Chapter 25
Sana
Standing in my kitchen, my hands move on autopilot, chopping vegetables with far more force than necessary.
The knife hits the board with sharp, angry smacks.
A week. A whole damn week has passed since Aditya walked into my café with that ridiculous date of his.
And in those seven days? Not a single text. No calls. Nothing.
I had assumed—no, forced myself to believe—that he had finally moved on. That he had finally given up.
It should have brought me relief, right?
Some kind of closure. But it didn’t. Instead, I couldn’t stop glancing at my phone like a lovesick fool, hoping to see his name flash on the screen, waiting for a call, a message, anything I had no right to expect.
It was pathetic, I knew that, but despite knowing how ridiculous I was being, it didn’t make the ache any easier.
As if that torture wasn’t enough, this morning, my mom casually informed me that Aditya had called, saying he was coming home for lunch today.
God. How did I even assume that stubborn man would quit? And damn me—how the hell am I supposed to face him with all these emotions clawing inside me?
My chest tightens as I toss the chopped onions into the pan. The oil sizzles, hissing just like how I want to at the moment, frustration boiling beneath my skin.
I’m still struggling to get over him when the jerk decides to storm right back in, uninvited as always. He refuses to give me a chance to even try to get a hold of my emotions, just refuses to let me breathe.
Heat coils up my spine, irritation tangling with something dangerously close to relief at seeing him. I hate this. Hate that he still has this power over me. Hate how, despite everything, my stupid heart still stutters at the thought of seeing him.
Just as I stir the curry, my mom’s voice cuts through the kitchen.
“What’s with the anger?” she asks, stepping into the kitchen with that ever-calm presence of hers. “Food needs to be cooked with love, not with…” she pauses, glancing at the death grip I’ve got on the wooden spoon, “…whatever vengeance that is.”
I let out a sharp breath, pressing my fingers against the edge of the counter. “I’m not angry.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Oh? So you always try to murder onions in my kitchen?”
I groan, looking away. “I’m just… helping as you asked me to.”
And I know she doesn’t buy it. Of course, she doesn’t. My mom has always been too damn perceptive for her own good. She leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with a patience that only makes my frustration burn hotter.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Aditya coming for lunch, would it?” she says casually, like she hadn’t thrown a bomb at me.
I still, my hands tightening around the spoon. My heartbeat falters at the mention of his name.
“Why is he even coming?” I ask, turning to her and trying to sound indifferent but failing miserably. “Doesn’t he have better places to be?”
“He called this morning,” she says simply, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did. This was Aditya. Stubborn, insistent, never willing to let go even when it was the most reasonable thing to do.
I scoff, stirring the pan a little too aggressively. “Ya, right.”
Mom just smiles, shaking her head. “You act like you hate that he’s coming, but despite all your huffing and puffing, you care more than you’re willing to admit.
See? Even your hands are shaking, beta.” She reaches forward, gently prying the spoon from my grip.
“Whatever this is between you and Aditya… you need to figure it out.”
“There is nothing between us. Stop reading between the lines that don’t even exist.”
She laughs softly, patting my cheeks. “Well, why do I find that hard to believe.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she shakes her head. “But that conversation is for another day. For now, let’s focus on not burning lunch. It would be a shame if he came all this way only for you to serve him charcoal curry.”
She simply smiles knowingly before turning her focus back to the gravy. And that only ramps up my agitation. Because in less than an hour, Aditya will be here. And the worst part? I have no damn idea what I’m going to do when I see him.
I narrow my eyes at her. “It’s better if we just cancel this whole ridiculous idea of calling him for lunch.”
She shakes her head and gives me a pointed look. “Speaking of which, go and check the flowers on the dining table. Make sure they’re fresh.”
I stare at her, incredulous. “I’m not doing any such thing!” I snap. “He doesn’t deserve such a welcome.”
She raises her brows. “Excuse me?”
“What? You’re acting like he’s some royal guest. Why go through all this effort?” I gesture wildly at the kitchen, where a variety of dishes are bubbling away on the stove. “And now you want me to decorate the table like it’s Diwali or something. For what? For him?”
