Chapter Jealousy, jealousy
Jealousy, jealousy
SITARA
I knew it was going to be one of those dinners the moment I walked into the room.
Not because of the polished cutlery or the officials seated around the long table, all smiles sharpened with politics.
I’ve attended enough formal dinners now to know how these things go—measured laughter, careful words, deals made under the pretense of jokes, everyone pretending they’re relaxed when they’re actually calculating ten steps ahead.
No. I knew it was going to be one of those dinners because of the woman sitting on Dhruv’s other side.
She’s beautiful in a very effortless way.
Tall and confident. She looks like she belongs in rooms like this and knows exactly where to place her hands, when to smile, how loudly to laugh.
She’s wearing an elegant, understated but expensive gown, and she leans toward Dhruv just enough to seem engaged without being inappropriate.
And Dhruv—the traitor that he is—looks good tonight.
Not that he ever doesn’t, but something about the dark jacket, the crisp shirt, the way he’s sitting straight yet relaxed, one arm resting on the table, the other… holding my hand beneath it.
I cling to that detail like a lifeline.
I had whispered to him earlier, barely moving my lips, I’m nervous, and he’d responded just as quietly, If it gets too much, squeeze my hand twice. We’ll leave.
I believed him. I still do. But belief doesn’t stop the tightening in my chest as I watch the woman beside him throw her head back and laugh at something he says.
It’s not even a full laugh. Just a light one that seems polite.
Still. I don’t like it.
I shift in my chair, trying to focus on my plate, on the soft clink of cutlery, on the low buzz of the conversation around us. Dhruv’s thumb rubs slow circles over my knuckles, grounding, reassuring, as if he can feel the way my thoughts are starting to spiral.
He glances at me. Just for a second and our eyes meet, the corner of his mouth lifts.
A smirk.
My stomach flips. Does he know what I am feeling? Surely he can’t know. But Dhruv has this infuriating habit of knowing things about me before I’ve even figured them out myself.
He turns back to the conversation, responding to something the woman says about infrastructure funding, his tone polite, professional.
He’s not flirting. Not really. He’s just being…
Dhruv. Very Calm and only occasionally amused in that subtle way of his that makes my chest feel tight on a good day.
She laughs again.
I curl my fingers tighter around his hand.
Stop it, Sitara, I scold myself. You’re being ridiculous.
He’s allowed to talk to other people. He’s allowed to smile. He’s allowed to exist in the world without me hovering like an insecure shadow.
I know this.
I know this.
So why does it feel like someone’s pressing a thumb right into the center of my chest?
I risk another glance at her. She’s looking at him now, chin tilted, eyes bright, like she’s memorizing his face.
Something ugly twists inside me.
I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be this person—petty, territorial, threatened by a woman who hasn’t actually done anything wrong.
But the thought lands, sharp and unwelcome: She could have him if she wants to.
The idea makes my throat go dry. I am aware Dhruv loves me, and I also know it’s unhealthy to compare myself with someone else. But the thought of losing Dhruv makes me panic.
Dhruv looks at me again, this time longer. His brow creases slightly, like he’s noticed something shift. His thumb pauses, then presses gently into my knuckles as if he’s asking me: You okay?
I force a small nod.
Liar.
The woman says something else, leaning in just a little more, and I swear her laugh brushes against his shoulder. That’s it. Something inside me snaps and I squeeze his hand once.
Nothing.
I squeeze it again.
Harder.
His head snaps toward me immediately. Our eyes lock, and whatever he sees on my face makes his posture change. He straightens, shoulders squaring, attention fully on me now.
“Excuse me,” he says aloud, voice calm but firm as he pushes his chair back.
The movement draws attention. Conversations falter. Forks pause mid-air.
Dhruv stands and the room goes still.
“We’ll be taking our leave,” he announces, his tone polite, authoritative. “Please continue enjoying your dinner.”
There’s a murmur of surprise, a few confused glances. Someone begins to protest—But Raja-sa——and Dhruv simply inclines his head, final.
I rise beside him on instinct, my chair scraping softly against the floor making my cheeks heat up a bit. His hand moves to the small of my back, warm and steady, guiding me forward as if this has always been the plan.
We walk out together. The doors close behind us, muffling the noise of the room, and the sudden quiet of the corridor makes my pulse roar in my ears.
Dhruv chuckles suddenly and my steps falter beside him, a frown forming on my face. Slowly, I turn to face him.
“What,” I say, voice tight, “is so funny?”
He looks at me like I’m the most fascinating thing he’s seen all evening.
“You,” he says easily.
I fold my arms over my chest. “I don’t appreciate being laughed at.”
He steps closer.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not laughing at you.”
“Then why are you laughing exactly?” I challenge, my heart hammering for reasons that have nothing to do with anger and everything to do with how close he is to me right now.
He leans in, just enough that his voice drops. “You squeezed my hand exactly the way I told you to.”
“So?”
“So,” he says softly, “that means you trusted me.”
My breath catches.
“I told you I’d leave if it got too much,” he continues. “And you tested that. I passed.”
I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again. He’s right.
I’m still frowning, though. “You didn’t have to stand up so dramatically.”
He tilts his head. “You didn’t have to be jealous.”
My face heats instantly. “I was not—”
He reaches out, fingers brushing my chin, tilting my face up just enough that I have no choice but to look at him.
“Sitara,” he says gently, amusement dancing in his eyes, “you were glaring at her like you were deciding whether to push her into a river.”
I gasp. “I was not!”
“You were,” he confirms calmly. “It was impressive.”
I shove his chest lightly. “You’re impossible.”
He catches my wrist before I can pull away, his grip gentle but sure. “And you,” he says, voice dropping, “are very cute when you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous,” I mutter, even as my heart races.
He hums thoughtfully. “You squeezed my hand because you didn’t like the way she was looking at me.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“And because you didn’t like the way I was talking to her.”
“That’s—”
“And because,” he finishes softly, leaning closer, “you don’t want to share me.”
The words hit something deep and unguarded inside me.
I go still.
He studies my face, his expression shifting—less teasing now, more intent. “Is that so terrible?”
I swallow.
“No,” I admit quietly.
His thumb brushes my cheek, feather-light. “Good.”
“Why were you still talking to her then?” I ask, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.
A slow smile curves his lips. “Because I knew you’d squeeze my hand eventually.”
I stare at him. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did,” he says unapologetically.
“That’s evil.”
“That’s confidence,” he corrects. “And patience.”
I huff, torn between irritation and something dangerously close to flustered laughter. “You’re unbelievable.”
“yeah,” he murmurs, closing the last inch between us, “you are stuck with me though.”
Before I can respond, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my cheek.
My breath stutters. His hand finds mine again as he smiles at me and begins to walk. The realization settles quietly, undeniably in my chest.
I may have been wrong about my own feelings.
Because this— this tightness, this want, this sharp flare of jealousy I don’t bother denying anymore—
It feels an awful lot like liking Dhruv more than I ever meant to.