Chapter 7
The morning breeze carried sand and salt—and the lingering sting of last night’s silence. The ocean was wild today as if it knew I needed a place to absorb the chaos. I hugged my knees, the sand cool beneath me, grounding me even as my mind raced.
I replayed Manav’s words from last night over and over, unable to shake the sting.
“We aren’t… friends.” Seriously?
It shouldn’t matter this much. But for some reason, it did. And then there was my phone, lighting up every few seconds with Vihaan’s messages. The words on the screen blurred into meaningless strings of letters.
“Can we talk, Kiara?”
“I know there has been some misunderstanding, but we can’t put the business at risk, right? Our families need us. Just one meeting.”
Business. That’s all it ever is to him—business. Every part of me is reduced to a damn transaction.
I don’t need his messages lighting up my phone.
And I don’t need the constant nudges from my editors to finish this damn book.
And then, amid all this chaos, there’s Manav Oberoi.
I need to forget him. I need to erase every thought of him—his perfect hair, that smooth deep voice, the way his biceps flex without effort, those impossibly blue eyes.
And the way he looks at me—like I’m some alien he’s still trying to figure out.
Yet, he somehow knows exactly what I want, cooking all my favorite meals without even asking.
Then there are those customized handwritten notes with every dish. Each one delicately explains the secrets of its origin, the layers of its flavors, and why it’s been made just for me.
I don’t know how to handle this man.
Myra had been right all along—I couldn’t keep wasting time and energy on people who didn’t choose me. Vihaan. Dad. My stepmother. They had all moved on, and it was time I did too.
I needed to reclaim the pieces of my life I’d let slip away—a book waiting to be finished, interviews piling up, a version of myself I barely recognized anymore.
The world I once belonged to was still out there, waiting.
And yet, here I was… hiding in a breathtaking, isolated corner of the world, trapped somewhere between Roy’s absence and the maddening, magnetic presence of Manav Oberoi.
____________
I paused, my eyes lingering on the cover of The Perfect Lies, wedged between other bestsellers as though it had always belonged there.
I reached out, fingers brushing over the title, and for the first time in ages, I picked it up and flipped through its pages.
As I read the opening lines, memories surfaced—the long, sleepless nights spent writing, pouring my heart into these characters, believing in their lives, their struggles, and their victories.
“Here you go—apple cake, fresh and warm!” Lina set the plate down, her smile as bright as ever.
“Thanks…” I said, setting the book down.
I picked up my plate and started toward a table when an adorable voice chirped from behind me, “Hi… Are you Karrraaa…?”
I turned, smiling as I took the tiny hand extended toward me. “Hey…” I ruffled his hair, kneeling to his level. “And you must be…?”
“I am Nick, Maavav’s best friend.”
“Hi, Nick! It’s nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his tiny hand with a smile.
“Are you Mumma’s new friend?”
“I guess I am,” I replied, glancing over at Lina, who was smiling at us.
She chuckled softly, “Alright, mister, why don’t you go play inside while I finish up here?”
I smiled, though my cheeks were still faintly warm. “He’s adorable.”
Walking out of the bakery, I felt an unusual lightness in my steps.
I started the engine and made my way over to the bookstore Manav had taken me to the other day.
The shop was expansive and full of charm, with warm lighting, towering bookshelves, and a grand reading space that felt inviting enough to make anyone want to curl up with a good book.
As soon as I parked, the owner, Orry, spotted me through the glass door, his signature ear-to-ear grin lighting up his face.
“The international bestseller Ms. Kiara Randhawa graces us with her presence!” he announced dramatically, causing heads to turn.
For the next hour, I was stationed at a cozy corner, signing copies of the books for excited readers and answering an endless stream of questions.
By the time the clock struck 7 PM, my wrist was sore, and my brain was begging for some quiet.
I grabbed my purse, ready to make a swift exit, when an all-too-familiar voice stopped me dead in my tracks.
“Well… Well… Well… What a small world,” came an unmistakable drawl from behind me.
I froze, my hand hovering over my purse. The peaceful buzz of the bookstore seemed to evaporate, replaced by a suffocating tension that sent chills down my spine. I took a deep breath, straightened my posture, and turned around, forcing a smile onto my face as my eyes met his.
“Mr. Mehra…”
Rocky sauntered toward me with that same smug grin plastered across his face, radiating an air of entitlement that seemed to shrink the room. “It seems like fate keeps throwing us together.” His eyes scanned the shop as he owned it.
“Mr. Mehra… what a surprise.” I forced a polite smile, my fingers tightening around my purse as he closed the distance between us.
“Anything for my favorite author,” he replied, slipping off his sunglasses in an exaggerated gesture before extending a hand toward me.
I hesitated before taking it briefly. “I was just about to head out,” I said, lifting my car keys slightly.
“Ah, but you still owe me those autographs.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall, fighting the impatience clawing at my chest. “Well… if you have the books with you, now, I can sign them quickly.”
“No, no, no…” Rocky stepped closer. “Let’s sit down, talk about your work, and enjoy dinner. It’s the least you can do for a… friend.”
“Sure, we can plan that for another day,” I replied quickly, forcing a polite tone while inching toward the exit. “It was good to see you.”
“How about tonight?” His smile widened as he leaned just slightly too close, like he was trying to invade more than just personal space.
“It’s late…” I started, but Rocky interrupted with a laugh.
“Late? Come on.” He gestured toward the door with an exaggerated flourish. “I’ve got a security team ready to escort you anywhere, anytime. I’ll personally drop you home afterward. Come on, don’t disappoint your biggest fan. I’m flying back to India tomorrow morning.”
Managing public appearances and fan expectations was part of the job, but all I wanted was to go home, avoid Manav’s inevitable questions, and take a long, hot shower.
