CHAPTER 27
ROXANNE
China—where technology meets design, and every corner holds a new possibility. The city was electric—neon signs, endless markets, the hum of opportunities. Guangzhou pulsed around me, alive and relentless, but I felt none of it.
Sahil trailed behind, charming and efficient, trying to make me laugh.
I’d talked about my ‘situation’—Vihaan, Marcello, the emotional wreckage—during our flight to China. I’d filled him in, occasionally haltingly, honestly. He hadn’t judged. Didn’t offer advice, just listened.
“Oh Roxy,” he said. “You’re in love, aren’t you? Don’t deny yourself happiness?”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. He already knew.
Then he smiled, almost shy. “I’m in love too. Planning to tie the knot.”
“Priya?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied, grinning.
“But she’s our client,” I pressed.
“So what? We’re into each other. And it’ll be good for Studio Rasa.”
I laughed. “Well, if she knows you’re a serial flirt and still wants you, either she’s blindly in love with you… or the sex is really good.”
“Bit of both,” he said.
We burst out laughing. For the first time in days, the weight on my chest eased.
Flying to China was not just a joint decision. It was strategic. He handled logistics. I made the aesthetic calls.
The Milan trip had barely ended when the offer came in—pristine office space in one of Mumbai’s most coveted towers.
Luxury. Scale. Furniture sourced from China—with a budget that made our pulse quicken.
The client was Mr. Gulati, CEO of a global financial services provider headquartered in Europe.
He was short—no more than 5’5”—with a balding head, a slight belly, and a wardrobe that never included a blazer.
Always in tailored trousers and crisp shirts, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest he was always halfway between a meeting and a crisis.
Quiet, sharp. The kind of man who didn’t speak unless it was to close a deal or end a conversation.
Taking on this project meant Studio Rasa would enter the commercial space. It meant versatility. Visibility. It meant stepping into a world where design wasn’t just emotional; it was strategic.
Soon after we arrived, we did a quick recce.
Took a day to survey the space, absorb its scale, and decide how to proceed.
The next day, we headed to the Louvre Furniture Mall in Foshan—six floors of curated design, custom lighting, and stylised showrooms. I moved with purpose, my mind focused on specs and finishes.
I was trying to stay busy. Trying to stay numb. But I wasn’t myself. Not entirely. I moved through it like a shadow.
We were walking through a showroom when Sahil nudged me playfully.
I laughed, gently patted his arm—and that’s when I saw it.
A shadow. Tall. Still. Watching. My breath caught, my heart stuttered.
A part of me recognised the feeling before my eyes did.
I instinctively pulled my hand away from Sahil’s arm.
Even though Marcello and I were never a real thing, I still felt like I was his. Like some invisible thread still tethered me to him. I turned. But the shadow was gone.
“Are you ok?” Sahil asked.
I shook my head and brushed it off.
“I thought I saw someone.”
Marcello and I—we hadn’t spoken in months. I had no idea where he was. All I knew was that I’d fractured something sacred. I broke his trust. He was upset. Angry. Maybe he was done. Done with me. But the ache hadn’t left me. Not once.
Later that evening, Sahil insisted we unwind. The whole Marcello-Vihaan situation had left me frayed. A drink and dancing away the stress were exactly what I needed. I needed to numb my thoughts. Needed silence.
We walked into The Velvet Room—a high-end nightclub tucked inside the Sofitel complex. The music was low, the lighting moody. We sat near the glass facade, overlooking the Guangzhou skyline.
My arm was looped through Sahil’s, my head resting on his shoulder. I felt safe. Or tried to.
“What am I going to do?” I whispered.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Whatever you do, I’ll support you. You know that.”
I smiled, grateful. But then I saw them.
Piercing eyes in the glass. The reflection felt too deliberate, too close. I lifted my gaze. Turned around—nothing. No one.
“Did you see someone?” I asked.
Sahil chuckled. “Are you seeing him again? Should I be worried?”
I shook my head and pulled him towards the dance floor.
“Let’s dance.”
The music pulsed. The drink settled in my veins. A calm began to wash over me. My hips moved on instinct, muscle memory awakened by rhythm and ache. Sahil nudged me back to our table as food arrived.
“You’ve got some fans, Roxy,” he said, pointing towards a group of businessmen. I felt their eyes trying to drill holes through my outfit.
“Shit. I shouldn’t have danced like that,” I muttered.
