CHAPTER 38 #2
Marcello was polite, kept his distance, but he replied. And I hated it.
The Haldi ceremony commenced, drawing my attention to Sahil and Priya. I needed the distraction, or I’d go up in flames of jealousy.
Some aunties sang old folk songs, dancing in the courtyard. I spotted Vihaan and Marcello in deep conversation. I didn’t interrupt. But it unsettled me. Marcello joined me as we watched Priya and Sahil’s families smear turmeric on them, blessing them with love, laughter, and prosperity.
“What was that about? You and Vihaan?”
“Nothing. Just talking. Sorting things out like mature men.”
I rolled my eyes at that. I didn’t say anything, just prayed this wasn’t the start of another storm. My mother called us closer and launched into an uninvited explanation, but Marcello listened like it was gospel.
“Oh, dear. Your clothes are going to be ruined,” she exclaimed.
“That’s what I told him,” I said, shrugging.
“This is called the Haldi ceremony. It’s a pre-wedding ritual.
This paste is a mixture of turmeric, rosewater, and milk.
Friends and family apply the paste to the bride and groom’s faces, neck, hands and feet, in that order.
The yellow colour of turmeric is considered sacred and auspicious, believed to ward off evil spirits and bring luck and prosperity to the couple. ”
My mother guided Marcello in applying the paste to Sahil and Priya.
And then came my turn. I grinned at Sahil, grabbed a fistful of turmeric, and smeared it across his face as he squirmed and laughed—he was ambushed.
The crowd gasped and cheered in unison. Priya joined in, flinging clumps of turmeric at us with wild delight.
Kyra toddled over and smeared turmeric on Marcello’s cheeks and nose.
He laughed and returned the gesture, dotting her nose with yellow—like he was claiming her as his own.
And something in my chest tightened painfully and stupidly at how natural it looked.
We danced, laughed, and Sahil chased me with a fistful of paste, flinging it across my back. It felt like turmeric Holi.
As we stood for pictures, Sahil called Marcello to join in, and Kyra came running to jump into his arms. He instantly picked her up.
“Perfect family portrait,” Sahil joked.
And for one stupid second, I believed it. The three of us posed, and Marcello put his arms around my waist. I looked at Marcello just as the shutter clicked. Vihaan watched from the side—jealous, but composed.
After lunch, we retreated to our rooms to freshen up and gear up for the mehendi ceremony. Marcello stayed back—said he had calls to make. He didn’t elaborate, but I knew it had something to do with Lorenzo.
I was all over the place, making sure everyone was well accommodated. The old aunties kept staring at me, passing comments. I was certain they were trying to dissect my relationship with Marcello and Vihaan under a microscope.
Marriage—after a failed one—was heavier than I let on. The aunties whispered, their eyes sharp with judgment. And just like Mom always said, the world wasn’t kind to single mothers.
They were nosy, bitter, and bored—vixens who fed off gossip like it was dessert. The holy trinity of Indian aunty terrorism. Nothing good ever came from women who found joy in other people’s discomfort. Sadistic old hags.
Priya called me to get Mehendi applied.
“You know it’s customary.”
I let the artist draw simple designs on my hands. Kyra sat on my lap, getting stars and hearts drawn on her palms.
As the evening waned, Marcello appeared in a cream linen shirt and navy trousers.
He looked in his element—his green eyes catching the light, flecked with gold like embers in the setting sun.
He looked like butterscotch come to life, smooth, sinful, melt-on-your-tongue irresistible.
And his eyes? They were the butterscotch crystals—sharp, glinting, melting me from across the courtyard.
And I could lick every inch, savouring the taste of him.
Get it together, girl.
He leaned against a teakwood column, gaze fixed on me. I was flattered. Embarrassed. Turning red like the sun melting into the horizon.
My mother was feeding Kyra as the henna in my hands hadn’t dried yet. And Marcello offered to feed me. I deliberately took slow bites, watching him as his gaze kept getting darker. Then he leaned forward and whispered, so only I could hear.
“If you keep doing that, I’ll forget my word and won’t hesitate to bite down on those pouty lips and kiss you so hard it’ll send people running away with embarrassment.”
I looked at him with lips parted, cheeks flushed with liquid heat pooling between my legs. My thighs clenched so hard I could’ve cracked a walnut. I straightened and slowly licked my lips and took another bite as he fed me.
He looked down at my clenched thighs and smirked—like he’d won a war I didn’t know I was fighting.
“That’s what I thought… mia tentazione,” he murmured, grazing his thumb over my lip like he was wiping away a sin.
I could feel my nipples straining against the fabric of my blouse, begging to be let loose so he could devour them.
By the time we were done, Kyra was nodding off on my mother’s shoulder. They headed to their room, leaving me behind.
I lingered, letting the breeze cool my overheated skin. I’d told Mom I’d join her soon, but I needed space to breathe, to settle the storm he’d stirred inside me.
Marcello feeding me had left me simmering—every nerve lit like a fuse, every sense activated, every breath a countdown.
The breeze was a balm, but it couldn’t cool the ache between my legs he’d left behind. Marcello joined me as I walked back to our rooms. Outside the door, he held my hand.
“Stay with me. Just for a while.”
“I’m tired.”
I wanted to. My body was responsive, but my mind didn’t want to give in so easily.
“Just sit with me. Please. I promise I’ll try to keep my hands to myself.”
I hesitated. But I wanted to be near him just as much.
I scrubbed off the mehendi in his bathroom.
“That smell is pungent.”
“It’s tradition,” I explained, laughing as I sat on his bed.
“Henna—or mehendi—is part of Indian wedding rituals. It signifies love, prosperity, and protection. The darker the stain, the deeper the love.”
He looked at me curiously.
“It’s also believed that the longer it lasts, the stronger the bond. Brides hide their groom’s initials or names in the design. It’s playful and intimate.”
He sat beside me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder.
“And you said you’d try to keep your hands to yourself.”
“A man can only control himself so much,” he winked.
“So… Did you hide my name in there?”
“Why don’t you try finding it?” I teased.
He studied my hand. I studied his face. I’d missed him—his eyes, his lips, his stubble. The vein on his neck. The tension in his jaw. He looked older. Worn. Like he’d fought storms I hadn’t even seen.
“You look older since I saw you last.” I chuckled.
“I know. This whole cat-and-mouse chase with you and that figlio di puttana… maybe I’ve aged a few years.”
I laced my fingers through his and spoke, serious now.
“Promise me you’ll get him. End this. I don’t want to live in fear.”
He cupped my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones like I was breakable, but worth holding anyway.
I leaned into him, into his warmth. His gaze softened, but beneath it burned a fire—not just revenge, but devotion sharpened into fury.
It ignited something primal. A vow. A promise to destroy anything that dared touch me.
“I’ll burn the world if it would keep you safe. Per te… la mia metà.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll tell you when the time comes,” he said, brushing my cheek with his fingers.
We stared at each other—his breath steady, mine shallow. The heat of his body, the scent of him, wrapped around me like a promise I wasn’t ready to break. But my body reacted before my mind could compose itself.
I leaned forward and our lips almost touched—
Then came a knock on the door. One more second and I’d have ruined every defence I pretended to have. Marcello groaned.
“Scimunitu!”
Even the universe wanted us unfinished.