---

Amaya’s POV—

The day had arrived. The day of the ring selection and the dress fitting.

Even now, sitting in the car outside the Malhotra residence, I felt hollow.

The date for the engagement had been set — 15th of next month — and nothing I said or did had altered it.

No protests, no arguments, no desperate pleas had mattered.

I was a spectator in my own life, forced into a world of silk, gold, and expectations.

Nevan sat rigidly beside me, his posture unreadable, his jaw tight.

There was something unnerving about him — a calm, silent storm, the kind that could erupt without warning.

I hated that I noticed it.

I hated that, despite everything, I was acutely aware of his presence.

The jewelry store smelled faintly of polished wood and metal.

The glass cases gleamed under soft lighting, displaying rings of all shapes and sizes — diamonds, sapphires, rubies.

Each one seemed to mock me, a reminder that this engagement was now inevitable.

Nevan stepped forward first, picking up a thick gold band with a flawless diamond.

“This one,” he said, voice flat. “Classic. Strong. Timeless.”

I looked at him, at the ring, and my chest tightened. That ring screamed ownership. It was not about choice or meaning — it was about power, about what everyone expected me to wear, what I was expected to accept. I could feel the defiance rising in me.

Then my eyes caught another ring, a few cases over.

Unlike the others, it wasn’t dazzling or flashy.

Its band was blackened silver, etched with intricate patterns that seemed almost tribal.

The center stone was a deep sapphire, dark as midnight. Something about it drew me in.

I picked it up without hesitation.

The metal was cool in my palm, the stone catching the light like it had a life of its own.

“This one,” I said, meeting Nevan’s gaze. His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re choosing that?” His voice was low, skeptical. “It’s… unconventional.”

“That’s the point,” I snapped, surprising even myself.

“I’m not here to fit into anyone’s idea of who I should be. I want what feels right — for me.”

He didn’t respond immediately, only watched me as though I had just made a declaration he couldn’t parse.

The air between us tightened, sharp and brittle. I could feel his intensity pressing against me like gravity.

Finally, he handed the ring back to the assistant with a curt nod. “Fine.”

I didn’t smile. I didn’t want to. But a flicker of satisfaction rose in me — I had chosen something that was mine, at least in a tiny way, in a life that wasn’t.

---

Nevan’s POV—

I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

That ring — dark, defiant, almost too bold — suited her perfectly.

I hated it and admired it at the same time.

It was like her:

unwilling to bend, unwilling to fit into the shapes everyone else wanted to mold her into.

And yet, she held it like a challenge — a challenge I couldn’t ignore.

It irritated me, but it also intrigued me.

For all my indifference, there was something about her that drew my attention, even in a forced, unwanted engagement.

Her defiance was intoxicating.

I didn’t know what I wanted from her — maybe nothing,

maybe everything.

But I could feel it simmering under my control, that possessive urge to watch, to protect, to claim.

---

Amaya’s POV—

From the jewelry store, we moved to the boutique for the dress fitting.

I had expected something European, elegant, silent.

But instead, I was greeted with a rainbow of lehengas — traditional Indian bridal ensembles, embroidered with gold and sequins, rich fabrics that whispered of wealth, tradition, and suffocating expectations.

“Miss Malhotra,” the designer greeted, “today we’ll select your engagement lehenga. This is an important step — it will set the tone for the ceremony.”

I wanted to scream.

The engagement ceremony wasn’t my choice.

Everything here, every thread, every jewel, every step, had been decided without me.

And yet, I had to go through with it.

Nevan was already inspecting the lehengas, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, it was low, deliberate.

“Red,” he said. “Deep crimson. Bold. Classic.”

I could feel his eyes on me as the designer draped the lehenga across my arms.

The crimson shimmered under the store lights. Gold embroidery traced intricate patterns, glittering faintly, almost alive.

When I stepped out of the fitting room, the world seemed to shrink around me. Nevan was standing a few feet away, his posture rigid, but his gaze was fixed on me. My breath caught in my throat.

The lehenga clung to my waist and flared around my legs like molten fire.

It was exquisite, breathtaking… and yet, I felt trapped.

Nevan took a step closer.

His eyes roamed over me, assessing, measuring. I felt a jolt of something dangerous — a thrill I didn’t want to admit.

He shouldn’t look at me that way.

Not in this arrangement.

Not in this context.

“It suits you,” he said finally, his voice low, almost a growl.

“But it doesn’t soften you.”

I flushed, startled by the intensity in his tone. “So?”

I asked, trying to steady my voice. “It’s not supposed to.”

His gaze darkened, and a cold, possessive edge crept into his eyes. He moved closer, stopping just short of touching me.

“Good,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“No one should be able to soften you.”

---

Nevan’s POV—

I couldn’t help it.

She looked…impossible.

Forbidden.

The crimson lehenga clung to her in a way that made it impossible to look away.

She was defiant, unyielding, untouchable. And yet, something in me ached to reach out — to touch, to claim, to warn her off from others who might.

It was infuriating.

Dangerous.

And I hated that I felt it.

Every line of her body beneath that fabric screamed temptation, and I could barely control the surge of possessiveness in me.

She wasn’t mine — not yet.

But the thought that someone else might see her like this, like I did, was unbearable.

I forced my hands to stay at my sides.

I forced my calm mask back into place.

This was a battle of restraint, not desire.

---

Amaya’s POV—

The air felt charged as he studied me, dark eyes tracking every movement.

I tried to hold my ground, to keep my defiance intact, but the intensity in his gaze made my knees weak.

I was trapped in silk and sequins, and I hated every second of it — and yet, I couldn’t look away.

He stepped closer under the pretense of inspecting the embroidery, but I could feel the tension between us thicken.

It was a battle of wills — and perhaps, for the first time, I realized I wasn’t entirely alone in this fight.

Even though he was the man I was supposed to marry, I could sense his protective instinct weaving into his coldness.

It was subtle, dangerous, and entirely unexpected.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to remember: nothing about this was choice.

Nothing about this was freedom.

And yet, under his gaze, I felt the tiniest spark of something I wasn’t ready to name.

---

Nevan’s POV—

Every detail mattered. The way the lehenga flowed, the embroidery glinting against her skin, the subtle strength in her posture — all of it.

She was defiant.

Bold.

Unapologetically herself.

And every second I looked at her, I felt it — the dark, irresistible pull.

Forbidden.

Dangerous.

I shouldn’t feel this.

I shouldn’t want this.

But I did.

And yet, I couldn’t make her mine yet.

Not truly.

Not until this engagement — this façade — was over.

But even then…

Even then, she had already marked me.

---

Amaya’s POV—

As the designer pinned the final details on the lehenga, I felt drained.

Hollow.

Every second of this day reminded me of everything I had lost — every ounce of control, every choice, every flicker of freedom.

Nevan didn’t speak again after that.

He didn’t need to.

His presence was a storm beside me, quiet but dangerous.

I could feel his attention, protective and possessive, but also indifferent to my protests, my feelings, my very existence.

I hated it. And yet, in some dark corner, I felt a small, terrifying thrill.

He was mine, in some way, even if I refused to admit it.

The day ended with the rings secured and the lehenga carefully folded.

But the tension between us lingered, like smoke in the air, impossible to dispel.

And I realized — no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I fought, nothing about this engagement would be easy.

Not for him, not for me, and certainly not for the storm that was quietly building between us.

---