CHAPTER 46
AARAV
The date.
Fuck. I was supposed to be home by seven.
I scramble up from my chair, papers flying, and yell a quick apology to the team still buried in work.
I don’t give a shit about apologies, but Anika would kill me if she ever knew that’s how I behave with people, not that she will ever know. "Don't wait up! Email me the rest!"
My phone buzzes with a message from Anika. It’s not even words—just a single red heart, followed by the knife emoji.
I deserve that.
Traffic is a nightmare. My leg bounces the entire drive home, palms gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
I replay everything I wanted to do tonight.
Everything I planned. I wanted to see her smile.
I wanted to make up for the shit show our marriage has been. Maybe finally tell her my feelings too.
And now? I’m about to walk into an angry wife, probably in full glam, waiting for me for over an hour.
If there’s someone who can scare me, it’s my family.
And her. I am terrified of her; I have always been.
I remember once I was supposed to complete her math homework, which obviously she blackmailed me to do, and I forgot.
I had to make up for that one time by doing her homework for a month.
And in those days that meant sleepless nights and lots of scolding from Maa for not going to bed early and standing outside class because I slept in lectures.
She did forgive me in a week, but she is too powerful.
I park like a madman, jog up the steps two at a time, and burst through the door.
She’s standing in the middle of our bedroom.
Red dress. Hair done. Lips glossed. Eyes sharp.
Wow. She looks beautiful. Then again, when does she not?
I give her a sheepish smile as I take in her face; I’ve seen her angry. I’ve seen her annoyed. But this… this is disappointment. And that somehow feels worse.
“You forgot.” Her arms are crossed, chin tilted just enough to make my heart drop.
“I didn’t forget.” I step closer. “I got stuck. Last-minute meeting. But tonight—it’s not ruined. Please, let me fix it.”
Her eyes narrow. “Fix it? Aarav, I sat here for an hour, like a fool, thinking maybe you were outside with flowers or some surprise. But nothing.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out a small key. “I have something better.”
She doesn’t move. So I walk to her, slowly, close enough to smell her perfume—vanilla and something that always drives me crazy.
“I know I messed up. And you have every right to be pissed. But, Anika,” I pause, fingers brushing hers, “do you really think I could forget a date with the woman I am obsessed with?”
Her eyes soften, barely. “You’re late.”
“But not too late.” I bend down and kiss her knuckles. “Give me this night. Just tonight. If I mess it up, you get full rights to murder me with that butter knife you hide in the closet.”
Her lips twitch, fighting a smile. “You know about the butter knife?”
“Of course. It’s for bread and butter you have every alternative night,” I chuckle, “because you are hungry and feel embarrassed to go down in the kitchen and eat actual food. Am I right or am I right?” I smirk.
Her mouth widens. “You knew?”
“Of course, why do you think you found the chips and chocolates in the closet?” I peck her lips. “It was meant for you; you know I rarely have them.” She looks at me dumbfounded and then rises on her tiptoes, kissing my cheek softly.
“Fine, I am forgiving you this one time.” She pokes my chest, and I smile triumphantly.
She exhales and shakes her head. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” I wink as I take hold of her hand, intertwining our fingers.
“We should inform—” I say, but she interrupts me.
“I have already informed Maa, plus she is out right now.” She smiles, making my lips curl up. This smile is what makes my life worth living. She has no idea what I have missed.
We make our way to the car. I pull open the door for her.
She mutters a soft “thank you,” not quite meeting my eyes, but there’s a twitch in the corner of her lips—like her smile’s trying to win the war against her pride.
She slips in, her dress brushing against my hand, and I shut the door gently before jogging around to my side.
Once I’m in, I start the engine. My right hand naturally finds hers, fingers tangling.
She doesn’t stop me. She even tries to act annoyed, staring out the window like the view suddenly matters, but her thumb brushes mine—slow and soft, like muscle memory, like her heart’s already forgiven me and her ego is just trying to catch up.
We don’t talk much during the drive, but it’s not uncomfortable.
It’s the kind of silence that hums between two people who’ve known each other a long time, the kind that doesn’t need filling.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up to this quiet rooftop studio I rented out.
From the outside, it doesn’t look like much.
Just another building in the city. But I see her brows knit together as I get out and walk around to open her door again.
