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AMAYA — POV

My closet was a battlefield.

Gold sarees.

Red lehengas.

Heavy embroidery.

Chunky jewels.

All the things my mother thought a “proper Malhotra bride-to-be” should showcase on a camera.

All the things that felt like chains.

The official photoshoot was in two hours.

The announcement of the “historic business alliance” between Malhotra Luxury Holdings and Kapoor Infrastructure & Urban Development.

An empire of luxury merging with an empire of land.

And I was supposed to smile gracefully, pose obediently, and become the face of a deal I never agreed to.

I pushed aside a glittering pastel saree—too soft.

Another—too loud.

Another—too not me.

I needed something that felt like breathing.

Something that felt like mine.

After digging past rows of unwanted silk, my fingers caught on something smooth.

Cool.

Hidden.

A saree wrapped in black tissue paper.

I pulled it out slowly.

Midnight blue.

Deep.

Almost inky.

Fluid and light as water.

The color felt like silence, rebellion, and dusk—all at once.

I held it against me.

This… this felt right.

I changed into it quickly.

The silk draped over my skin like a whisper, cooling and familiar.

My blouse was minimalist—midnight blue to match, sleeveless, modern, sharp.

My hair fell naturally down my shoulders in loose waves, soft and unrestrained.

No heavy jewelry—just tiny sapphire studs.

Makeup: subtle, glowy, a dusty rose lip.

Heels: slim stilettoes that clicked lightly when I walked.

A version of me that didn’t apologize.

A version my mother would hate.

Perfect.

When I stepped outside, my mother’s voice rose instantly.

“Amaya—what—why are you dressed like that?”

“Because I want to.”

“Blue? For an engagement announcement? And your hair—open? At least wear the necklace—”

“No.”

She inhaled sharply.

“Amaya—”

“I’m not negotiating today,” I said calmly.

Not loudly.

But with steel she couldn’t argue with.

We drove in silence.

The studio at Marine Drive was buzzing when I entered—lights, assistants, makeup artists, camera equipment, chatter.

But everything fell away the moment I saw him.

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NEVAN — POV

I had been prepared for a photoshoot—prepared for an overly styled, overly adorned version of her.

I wasn’t prepared for this.

She walked in like midnight wrapped in silk.

Her saree clung softly to her frame, fluid and dark.

Her hair fell in loose waves, brushing against her shoulders in a way that made my breath tighten unexpectedly.

Her eyes looked brighter against the depth of the blue.

Her heels clicked softly, turning heads without trying.

And I…

I went completely still.

Because she wasn’t dressed like a bride.

Or a business pawn.

Or a pretty ornament for our parents’ alliance.

She was dressed like herself.

And God help me—

she was beautiful enough to ruin my discipline.

I stepped toward her before I could stop myself.

“Amaya.”

She met my gaze without hesitation.

“Nevan.”

There it was again.

That twist in my chest.

Sharp.

Unwanted.

“You…” I began.

She lifted a brow.

“Careful. Say the wrong thing and I’ll walk out.”

I exhaled slowly.

“You look more like yourself than I’ve ever seen you.”

Her lips parted slightly.

Not a smile.

But something dangerously close to softness.

“I’ll take that,” she murmured.

Before I could say something I’d regret, the photographer approached, hyper and loud.

“Yes! This is perfect! You two—come, come. The backdrop is ready!”

Amaya tensed slightly.

I noticed.

Of course I noticed.

Her discomfort hit me like a protective instinct I had no business feeling.

My voice dropped low, just for her.

“If you want to slow this down, tell me.”

She hesitated.

Just a moment.

But enough for me to catch the flicker of vulnerability she tried hard to hide.

“No,” she whispered.

“I can handle a camera.”

What she didn’t say was:

But I don’t know how to handle you.

And I didn’t know how to handle the way that made me feel.

---

AMAYA — POV

The photographer positioned Nevan and me in front of a gray backdrop.

I tried to stand naturally.

I failed.

Every nerve in my body felt hyper-aware of Nevan’s presence beside me—his warmth, his height, the way he smelled faintly like cedar and winter.

