CHAPTER 15
SIYA
Late Afternoon
I’m standing by the pool table in RK Estate’s game lounge with cue stick in my hand, trying to distract myself. My phone has been buzzing all day with Parag’s messages. His name alone is enough to sour my mood.
It wasn’t always like this. When the alliance was first proposed, his messages were tolerable.
He’d say things like Looking forward to our future or Can’t wait to make you mine.
I never encouraged him, though, never gave him anything beyond the bare minimum.
If he sent ten messages, I replied to one.
Sometimes not even that. Just enough to keep the situation from turning into a full-blown family drama.
But now, things have changed. Ever since the date is fixed, the wedding is no longer a possibility but a deadline, and his messages have changed with it. There is a tone in them now that makes my skin crawl. An assumption that he has rights over me that he’s never earned.
I’ve told him to stop. More than once. But he laughs it off every time, hiding behind the same excuse. We are getting married anyway, Siya. What is the problem with a little dirty texting?
Because in his head, I’m already his. If he were standing in front of me right now, I would probably wipe that smug expression right off his face with the cue stick I’m holding.
That’s why I stepped out for a walk, hoping the fresh air would clear my head.
And when I saw the game lounge lit up, it felt like the perfect distraction.
Then I saw the pool table, and everything else faded away.
All I could think about was Dad. He used to play this game like it was an art form.
I can still remember standing by the side, watching him line up his shots and listening to his laughter with his friends and business associates.
He looked his best when he played… relaxed and at ease.
If he were alive, this marriage would not be happening.
I tighten my grip on the cue stick and force myself back into the present.
I’m good at riding, combat, and handling weapons.
But this… this is different. Pool requires patience, focus, and a steady mind, all of which I do not have right now.
Still, I walk around the table, studying the angles before setting up my next shot.
I strike, but the shot goes wide. The balls scatter in all the wrong directions.
Nothing lands. Just like everything else in my life right now.
From the past thirty minutes, every shot I’ve played has missed its mark.
“Focus, Siya,” I mutter under my breath, lining up another shot. “It’s not that hard.”
But my mind refuses to cooperate. The days are slipping away and the wedding is getting closer. Every plan I have thought of feels incomplete and risky, full of loopholes. What if nothing works? What if I’m dragged into that life no matter what I do?
No.
I take another shot. And miss. The ball hits the edge of the pocket and bounces away uselessly.
“Great,” I mumble wryly. “Absolutely brilliant.”
I keep playing anyway. Not because I expect to improve, but because standing feels even worse. The lounge is quiet, almost empty at this hour, making it easier to stay lost in my own thoughts. That is, until I feel a presence nearby.
Raghav walks in.
There was a time when I always seemed to end up wherever he was, without even realising it. Now it feels like the roles have reversed. Wherever I go, I find him there. Or maybe he finds me.
I straighten slowly and finally glance over my shoulder.
There he is, in a black shirt with sleeves rolled up, looking as composed as ever.
No one would ever guess he was shot last night.
There’s no sign of weakness in him. No hint of pain.
Only a handful of people know what happened last night, and I’m one of them. Because that bullet was meant for me.
I take a step forward, instinctively wanting to ask him how his arm is and whether the wound is worse than it looked last night.
But before I can reach him, one of the lounge staff walks up and starts speaking to him.
So I stop myself and turn back to the table, forcing my attention onto the game again.
Another shot. Another miss. Wow. I never knew I’m so bad at this.
“At least I’m consistent,” I mutter under my breath, leaning down again, trying to line up the next shot, even though I already know it will not go in.
My hair keeps falling across my face, getting in the way. I push them back impatiently, and that’s when I feel him again. This time much closer than before. He’s right behind me.
Raghav isn’t the type of man who invades people’s space. This man knows his boundaries and enforces them without hesitation. And yet, right now, he’s standing close enough for his presence to send a tingle up my skin.
“You’re playing it all wrong,” his gruff voice comes from directly behind me, making me jerk.
I keep my eyes on the table, on the ball I’ve been failing to sink for the past five minutes. My grip tightens around the cue stick, a little too much.
