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Amaya’s POV

The Malhotra estate had never looked this extravagant.

Strings of marigold and jasmine cascaded from every archway, their scent heavy in the warm evening air. Gold lanterns illuminated the pathways, throwing soft halos across the manicured lawns.

Inside, the crowds were thick — relatives, acquaintances, business partners, people who barely remembered my name but came to witness a spectacle dressed as tradition.

My engagement.

My cage.

I stood at the top of the staircase, breath shallow beneath the weight of my lehenga.

Today’s ensemble was heavier, more elaborate — a deep maroon velvet skirt embroidered with antique gold zari, paired with a blouse that shimmered under the lights. The dupatta, sheer and delicately embellished, framed my shoulders like a reluctant crown.

Kiara stood beside me, adjusting the drape with practiced ease.

“You look like a queen,” she whispered. “Even if you’re being treated like a pawn.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“Then breathe for yourself,” she murmured. “Not for them.”

Down below, the camera flashes intensified — and then the murmurs began to shift.

A subtle, undeniable ripple.

A change in the air.

He had arrived.

Nevan.

Dressed in a charcoal-black sherwani embroidered with muted silver thread, he looked every bit the refined heir the world expected him to be.

Tall.

Sharp.

Impossibly controlled.

His hair was styled with deliberate precision, and the cold expression on his face only seemed to make the crowd lean in closer.

But when his eyes finally lifted and found me —

The world narrowed.

His stoic mask faltered. Just for a second. Just for me.

He swallowed once, slow, like the sight of me had knocked something loose inside his chest.

His gaze traveled from my anklets up to my shoulders, lingering with an intensity that made my cheeks warm.

Kiara smirked. “He’s staring like you’re the last sunrise on earth.”

“Shut up,” I muttered — but my heartbeat didn’t obey.

As I descended the stairs, Nevan moved closer, almost instinctively.

He stood at the bottom, waiting for me, shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes softening only when I reached him.

“You…” His voice was low, unreadable. “Look—”

He paused. Struggled. Tried again.

“You look incredible, Amaya.”

His tone was gentle. Too gentle. It almost hurt.

Before I could process it, my parents ushered us toward the stage. The crowd formed a semi-circle around us. Hundreds of eyes. Hundreds of expectations.

I forced myself to smile.

Nevan didn’t. But he stayed close — too close — his arm grazing mine, like he was silently anchoring me.

---

Nevan’s POV

I hated crowds.

They reminded me of all the things I wasn’t — the perfect son, the dutiful heir, the polished product of old money and old expectations.

But tonight, nothing commanded my attention except her.

Amaya.

She stood under the chandelier lights like a storm wrapped in velvet.

Her maroon lehenga shimmered with each breath she took.

Her hair was pinned half-up, soft curls cascading down her back, and her eyes — sharp, furious, stunning — carried a fire that made my chest tighten uncomfortably.

God.

I never believed in beauty that could unmake a man.

Until her.

When she descended the staircase, every thought in my mind shut down. My pulse stuttered. My breath slipped.

I stepped forward without thinking.

“You look… incredible,” I managed, though the word felt pathetically small compared to what I actually felt.

I wanted to touch her. To steady her. To pull her away from the noise and shield her from every gaze that dared to linger too long.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

I had no right.

So I stayed close, careful not to cross the invisible line between us. Close enough to protect her.

Far enough not to claim her.

Then the photographers came.

---

Amaya’s POV

The photographer placed us in position on the decorated stage.

“Closer,” he instructed.

I froze. So did Nevan.

“Closer,” the photographer repeated, impatient. “You two look like business partners, not a couple.”

Nevan exhaled slowly, then stepped nearer. His hand hovered near my waist — hovering, trembling, retreating.

“I won’t touch you unless you say it’s okay,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the music.

My stomach flipped.

“It’s fine,” I whispered.

His palm settled lightly at my waist.

Heat spread through my body like wildfire.

We posed — his hand warm, firm but cautious, his jaw clenched as though the proximity was both torture and necessity.

