Amaya:

The invitation wasn’t a request. It was a decree wrapped in silk-polite words.

The Malhotras are invited to the Kapoor residence for dinner. 8 PM sharp.

As if I were not a person but a calendar entry being moved around at everyone’s convenience.

My parents were ecstatic—my mother floating around the house with the grace of a woman presenting her perfectly trained daughter to the world, my father pretending everything was normal, as though I hadn’t tried to run away days ago.

I, however, felt like I was walking into a courtroom where the verdict had already been decided.

By 7:30 PM, I was dressed in a black chiffon saree—not by choice, but because fighting today would only drain me before the real battle.

I adjusted the fabric, feeling its weight like a chain over my shoulder.

Kiara had texted Run away again, along with ten flame emojis, but tonight, I didn’t have the strength.

As we approached the Kapoor mansion, its tall iron gates loomed like a warning. Marble pillars rose high, polished so bright they reflected the headlights of our car.

My mother inhaled sharply, filled with pride and delusion.

“This is the family you were meant to marry into,” she said.

I wanted to laugh. Instead, I swallowed my bitterness.

We stepped inside, and the air itself felt different—richer, colder, heavier with legacy and judgment.

The chandeliers spilled light like liquid gold across the floors.

The portraits of stern-faced ancestors watched from the walls, silently questioning whether I was worthy of entering their bloodline.

As if I cared for their approval.

Then I felt it—before I saw him.

A shift in the air. A presence that tightened something low in my stomach.

Nevan.

He stood near the far end of the room, half in shadow, sleeves rolled to the forearms, revealing that scar again. Unintentional or deliberate—I couldn’t tell.

His posture was calm,

but his eyes?

Cold. Calculating. Unfathomably steady on me.

He didn’t smile or acknowledge me with a polite nod. He simply stared.

Like he was assessing whether I had the potential to cause an explosion at any moment.

Which, to be fair, was a reasonable concern.

My father stepped forward with enthusiasm. “Nevan! Good to finally meet you properly, beta.”

Nevan offered a curt, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Mr. Malhotra.”

His gaze flicked to me again—brief, sharp, unreadable.

I lifted my chin in defiance.

If he expected me to shrink, he’d miscalculated.

---

Nevan:

The moment she entered, the room shifted—just slightly, enough for my mother to straighten, enough for my bones to tighten.

Amaya.

She wore black, a quiet rebellion in saree form. Her chin was raised, her eyes burning with that sharp, reckless defiance I had already come to associate with her. She looked like a challenge wrapped in silk.

And I hated that I noticed.

I hated even more that I cared.

My mother moved forward to greet the Malhotras with warm smiles, the perfect hostess. My father stood tall, dignified—his public mask flawless. No one would guess the storm beneath his calm façade.

No one except me.

When Amaya’s gaze caught mine, there was no hesitation. No fear. Only fire.

A storm warning.

“Good evening,” I said, keeping my tone neutral, cold—a firm barrier between us.

She didn’t smile. “Is it?”

Her father laughed awkwardly, but the tension in her voice wasn’t lost on anyone.

We moved toward the dining hall. My mother gestured for Amaya to sit beside me.

Of course.

I pulled her chair out for her. Not out of politeness.

Out of habit. Or something like it.

Her hand hovered over the back of the chair for half a second. She didn’t thank me. Good. I didn’t want her gratitude.

But I did want her attention.

She sat, back straight, shoulders rigid.

Our knees brushed under the table.

She jerked her leg away.

I smirked—barely.

That fire of hers… it was almost intoxicating.

---

Amaya:

Dinner began with unnecessary formalities, everyone speaking with the politeness of people pretending nothing was wrong.

Mrs. Kapoor complimented my saree.

My mother complimented the Kapoor household.

My father complimented the food.

Everyone was complimenting something.

Except Nevan.

He barely said a word. He cut into his food methodically, each movement precise, controlled—like he did everything.

I wanted to shake him.

Or throw my water at him.

Instead I asked, “So, did they drag you here too, or did you come willingly?”

His fork paused mid-air.

My mother almost choked.

Mrs. Kapoor blinked like she’d swallowed a lemon.

Nevan didn’t look at them. He looked at me.

Dead in the eyes.

“Believe it or not,” he said calmly, “I’m capable of showing up to things without being dragged.”

His tone was smooth, infuriatingly even.

I pushed. “Really? Because you weren’t at the last meeting. Busy running away again?”

The table went silent.

Nevan’s jaw tightened—not visibly, but I saw it. Felt it.

He leaned in, voice low enough only I could hear.

“Careful, Amaya. You’re not the only one who knows how to run.”

My breath caught.

Not because of fear.