“I don’t see anything wrong,” I counter, still not turning around.
“Your stance is off,” he argues. “Your wrist is too stiff. You’re locking the cue, and your angle is wrong. You’re forcing the shot instead of guiding it.”
Of course he catches all of it. Fine!
“Stop lecturing me.” I exhale, annoyed, and adjust my position slightly. “Is this okay now?” I ask, shifting my arm a little before glancing over my shoulder at him.
He doesn’t answer, just moves closer. Before I can process what he’s doing, he leans over me from behind, and his arm slides over mine on the cue stick, correcting my grip without hesitation. His other hand adjusts the position of my shoulder and aligns me with the table.
Why am I suddenly breathless? Perhaps it’s because when I bend slightly, the curve of my hips brushes against him behind me. The contact is brief. Barely there. But warm enough to send a strange rush through my body. And judging by the way Raghav goes completely still behind me, he feels it too.
“Don’t hold it like a weapon,” he murmurs low near my ear. “You’re playing pool, not picking a fight. Let it move freely.”
I swallow, because the angle with which our bodies are aligned right now is too difficult to ignore. I know I should pull away, but I don’t. Instead, I let him guide me.
“Look at the cue ball,” he whispers as his hand subtly adjusts mine. “Not just where it is. Look at where it needs to go. You’re not aiming at the ball you want to hit. You’re aiming at the point that will send it where you want.”
I follow his words and try to focus on the shot.
“Now see the line,” he continues. “From here… to there.”
His fingers press lightly, correcting my angle again. That’s when I realise it’s his injured arm. The same one that took the bullet last night.
My grip falters. I turn my head, trying to look back at him. “Your arm—”
“Ssh,” he cuts me off immediately. “Eyes on the table, Siya. Finish the shot.”
I let out a slow breath and force my attention back to the ball again. With his hand still guiding mine, I take the shot. The cue connects cleanly. The ball rolls, and for the first time since I picked up that stick, it drops perfectly into the pocket.
I blink, surprised and happy, but Raghav doesn’t step away.
“One more,” he replies, his voice a little too husky, and I more than willingly oblige.
The next few shots blur into something else entirely.
He keeps guiding me, not always touching, but always there.
Adjusting my stance. Correcting my aim. Instructing me like he has all the patience in the world, even though I know he doesn’t.
There are moments when our bodies brush against each other as I lean over the table to aim.
It’s accidental. We both know that. Then why do our eyes lock afterwards, making the contact feel like it meant so much more?
At one point, I glance back and realise how close we are. Close enough for me to feel his warm breath caressing my lips.
Raghav’s gaze holds mine, and even though neither of us is looking at the table anymore, his hand still moves somehow.
The cue strikes, and the ball drops into the pocket again.
He’s that perfect. Even standing this close to me, with the air between us charged with something unspoken, he still manages to play the perfect shot without even looking.
He doesn’t lose focus, even when he’s this close to losing control.
All this is so wrong. I’m not supposed to feel like this for Raghav, but it’s difficult to break an eye lock like that. Maybe he feels it too. Because the next second, he steps back. The space between us returns, but it doesn’t feel the same anymore.
I clear my throat and try to focus on the table again. I take a shot on my own this time, but my concentration is already slipping. A few loose strands of hair fall into my face, blocking my view. Annoyed, I try to shake it off, push them back again and again, but they keep falling.
Before I can fix it again, Raghav’s hand closes around my right wrist. Without even turning me around, his fingers find the hair tie looped around it and slides it free from my wrist, his fingers grazing my skin and making my breath hitch.
Before I can even gather my thoughts, he gently straightens me, my back still facing him.
Then, his hands move to my hair and gather it carefully behind me, pulling it away from my face.
His fingers move through the strands with surprising patience as he ties it into a ponytail, like he’s done it a hundred times before.
The image of a man like him, tying a woman’s hair into a ponytail, doesn’t sit right, yet somehow it does.
And it feels strangely intimate. No one has touched me like that without my permission, not even for something as simple as tying my hair.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just stand there, feeling every second of it, praying he doesn’t hear the frantic beating of my heart.