Her lips twitch with amusement. “Well, he is a guest. And a rather important one it seems, judging by how much he’s occupying your mind.”
My jaw tightens, and I cross my arms. “He’s not occupying anything,” I huff, looking away. “And he’s definitely not important.”
She lets out a slow breath as if she is the one being tested. “Sana, we welcome and treat our guests with kindness.”
Before I could argue further, the chime of the doorbell cuts through.
Mom gives me a look. “At least do the bare minimum and answer the door.” Then, before I could stomp off, she adds with a knowing smile, “And be good. He’s a guest, after all.”
“Guest, my foot,” I grumble under my breath, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel before heading for the door. Reaching the door, I brace myself as I pull it open.
And there he stands. Looking as effortlessly handsome as ever, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes sharp. The sight of him sends a jolt through me—annoyance, frustration… and something else I refuse to name.
My fingers curl around the doorknob as he leans casually against the doorframe, his eyes skimming over me before locking onto mine with that infuriating confidence.
“Staring at me like that is giving me ideas, Sana,” he drawls, tilting his head slightly. “Ideas that you have feelings for me—something you’re trying very hard to hide.”
I school my expression into indifference. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
That smirk widens, and only then do I notice the bouquet of fresh lilies in his hand. But before I can say a word, he raises them slightly, as if reading my mind.
“These are for your mom, not you. So spare me the lecture.”
I cross my arms, ignoring the stupid, annoying way my stomach twists. “Why the hell are you even here, Aditya?”
“Aunty asked me to come for lunch,” he says smoothly. “And I respect my elders.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Oh, right. Respect. Is that what we’re calling your stubbornness now?”
He chuckles, stepping just a little closer, his voice dropping lower. “I don’t know, Sana. How about you tell me what would you call someone who looks all flustered seeing me, even when they pretend to hate me?”
My fingers curl into fists. “Flustered? You wish.”
His smirk doesn’t falter. “Oh, I wish a lot of things, sweetheart.”
Heat rises up my spine, but before I can fire back, my mother’s voice interrupts from behind me.
“Sana, why didn’t you invite Aditya in? Why is he still standing at the door?”
I press my lips together, inhaling sharply before forcing the most fake smile I can muster. “Please, come in, Your Highness. I’m sorry, but I don’t have a red carpet to roll out.”
“That’s alright. Your flustered expression is more than enough of a welcome,” he says in a low voice meant only for my ears.
But as he steps in and brushes past me, his arm grazes softly against mine—whether intentional or not, I don’t know.
But the brief contact sends a spark through me, setting my nerves ablaze.
“Flustered,” he murmurs low and teasing, before moving past to greet my mom, bending to touch her feet respectfully.
“God bless you, beta,” she says warmly, completely oblivious to the tension between us.
Then, as he straightens and glances over his shoulder, meeting my gaze with far too much amusement, I know it—this lunch is going to be pure hell.
“Come on in,” Mom says, and we all move into the living room.
Aditya settles onto the couch like he owns the place, leaning back with an ease that makes my blood boil.
My mom sits beside him, smiling, completely at ease with his presence—as if he hasn’t been the single most insufferable headache in my life.
Just as I move to sit opposite them, Mom speaks up. “Sana, get Aditya something to drink.”
I stare at Mom. “Mom, I’m not….”
“Yes, Sana, please get me something cold. I’m feeling hot all of a sudden,” Aditya cuts in smoothly, his smirk widening.
I whip my head towards him, shooting daggers at him. He raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence, but the amusement dancing in his eyes tells me he’s enjoying this way too much.
“You have legs, don’t you?” I bite out.
“I do, but I’m a guest. And your mother just said you should serve me.” He grins. “Unless you want to disrespect her wishes.”
My jaw clenches as my mom sighs. “Sana.”
I throw my hands up. “Fine!” I huff, turning towards the kitchen. As I walk away, I hear his soft chuckle behind me, and it only fuels my irritation.
Reaching the fridge, I yank it open, muttering under my breath.
“Unbelievable. Stubborn idiot. Waltzing in here like he owns the place.” I grab the orange juice and pour it aggressively into a glass.
Then I storm back into the living room and thrust the glass at him. “Here. Your juice, Your Highness.”
