CHAPTER 19
ANIKA
Something definitely feels off. I stare at the blank canvas, my gut twisting.
Why is he being so... smiley? So touchy?
So much the Aarav I wished him to be. Aarav Malhotra does nothing without a reason.
Something’s cooking inside that very handsome head of his, and I’m not about to fall for whatever game he’s playing.
I exhale, tapping the brush against my palm.
What am I even supposed to do? I haven’t picked up a brush in years.
It feels strange in my hand. My hands are rusty, my imagination is basically on vacation, and he didn’t even bother giving me instructions.
No hints, no requirements—nothing. He definitely doesn’t want my thoughts slapped across his fancy canvas.
But since he left me free... well, too bad for him.
I’m about to give him the shock of his life.
A wicked grin curls on my lips as I dip the brush into the paint. First stroke in years—and damn, it feels good. My hand moves automatically, like muscle memory kicking in. I know this won’t be a masterpiece or anything, but at least it’s something real, something mine.
Honestly, I was surprised this morning when Aarav showed up with all these art supplies.
When he said he could make me do anything for a week, I was ready for a full-scale torture plan, not this.
I guess he remembered how much I love painting—or maybe he thought he could mess with me somehow.
Either way, the joke’s on him. Painting’s always been my way to breathe, the way some people journal or rant to their best friend.
I used to paint my emotions when the world got too loud.
It feels... amazing to do it again. Like coming home.
But there's no way I'm admitting that out loud. Aarav clearly forgot this is my heaven, my safe place. His loss. I get free art therapy, and he paid for it. Art supplies are so expensive, and there's no way I could've afforded them right now. I shrug. Whatever game he’s playing, it’s not going to work on me. I’m going to enjoy this while it lasts.
I jump, almost smudging the canvas, when the door to my room bangs open.
I turn to find my mother standing there with murder in her eyes.
Then my eyes trail over to the window. Orange hues engulf the sky as the sun sets.
I was so lost in the world of colors, I didn't even realize how much time passed.
"I’ve been calling you for five minutes!" she scolds, cutting through my thoughts and tossing my phone onto the bed. "Here. Aarav’s calling. I picked it up."
I wince, offering her a sheepish grin. She glares, eyes darting around my messy room like she’s itching to throw the entire thing into a washing machine. Shaking her head, she mutters something under her breath and leaves.
Why, why, did she have to pick up my phone? Now I’m stuck dealing with Mr. Perfect himself.
"I know you’re there, Anika. You can speak now," Aarav’s voice echoes from the phone speaker, low and amused.
"What do you want?" I snap, already annoyed. I don't have time for his nonsense. Not when I’m finally doing something for myself.
"I don’t think I received a selfie," he says lazily. "But Aunty mentioned you’ve started painting. Is that true, Miss Toofan?"
I can practically hear the smirk in his voice, and it makes me want to punch him. Toofan . Seriously, who even calls someone that? It’s so cheesy and stupid, but it still makes my heart skip a beat.
I forgot about the selfie, honestly. And thinking about sending him a smiling selfie is... mortifying.
"I’m taking this very seriously now, Mrs. Anika Aarav Malhotra," he teases.
I shudder at the sound of my name tied with his. Ugh. I clench my jaw and correct him sharply, "I’m Anika Kapoor. Kindly refrain from calling me anything else."
"But that is your name, Miss Toofan," he drawls.
I exhale sharply, struggling not to lose my temper. "What do you want, Aarav?" I ask, forcing my voice to sound flat.
"Have you finished the painting yet?"
"It’s not as easy as bossing people around, okay? It actually requires effort," I huff, dipping my brush in the paint a little harder than necessary.
He chuckles, that deep, rich sound that—if I’m being honest—does funny things to my heart. A small, traitorous smile tugs at my lips before I catch myself and wipe it off.
"Take your time, Anika. No pressure," he says smoothly. "For now, get ready and come outside."
"What—"
"No questions asked, my wife," he cuts me off before I can finish.
I scowl and end the call. Great. Now what?
What does ‘get ready’ even mean? How ready? Are we talking wedding-level ready or just a quick grocery store trip? Ugh, he could’ve at least given me a hint. I have no idea what to wear.
Grumbling under my breath, I grab a simple T-shirt that says Caution: I Have No Filter—because honestly, that’s just me—and tug on a pair of baggy jeans. I scrape my hair into a high ponytail, check myself in the mirror once, and grab my phone and bag. Good enough.
Peeking into my mom’s room, I say quickly, "Mumma, I’m going out with Aarav. Call me if you need anything. I’ll be back soon."
She nods distractedly, chanting Kanha’s name with her eyes closed.
I smile a little. Outside, Aarav is casually leaning against his car, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed, looking like he just walked off the cover of some men's magazine. His veins are on full display, and I have to admit—he looks way too good for someone who’s supposedly tired.
When he sees me, that slow, satisfied smirk spreads across his face. His eyes trail over me in a way that makes my cheeks heat up. "You look beautiful, my wife," he comments softly, his smile almost... tender.
I open my mouth, ready with some biting comeback—but nothing comes out. Damn it. I forgot how to speak.
"Let’s go," he says, pulling open the passenger door for me.
I climb in without arguing. The sooner I get this over with, the better.
The drive is silent except for the soft hum of the car's engine. I try not to fidget, but my curiosity is eating me alive. No matter how many sideways glances I throw him, he doesn’t spill anything.
Just that smug little smirk playing on his lips.
I stare out of the window, trying to guess where we’re headed, but the city’s changed so much since I last paid attention. For the hundredth time, I wonder—why can’t he just tell me? What’s with all the suspense? I am not good with that.