CHAPTER 25
ISHIKA
I have no clue why I agreed to this.
That thought has been looping in my head since the moment I sat in his car this morning, and it refuses to leave. I remember standing in front of my mirror, hair half-tied, eyeliner slightly uneven, giving myself a full ten-minute lecture like I was both the problem and the solution.
Keep it professional, Ishika. Keep it casual. No oversharing. No personal questions. No getting pulled into his chaos.
And then—Somewhere between the drive and his stupid grin, I ended up conducting a rapid-fire round like I was interviewing a celebrity on national television.
I grip the edge of the car door slightly as we step out at the warehouse, still mildly annoyed at myself. He had pushed, of course he had, and I had resisted—of course I had—but not enough.
Never enough with him.
We supervise the loading of the chandelier together, and I don’t take my eyes off it for even a second. It’s wrapped in layers—bubble wrap, foam, protective sheets, cardboard casing—and still, it feels fragile.
Like one wrong move and everything will fall apart again.
“Careful,” I say for the third time, my voice sharper than I intend but I don’t bother softening it.
The workers nod quickly.
Aryan doesn’t say anything. He just stands beside me, watching the process, his presence steady instead of intrusive for once.
That’s new.
When it’s finally secured in the back seat, I exhale slowly, my shoulders dropping a fraction.
“Drive slow,” I tell him as we get in.
“Define slow,” he smirks casually.
“As slow as you humanly can without causing traffic.”
He grins. “Noted.” I quickly text Kamlesh to be at the site by six with the labourers, my fingers moving automatically as my mind runs through timelines, contingencies, backup plans.
The engine starts and we pull out. For a few minutes, there’s silence again. As if he can sense my peace, he opens his mouth again, “What’s your dream?” he asks.
I blink.
Of course he starts like that.
I inhale slowly, buying myself a second. “Wow,” I mutter, staring straight ahead. “Starting off strong.”
He doesn’t respond, just waits. I hate that he does that. Gives space. Doesn’t rush. Makes me fill it. “I want to open my own interior designing firm,” I say finally. “A proper one. Not freelance chaos.”
That part is easy.
That part is safe.
But then—A thought slips in. Uninvited. Unwelcome. Build a family.
It hits me so suddenly I almost gasp. What the hell.
I frown slightly, shaking my head as if that will physically remove the thought. I don’t do that anymore. I don’t think like that. I don’t—“It’s always been about work,” I add quickly, correcting myself before he can notice anything.
He glances at me, his eyes a little too observant.
“No marriage? Kids?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
I mirror him instantly. “Is that your second question?”
He sighs, leaning back slightly. “You’re impossible.”
I smirk faintly. My stomach growls. Loud, breaking the brief silence and I freeze. He turns to me slowly.
I close my eyes for half a second.
Great.
Perfect timing.
“Let’s eat something,” he says casually, like he didn’t just witness that.
My first instinct is to say no. Automatically. Reflexively. But I am hungry. And I’m tired. And today has already been too much. So I don’t argue.
We spot a dhaba a little ahead, not too crowded, clean enough to not make me question my life choices, not that I care enough considering the amount of junk I consume. He parks the car carefully, and before stepping out, I glance back at the chandelier.
It’s fine. Still intact.
“Relax,” he says softly.
I nod once. Inside, we take a corner table. I order paneer tikka without thinking, and he orders the same without even checking the menu. Of course he does.
The waiter leaves, and I lean back slightly, trying to settle the strange restlessness in my chest. “So,” he says, resting his arms on the table. “Favorite childhood memory?”
My heart stutters. Of all the questions. Of course he picks that.
“Muffins,” I say before I can stop myself. The word slips out too easily. Too naturally.
A small smile forms on my lips despite myself. “I used to bake muffins with my father,” I continue, my voice softer now. “Whenever I was upset he always said desserts gives you happiness.”
The memory unfolds before I can stop it. “I loved horror movies,” I add, a small laugh escaping me. “Not because of the movies—but because my parents were terrified of them.”
He chuckles quietly. “They would scream at the smallest things,” I say, shaking my head slightly. “And I used to sit there like this was my revenge for all the scoldings.”
The laugh comes easier now. “My father traveled a lot,” My gaze drifts somewhere past him. “Salesman. Always on the move.”
My fingers trace the edge of the table absently. “So whenever he came back…he brought things,” I sigh. “Snickers. Toys. Comics.”
I smile faintly. “And my mother and I…” I pause, shrugging lightly. “We didn’t get along much.”
The words feel distant. Like they belong to someone else. I blink. And that’s when I realize my vision is blurred. There’s a warmth on my cheek.
Oh.
I inhale sharply. Aryan leans forward slightly, his expression softer than I’ve ever seen it. His fingers brush against my cheek gently. “Your father really loved you,” he says quietly.
I nod, wiping my face quickly with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I haven’t thought about them in a while.”
That’s the truth. I don’t let myself. Because this happens. Every single time. “Hey,” he says softly. “You can skip this.” I know what he means. I know the question before he even asks, What happened to them?
I let out a small, humorless chuckle. “My parents never left me alone,” I say slowly. “But my mother had…alcohol issues.” I swallow. “It got worse when I was around fifteen.”
The words feel heavier now. “So my father took her with him on a trip.”
I blink rapidly, trying to keep it together. “And they never came back.”
He frowns. “You mean they—”
“I don’t know,” I cut in, shaking my head. “No one knows.”
My voice trembles despite my effort to keep it steady. “I went to the police. Offices. Everywhere,” I say. “There’s no record. No trace.”
I let out a shaky breath. “They were declared dead.”
Silence. Heavy. Thick. His hand finds mine on the table. Warm and steady.
He squeezes it gently. “I’m sorry, Ishika,” he says.
I smile faintly. He looks at me, his gaze unwavering. “You will always have me,” he says. I shake my head immediately. He smiles, softer this time. “I know you don’t believe that.”
“Don’t say all this,” I interrupt quickly. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Because I can feel it. That dangerous pull. That fragile hope.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m okay without—”
“Sunshine,” he cuts in gently. My breath catches.
A tear slips down again. “Stop pretending,” he says softly.
I look at him. Really look at him. And for the first time, there’s no teasing in his eyes.
No playfulness. Just…something steady. “You don’t have to,” he continues.
“Not with me.” His hand moves from mine to my cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear slowly.
“It’s okay to want people,” he says. My chest tightens. “It’s human.”
His voice drops slightly. “And whether you want me or not…” he adds, a small smile forming, “you will always have me.”
My heart stumbles. “I promise.”
I bite down on my tongue, trying to hold it together. Trying to push it back. Trying to not believe him. But my body doesn’t listen.
The tears come anyway.
And I sit there, in the middle of a random dhaba, across from a man I wasn’t supposed to let in—Crying like I haven’t allowed myself to in years.
Shit.