Aditya takes the glass but doesn’t sip immediately. Instead, he twirls it slightly in his hand, inspecting it. Then he lifts his gaze to mine. “I hope it’s safe to drink?”
I fold my arms over my chest. “I have not poisoned it, if that’s what you thinking.”
He places a hand over his heart dramatically. “Good to know. I’d hate to think you went through all this trouble just to get rid of me.”
I huff, rolling my eyes. “Trust me, if I wanted to get rid of you, I’d find a much faster way than serving you juice,” I say as I settle on the couch opposite them.
Aditya smirks, lifting the glass to his lips. “Wouldn’t want you wasting your breath thinking of ways to get rid of me.”
Before I can respond, my mom chimes in, shaking her head. “Honestly, you two bicker like an old married couple.”
I stiffen, and Aditya grins even wider, shooting me a knowing look. I cross my arms quickly to show it doesn’t affect me when my mom perks up again.
“Speaking of which, Aditya,” she begins, adjusting the pleats of her saree. “When are you getting married? No lucky girl yet?”
My gaze snaps towards him, but he doesn’t miss a beat. With that ever-infuriating ease, he leans back, smiling as if this is nothing more than casual chit-chat.
“Aunty, I want someone who is a reflection of you,” he says smoothly. “Kind, warm, and wise.”
My mother beams, clearly flattered.
Then, with a slight smirk, he adds, “But I guess fate is not in my favour. My parents have found someone who’s the completely opposite.”
There’s something almost bitter in his tone, but he masks it well.
My mom’s expression shifts, a small frown forming. “But beta, if you’re not happy, you shouldn’t rush into it.”
Before Aditya can respond, I jump in, my voice sharper than intended. “Mom, it’s his personal matter. You don’t have a say in it.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Because now his attention is fully on me. His smirk fades, replaced by something sharper.
“Aunty sure can talk about my personal matters,” he muses, his dark eyes boring into mine.
I meet his gaze head-on, refusing to back down. “Well, whatever Mom says is a waste of time. And since your parents have it all figured out, you should listen to them and save everyone the trouble.”
His jaw tightens for a bit of a second—so brief that I almost miss it. Almost.
“Right,” he says, his voice quieter now but laced with something I can’t quite name. “And it’s not like my marriage doesn’t affect anyone else, right?”
My breath catches. There’s an underlying challenge in his words, something that makes my chest tighten, but before I can respond, my mom speaks.
“You two, honestly.” She shakes her head, looking between us. “Always at each other’s throats. But these old eyes can still see that you both care too much about what the other does.”
I scoff dryly. “Mom, please. That’s called frustration, not ‘caring.’” I throw a pointed look at Aditya. “And some people just have a talent for getting under my skin.”
Aditya doesn’t look away from me. His gaze darkens slightly, his grip tightening on the glass in his hand. “Funny, I can say the same about you—how much you get under my skin.” He grits his teeth, forcing a tight smile. “If only you knew just how much.”
Mom laughs, completely unaware of the fire burning between us as she speaks. “Let’s put a stop to this. Come on, let’s go to the table—lunch is ready.”
Aditya finally looks away, setting his empty glass down before standing. I do the same as Mom heads to the dining room. But before I can turn, Aditya passes me, leaning in ever so slightly and murmuring, “No matter how much you fight it, Sana, I’ll always get to you.”
And just like that, he walks away, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
Luckily, the rest of lunch goes by in a blur of casual conversation, with my mom chatting animatedly with Aditya about everything from family updates to old memories. He listens, smiles, and responds to her with that same effortless charm, ignoring me completely.
Not a single teasing remark, not a glance in my direction, not even a passing acknowledgment of my presence. He focuses entirely on my mother, chatting with her effortlessly, while I clench my fork tighter, my appetite long gone.
This is what I wanted, right? For him to back off, to stop riling me up with his usual antics. And yet, the deliberate way he ignores me—the way he doesn’t even try—gets under my skin more than his teasing ever did.
It’s ridiculous. Frustrating.
And still, I can’t stop myself from stealing glances at him, as if daring him to look at me. But he doesn’t. Not once.
Ugh, I hate him. Jerk.