“Let’s eat so we can get some rest,” he replied.
Dinner was quiet.
Our rooms were two doors apart. His came first. I hugged him goodnight and walked to mine.
I stepped into my suite, tired and distracted—head lightly buzzing from the noise and alcohol. Before I could slide the card into the slot to turn on the lights, I was shoved against the wall.
I gasped, about to scream, but a hand covered my mouth.
Heavy breathing. Grunting. My heart raced.
The room was dark, with faint light creeping in through the curtains. The keycard still in my clutch. My jacket slipped from my shoulders, gathering at my wrists, restricting my movement. I could barely see who it was.
But then I inhaled. The scent—faint musk, spice, memory. My body knew before my mind did. The way his chest pressed into mine, the way his breath hit my neck—
It was him. It had to be.
My breath hitched. My body responded like it had been waiting. Like it had memorised him in absence. The way he held me, the way he breathed me in—it wasn’t just familiar. It was inevitable.
He didn’t speak. Just lowered his head onto my shoulder. It felt heavy. I didn’t move—his body against mine. I didn’t fight it. I couldn’t.
He slowly moved his hand down to my neck, then my hand—lacing it with his. Our fingers locked like they’d done this a thousand times before. Like they remembered what our mouths hadn’t said.
His grip was firm, reverent—like he was holding something precious. And I let him. His scent was masked with sweat—not repulsive, but sweet. Like tension and memory.
His other hand grazed up my arm, slowly. Then rested on my waist, pulling me closer to him. He grazed his stubble against my jaw.
My lips parted, and I let out a soft groan. My mind resisted, but my body accepted. I should’ve been scared. But I wasn’t. I shut my eyes as I could feel his hardness building against me.
My brain was telling me to scream and push him away, head for the door and bolt out. But my knees locked. My breath stayed trapped in my throat, breathing heavily with this stranger.
He snuggled against my neck, lips moving along the lines from neck to shoulder. This all felt familiar. Too familiar. Instinctively, my free hand reached for his hair, caressing.
His hardness was now pressed into my belly. My chest rose and fell with every breath, nipples hard beneath the fabric.
Heat surged through me. I didn’t understand how my body was reacting.
Then his lips met mine with desperate hunger.
He kissed me like he was starving. Like silence had been torture.
His mouth devoured mine—biting, breathing, shaking so hard my knees nearly gave out.
I moaned into him, and he drank it down like a man who’d been dying of thirst. My nails scraped his scalp, as his stubble burned my jaw.
I broke free from the kiss, breathless. My lips grazed his ear. And I whispered it—soft, broken, almost sacred.
“Marcello.”
He froze. Just for a second. Then he turned, opened the door and vanished. I stood there, flushed, flustered, trembling. I opened the door—an empty corridor.
Was I dreaming?
Hallucinating?
I pushed the keycard in. The lights flickered on. I picked up my bag and walked towards the bed. I stood there stunned.
A velvet box lay on the duvet, dead centre, like it was placed with intent. No letter. No note.
It was him.
I sat at the edge of the bed, shaking, still registering the kiss. The velvet box lay open beside me, the emerald catching the light like it was watching me.
I tried to convince myself it was a dream. A ghost. A hallucination born of alcohol and longing. But my skin still burned where he touched. And my heart—
My heart hadn’t stopped racing.
What did this mean? Why had he come? Why did he come at all? Why hadn’t he said a word?
Was this forgiveness? A goodbye?
Had he missed me? Had he watched me all evening, waiting for a moment to strike—not with anger, but with memory?
Or did he want to punish me? Or remind me?
The necklace glinted again, cruel and beautiful. It wasn’t just a gift. It was a message. One I didn’t know how to read.
Did he love me? Did he hate me? Was this his way of saying he hadn’t forgotten? Or that he never would?
I pressed my fingers to my lips, still swollen from his kiss. My body was humming, my mind unravelling. I felt like I’d been branded—not with pain, but with something worse. Longing.
I curled onto the bed, the necklace still beside me, and stared at the ceiling. The questions poured in, relentless and unkind. And somewhere between the ache and the silence, I whispered his name again.
“Marcello.”
But this time, no one answered. The silence didn’t feel empty.
It felt loaded. Like he’d left something behind. Not just the necklace. But a storm.
And I knew, whatever came next, it wouldn’t be gentle.