But because there was something else in his tone—dark, bitter, painfully honest.

Before I could respond, his father spoke warmly, loudly, obliviously, “We are delighted to see both families together. The alliance is—”

Nevan cut in.

“Premature.”

Everyone froze.

His mother shot him a warning glance. My parents stiffened. My sister’s hand tightened around her fork.

I stared at him, stunned.

Nevan didn’t look at me. He kept his gaze on his untouched plate, but his voice was steady.

“We haven’t decided anything. And we won’t tonight.”

He was refusing. In front of everyone.

My heart kicked against my ribs.

Was it relief?

Was it anger?

I didn’t know.

But something in me… loosened.

My father cleared his throat, forcing a smile. “Of course, of course. Still, it’s good to let the children spend time together—”

“We are not children,” I snapped.

Nevan’s eyes slid to mine again.

Steady. Unblinking.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “We’re not.”

---

Nevan:

She infuriated me.

Every word from her lips was a challenge, a dare, a provocation. And yet—yet—I watched her like she was the only person in the room who wasn’t pretending.

But when she jabbed at my absence, something sharp twisted inside me.

She didn’t know anything about that night in London—what I had been dealing with.

And I didn’t owe her an explanation.

Still, her words struck deeper than I let anyone see.

After my father’s grand declaration, her reaction surprised me. Anger, yes. Fire, yes. But beneath it… something in her posture eased.

As if she’d expected abandonment. As if she’d prepared for it.

I didn’t like that look on her face.

The dinner continued with forced laughter and fake pleasantries.

At one point, Mrs. Kapoor offered Amaya a dish. She reached out—and the hot serving bowl tipped barely, almost spilling onto her wrist.

I moved before I thought.

My hand shot out, steadying the bowl, stopping it inches from her skin.

Her eyes snapped to mine.

For one second—one breath—we were caught in a quiet pocket of the world where no one else existed.

Then she pulled back sharply.

“I didn’t need your help,” she muttered.

“I didn’t offer it,” I replied. “It was instinct.”

Her lips pressed together, frustration clouding her features.

I didn’t add that my instinct had been to protect her.

I didn’t need to.

---

Amaya:

The dinner dragged on, a suffocating blur of kindness I didn’t trust and formality I despised.

When dessert finally arrived, Nevan excused himself to take a call. I didn’t follow with my eyes—at least outwardly. Internally, I was hyper aware of every step he took.

My sister leaned toward me. “Can’t you just… try?” she whispered.

“I am trying,” I whispered back. “Just not in the direction you want.”

I escaped onto the Kapoor balcony the moment dessert plates were cleared. The night air was humid, thick, but still easier to breathe than the atmosphere inside.

I didn’t expect him to follow.

But he did.

I sensed his presence before he spoke.

“You’re escaping again,” he said quietly.

I didn’t turn. “You’re one to talk.”

He stepped beside me, leaving enough distance to be respectable… yet close enough to unsettle me.

“This dinner isn’t for us,” he said. “It’s for them.”

“I know.”

“And yet,” he added, “you look like you’re ready to break out of here with a fork if necessary.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “I’d prefer a hammer, actually.”

His lips quirked—tiny, but unmistakable.

Silence settled between us. Not comfortable. Not tense. Something… complicated.

Finally, I asked the question burning in my mind.

“Why did you say the marriage isn’t decided yet? In front of everyone?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Because it isn’t.”

My chest tightened.

“And because,” he continued, “no one decides my life for me.”

His eyes locked with mine.

“And I assume you feel the same.”

I swallowed. “What if they force us?”

His jaw clenched.

“Then we burn the script,” he said simply. “Together or alone. Your call.”

My breath hitched.

This man—cold, infuriating, impossible—was offering me something I didn’t expect:

A choice.

A sliver of freedom.

But before I could respond, he added, “And for the record… stop offering your sister like a bargaining chip.”

I stiffened. “Why? She fits their mold. She’d make your life easier.”

He turned fully toward me.

“I don’t want easy.”

His voice dropped.

“And I don’t want her.”

A beat.

His eyes lowered to mine—dark, unreadable, holding something I couldn’t decode.

“If I have to deal with a storm,” he murmured, “I’d rather it be you.”

My heart thudded so hard I felt it in my fingertips.

Before I could speak, Mrs. Kapoor called from inside, “Nevan, beta! Come say goodbye!”

He stepped back, the moment snapping.

But just before he walked away, he said quietly, without looking at me:

“You’re chaos, Amaya. But at least… you’re honest about it.”

And then he disappeared back inside.

Leaving me standing alone on the balcony, trying to steady my breathing, the night air heavy with a truth I didn’t want to face:

For the first time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run from him…

…or toward him.

–––