I could feel every breath he took.

Another direction:

“Amaya, tilt your chin toward him.”

“Nevan, look at her.”

He looked.

And the air changed.

Something raw flickered in his eyes — awe, hunger, restraint. A silent battle he was losing.

I felt myself flush. This wasn’t acting. This wasn’t forced. This was… dangerous.

The photographer snapped dozens of shots.

“Perfect,” he said. “Now a candid. Laugh. Look natural.”

Natural? With this man?

Nevan leaned closer, lips inches from my ear.

“You don’t have to force it,” he murmured. “Just breathe.”

His voice sent a shiver down my spine.

I hated how easily he could disarm me.

I hated that he tried.

But even more, I hated that a part of me wanted to lean into him.

---

Nevan’s POV

Her breath hitched when I touched her waist. I felt it — felt her tense, felt her soften, felt my restraint snap taut like a frayed wire.

I kept my hand steady.

I wouldn’t cross that line.

But God, I wanted to.

When the photographer told me to look at her, I did. And I couldn’t stop.

Her lips parted slightly, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. She was breathtaking in a way that made my chest ache.

I leaned in only because the moment demanded it — not because my body moved on its own, not because I was losing my grip on control.

(That’s what I told myself.)

“You don’t have to force it,” I whispered, trying to steady her — trying even harder to steady myself.

She shivered.

I nearly lost it.

Then the ring ceremony began.

---

Amaya’s POV

The sapphire ring — my ring — gleamed on a rose-petal-lined tray. Nevan picked it up slowly, eyes locked on mine, expression unreadable.

The world dimmed around us.

He slid the ring onto my finger with gentle precision — gentle like he was afraid of hurting me, gentle like he was afraid of wanting this moment.

When it was my turn, my hand brushed his.

He inhaled sharply.

Something tightened between us — invisible, dangerous, unspoken.

The crowd erupted in applause.

I barely heard it.

His gaze was still locked on me, soft and burning.

And for the first time in weeks, I wondered if this unwanted engagement… was becoming something neither of us had expected.

Something terrifying.

Something inevitable.

---

Nevan’s POV

When I touched her hand, the world stopped.

It was ridiculous — a fleeting brush of skin — but it anchored me more than anything had in years. Her fingers trembled. Or maybe mine did.

I slid the ring onto her finger, hating the traditional significance but loving how it looked on her — dark, defiant, hers.

She met my gaze.

And something inside me tilted.

She wasn’t mine.

But God, I wanted to protect her like she was.

The ceremony ended with applause, paparazzi flashes, and endless blessings from people who didn’t know us. But all I could think of was the way she looked at me during that moment — unguarded, uncertain, real.

Tonight, she had marked me again.

And this time, I didn’t fight it.

---

STANDALONE CHAPTER — A Name From the Past

Amaya’s POV

The engagement chaos was finally settling.

Guests drifted toward the buffet, music softened into a distant hum, and Kiara had slipped off to scold one of my cousins for calling the ceremony “cute.”

I stepped outside onto the terrace for air — the jasmine garlands brushing lightly against my shoulders as the breeze picked up.

And then I heard it.

“Amaya Malhotra… after all these years, you still look the same.”

I froze.

That voice.

I turned, and there he was — Rohan Marwi. Tall, charming, still carrying that easy smile he used to weaponize back in high school.

The boy who’d once followed me around the campus, leaving anonymous sketches in my locker, writing terrible poetry about my eyes.

Persistent. Sweet. Annoying.

And undeniably from a past I had severed.

“Rohan?” I blinked. “You’re— wow, you’re actually here.”

“Well,” he chuckled, stepping closer, “I heard the Malhotra daughter was getting engaged, and I had to see for myself. Didn’t believe the rumor until now.”

I exhaled awkwardly. “Yeah. Surprise.”

“You look beautiful, Amaya,” he said softly. “Just like—”

His gaze shifted over my shoulder suddenly, expression tightening.

