everyone else, you looked like a shy bride sitting quietly beside her groom.
But under the table — your foot kept kicking his leg in silent revenge.
Not hard enough to create a scene.
Just enough to say —
Traitor.
And Krish, while maintaining his composed exterior… finally leaned slightly closer to you and whispered under his breath —
“Keep glaring like that… people will think you’re madly in love with me.”
Your glare deepened instantly.
If eyes were weapons — he’d have surrendered by now.