“I really should…”
“Please, Ms. Randhawa,” Rocky interrupted smoothly, “I promise you’ll be dropped home safely. I wouldn’t want to disappoint your brother, after all.”
“Fine… but no dinner… please,” I said reluctantly, caving in just enough to get him off my back. “Let’s meet at Lina’s and wrap this up asap.”
“Perfect.” He said with a victorious grin. “You can come in my car. My driver will take yours.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, clutching my car keys tighter. “I’ll drive myself, thanks.”
Rocky raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? It’s much more convenient if—”
“Positive,” I interrupted.
For a split second, annoyance flickered across his face, but he quickly replaced it with his usual charm. “I’ll see you there,” he said, stepping back with a mock bow.
I gave him a brief nod and walked briskly to my car, my heart pounding as if I had just run a marathon.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I took a deep breath to steady myself.
The last thing I needed tonight was to deal with someone like Rocky Mehra.
I hated myself for even entertaining the idea of this meeting, but I knew exactly how men like him worked.
Better to be ten minutes uncomfortable than ten weeks stalked.
Just as I pulled out of the parking lot, my phone rang—another interruption, another headache.
Not now.
I glanced at the screen: Manav Oberoi.
“Hello?” I answered on the second ring.
“Any preferences for dinner tonight?” Holy God… his phone voice is so sexy and deep.
“Oh… actually… I’m heading to Lina’s bakery.” I said, clearing my throat, my grip on the steering wheel tightening as I navigated through the streetlights. “Rocky… insisted,”
There was a long pause. “Rocky?… As in, Rocky Mehra?”
“Yeah… he showed up at Orry’s and…”
“Kiara… hello…?” His voice began to crack, probably because of a network issue.
“Hello? Manav? I’ll call you once I get there—the signal’s bad,” I said hurriedly before the call abruptly dropped.
By the time I arrived at the bakery, Rocky was already seated at a table near the corner, waving at me with a grin that could only be described as self-satisfied. I took a steadying breath before stepping inside.
“Hi… again,” he greeted, standing up and guiding me toward the chair across from him.
“Hello,” I replied, sitting down as he immediately dove into the menu, glancing up to ask if I had any preferences.
“Anything light,” I said.
“Light it is.” Rocky nodded.
After an exhausting day of signing books, fielding endless questions, and posing for selfies, I was barely holding on to the last shred of my energy.
“So… how's your chef?” he winked, pouring water into the glass.
“You mean Manav?”
“Yes, him… the one and only Manav Oberoi.”
I returned a faint smile. “I think you two are friends.”
Rocky chuckled, leaning forward. “Friends? Let’s just say we’ve crossed paths. Manav Oberoi is… complicated,” he said cryptically, swirling his coffee cup.
I ignored it and focused on my glass of water.
Grateful for a brief moment of solitude, I excused myself and stepped toward the washroom. The day had been unrelenting, and this was my first chance to catch my breath since the book signing.
As I walked back out, raised voices drew my attention to the café's front.
What the hell?
Rocky had Lina’s wrist in a vice-like grip, with an unsettling smile. Her face was pale, and her voice was trembling as she tried to pull free. “This is my café—get out!” Lina hissed, her voice shaking.
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he sneered. “I could shut this whole place down if I wanted to.”
“What the hell are you doing? Let her go!” I shouted as I stepped towards the counter.
Rocky turned toward me, his sneer twisting into something far more menacing. “Oh, Ms. Randhawa, no need to worry. Lina here just doesn’t understand how to process a request.” His laugh was low and unsettling, a sound that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
“I told you we’re closed, and I don’t have staff available to bake another lot of brownies,” Lina protested, her voice cracking as she struggled against his iron grip.
“Let her go, Mr. Mehra,” I said firmly, my voice trembling just enough to betray the rising panic within me. “Or I’m calling the police.”
Before I could react, he lunged, snatching my phone out of my hand with startling speed. “Oh, so now you’re making threats?” he said mockingly, his grip tightening on my wrist as pain shot through my arm.
I gasped, unable to hold back a cry of pain. My head swirled as panic rose in my chest.
He drawled, “What are you going to do? Call your pretty chef to save you?”
Lina’s voice trembled as she tried to interject, “Please, stop this! Leave her alone!”
My heart pounded in my chest as I struggled to pull free. “Rocky, this is your last chance. Let go of me.”
Rocky’s grip tightened around my wrist as he pulled my left arm behind my back, forcing me closer to him.
Something about his grip—the angle, the pressure—was familiar in the worst way.
With his other hand, he grabbed a fork from the table.
Slowly, he dragged the cold metal along the curve of my right shoulder, tracing the outline of my tattoo with eerie precision. He pressed the fork against my forearm.
Memories I had buried deep clawed their way to the surface, sharp and raw.
The chaos. The shouting. The blood.
The masked man, driving a knife into my arm.
I could feel it all again—the cold steel piercing my skin, the pain searing through my body, the sheer terror gripping my heart.
Every detail came back with vivid clarity: the suffocating darkness of the room, the echo of my frantic breaths, the metallic scent of blood, and the horrifying thought that I might not make it out alive.
I struggled against Rocky’s hold, my breathing shallow and erratic. “Let me go!”
My legs wobbled beneath me, threatening to collapse at any moment. A sharp, stinging pain radiated from my forearm, and when I glanced down, I saw it—a thin, crimson line of blood trailing where the fork had pierced my skin.
My heart pounded in my chest like a drumbeat, drowning out all other sounds.
My mind screamed at me to move, to fight back, but my body remained frozen, locked in the grip of fear.
Breathe. Just breathe. Kiara breathe!
The room spun wildly, the walls closing in as my vision blurred.
I reached out, fingers trembling, and gripped the edge of the table in a desperate attempt to ground myself.