And the air behind me… changed.

---

Nevan’s POV

I had been watching her.

I shouldn’t have — but every time she moved through the crowd, something inside me snapped taut.

She didn’t know how magnetic she was.

How every man in that room stared too long.

How every laugh, every tilt of her head made me want to step closer.

So when I saw her slip onto the terrace alone, I followed. Quietly. Instinctively. As though pulled.

But when I stepped outside, someone was already there.

A man.

Standing too close.

Smiling at her like he owned every shared memory between them.

My jaw clenched as I approached.

His smile faltered the second he saw me.

---

Amaya’s POV

Nevan stepped into the terrace light, sherwani still immaculate, posture composed — but his eyes…

His eyes were sharp. Dark. Loaded.

I’d never seen that intensity directed at someone else before.

“Rohan,” I said quickly, breaking the tension. “This is Nevan Kapoor. My—”

“Fiancé,” Nevan finished for me, voice low, calm but edged with something cold. “And you are?”

Rohan cleared his throat. “Rohan Marwi. Amaya and I went to school together.”

“School,” Nevan echoed, like the word tasted sour. “How… nostalgic.”

Rohan laughed nervously. “We were close for a while—”

I winced internally.

Nevan’s gaze sharpened. “Close?”

Rohan continued, oblivious. “Yeah, I had a huge crush on her. Pretty sure everyone knew. But she never gave me the time of day.”

“Rohan—” I started.

He shrugged. “Well, old news. But Amaya was always special. Still is.”

There it was.

The shift.

Nevan’s shoulders stiffened.

His jaw tightened.

Something dark flashed through his eyes — not anger exactly, but something far more controlled… and far more dangerous.

Possession.

He moved, subtle but deliberate, stepping closer until his arm brushed mine — a silent claim, a warning, a line drawn.

“Rohan,” Nevan said smoothly, “it’s nice you came. But you should know something.”

Rohan blinked. “What’s that?”

Nevan’s voice dropped to a velvet-soft threat.

“Whatever you felt for her then… it’s irrelevant now.”

My breath caught.

Rohan’s smile faltered.

Nevan continued, tone polite but lethal at the edges.

“Amaya is with me. Not in theory. Not in tradition. But in reality. So let’s not confuse the past with the present.”

Rohan stiffened. “Of course. I didn’t mean anything—”

“Good,” Nevan said, eyes cutting through him. “Because I don’t appreciate men getting too comfortable with my fiancée.”

Heat shot up my neck.

“Okay, that’s enough,” I snapped softly, nudging Nevan’s arm. “He was just talking.”

Nevan didn’t look away from Rohan.

“He was staring.”

Rohan raised his hands defensively. “I didn’t mean disrespect. I should go. Congratulations, Amaya.”

He left quickly — not walking, escaping.

And then there was only Nevan.

And the dark energy radiating off him in waves.

---

Amaya’s POV

When Rohan disappeared inside, I let out a slow breath.

“What was that, Nevan?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he turned his head toward me, eyes still storm-dark, voice low.

“I don’t like when other men talk about you like they have a claim.”

My heart stuttered.

“No one has a claim,” I said carefully. “Not even you.”

For a second, something like pain flickered in his eyes — quickly smothered.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know I don’t… own you. I’m trying to respect that.”

He stepped closer — close enough that I could feel the warmth of him through the night air.

“But Amaya, when I see someone else look at you the way he did…”

His voice dropped, barely a whisper.

“Something in me turns dark.”

My breath hitched.

He swallowed hard, fighting for control.

“I’m trying not to cross lines. I swear I am. But I can’t pretend it doesn’t affect me.”

Silence stretched — thick, charged, intimate.

Then, softer than ever:

“You’re not my choice,” he said.

“But you’re becoming my weakness.”

My knees nearly buckled.

And before I could respond,

he stepped back — walls rising again as fast as they’d cracked — and walked inside, leaving me breathless on the terrace with the ghost of his confession burning in my chest.

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