She steps out, adjusting her red dress. The heels she’s wearing click lightly against the concrete.
“Aarav?” she asks, eyes scanning the empty surroundings. Confused. Curious.
I smile, slipping my fingers into hers and tugging her toward the elevator. “Just come.”
She doesn’t resist.
Once we’re on the rooftop, the doors open to soft golden lights strung like stars across the canopy.
There’s a light breeze up here. The city looks distant and quiet.
And in the middle of it all are two easels, blank canvases, a wooden table with paint sets, brushes, and even her favorite—those soft blending sponges she used to rave about when we were kids.
Music plays gently from a speaker in the corner.
Low, old-school Hindi, just enough to fill the silence without stealing the moment.
She stops walking. Her fingers tighten in mine.
“What is this?” She breathes, her voice barely above a whisper.
I step in front of her, taking both her hands this time. “You like painting, Anu.”
She blinks.
“I never see you do it anymore,” I continue, my voice a little rougher than I want it to be, because this means more to me than I realized.
I mean, yes, she did when I asked her to, and it was a pretty painting of a devil; it’s hung up in my office.
Every time I walk in and my eyes land on the painting, I chuckle imagining Anika’s face while painting it.
She must have thought it would annoy me, but it only amused me.
“It used to be your whole world. You’d paint on walls, school notebooks, your palm, my palm, my shirt—remember when you ruined my white uniform with that stupid blue splash? ”
Her lips twitch again, that smile threatening.
“You wanted to be an artist when we were kids. I don’t know if that’s still what you want... maybe life got in the way. But tonight, I just—” I pause, breathing in. “I wanted to give you back a piece of that world.”
Her eyes glisten. I pull her close, brushing my thumb across her knuckles. “You matter to me, Anika. Every little piece of you. The one who paints, the one who sulks when I’m late, the one who still gives me butterflies when she walks in a damn room.”
She looks up, blinking fast.
“No crying,” I warn, brushing my nose against hers with a smile. “Not when I’ve set up a whole rooftop romance here. I mean, come on, there are even scented wipes to clean your brushes—classy, no?”
That makes her laugh, finally, like I’ve been holding my breath for it.
“You did all this?” she asks softly, reaching out to touch one of the brushes, then running her fingers over the palette.
“I did.”
“For me?”
I lean in, murmuring against her temple, “For the girl who once said she only feels free when there’s paint on her hands.”
She turns to me slowly, and I swear the way she looks at me—like I’ve handed her the moon with my bare hands—it knocks the air right out of my chest.
She picks up a brush, nudging one toward me. “Then paint with me, Mr. Malhotra.”
I grin, picking it up. “Always, Mrs. Malhotra.” Although I suck at it, I will do anything she asks me to.
She hands me the second brush, her fingers brushing mine again—soft, warm, familiar. And just like that, the heaviness I carried here melts off my shoulders. It’s just us now. Me and her. A couple of canvases and a sky wide enough to hold whatever the hell this night becomes.
We start slow. She dips her brush in deep yellow; I go for green because it’s the only color I know how to work with.
Our strokes are aimless and childlike, but there’s something soothing about it.
About standing beside her like this, painting side by side in silence, our shoulders bumping every now and then.
“This isn’t terrible,” I murmur, studying my sad little tree that looks more like broccoli.
She chuckles, dabbing white on her canvas. “It’s awful, Aarav.”
“I said it isn't terrible. Big difference.”
She looks over at mine and bites her bottom lip. “You’ve given the tree anxiety.”
I fake a wounded gasp. “My tree has character. Personality.”
“It has a crisis.”
I smirk and nudge her shoulder gently with mine. “You’re mean.”
She shrugs, not at all apologetic. “You were late.”
Fair.
I dip my brush again. “I’m trying to earn my way back.”
“Oh, you are. This…” she gestures around the rooftop, “this is beautiful. I mean, you actually remembered the blending sponges. That’s... weirdly sweet.”
“Hey, I pay attention.” I raise a brow. “Even when you think I’m not listening.”
She hums, brushing a streak of pale orange across the canvas. “That’s dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because now I have to watch what I say around you.”
My hands stop, and I look at her. “No, you don’t, Anu,” I whisper. “That’s the point; you be you with me, okay?” I inhale deeply.