“Closer,” the photographer called.

Nevan stepped in instantly, but slow enough that I could step back if I wanted to.

I didn’t.

His arm brushed mine lightly—not enough to touch, but enough to feel.

“Hand around her waist,” the photographer said.

My breath hitched.

Nevan didn’t move immediately.

He turned to me, voice low, soft.

“May I?”

Why did that question feel like a touch?

I nodded.

He placed his hand at my waist—carefully, like I might break.

His palm was warm through the silk.

Too warm.

My heart stuttered.

“Relax,” Nevan said quietly.

“You relax,” I muttered back.

He huffed a soft laugh—barely audible, but real.

The photographer snapped dozens of photos.

“Nevan, tilt your head toward her. Yes—perfect. Amaya, bring your chin up slightly—­beautiful. Now look at each other.”

I turned.

So did he.

His eyes weren’t cold.

Not today.

Today they were… dark.

Focused.

Hungry for something he wouldn’t admit to.

I felt heat creep up my neck.

“You’re staring,” I whispered.

“So are you,” he murmured.

I looked away.

He didn’t.

---

NEVAN — POV

She looked away too fast.

And I… I hated that she did.

Because the moment our eyes met, something electric pulled between us—quiet but impossible to ignore.

And I could tell she felt it too.

The photographer asked for another close shot.

“Amaya,” I said softly, “step closer.”

“I am close.”

“Closer.”

She inhaled sharply.

But she stepped forward.

Her body brushed mine—soft fabric meeting hard lines.

Her hair grazed my jaw.

Her perfume—light, floral—wrapped around me.

My self-control strained like a wire pulled too tight.

The photographer adjusted the angle.

“Now, Nevan—guide her chin.”

I froze.

Not because I couldn’t do it—

but because I wanted to do it too much.

My hand lifted slowly.

I didn’t touch her immediately.

I gave her time to step back.

She didn’t.

So I touched her chin gently.

Softly.

Barely.

Her breath hitched so faintly I almost missed it.

Almost.

Her skin was warm.

Her jaw delicate beneath my fingertips.

Her lips parted just a little at the contact.

And my chest tightened painfully.

Dangerously.

“Good,” the photographer whispered, clicking away.

“Beautiful. Stunning.”

I barely heard him.

All I could think of was how small she felt beneath my hand—how much I suddenly wanted to protect and ruin her in equal measure.

I dropped my hand a second too late.

And she noticed.

---

AMAYA — POV

When he touched my chin, I felt something I shouldn’t.

A pull.

A heat.

A warning.

His fingers were rougher than I expected, but careful—gently tilting my face the way the photographer wanted.

But the moment lasted longer than it should have.

Too long.

Too close.

Too real.

His eyes dropped briefly to my mouth.

My stomach twisted.

He let go abruptly, jaw tight.

As if he was angry—at himself.

“Next pose!” the photographer shouted cheerfully.

Nevan stepped slightly away, trying to regain that cold, distant composure.

For some reason, it bothered me.

---

NEVAN — POV

The distance didn’t help.

The photographer set up the last shot.

“A symbolic one,” he said. “Hold hands.”

I inhaled slowly.

Deeply.

Dangerously.

This shouldn’t matter.

It was just a pose.

But my pulse picked up anyway.

I lifted my hand toward her—open, waiting.

A challenge.

A question.

A choice.

She stared at it for a moment.

Then she placed her hand in mine.

Not lightly.

Not reluctantly.

Deliberately.

Her palm pressed against mine, warm and sure.

Something low in my stomach twisted.

Dark.

Unwelcome.

Undeniably real.

I intertwined our fingers slowly—giving her every chance to pull away.

She didn’t.

Our hands fit too well.

Like a lock clicking into place.

Her breath trembled.

Mine stopped entirely.

The photographer practically squealed.

“PERFECT! That’s the one!”

But I didn’t hear anything after that.

I only felt her hand in mine—steady, trusting, dangerous.

The moment the flash went off, she pulled away.

Too fast.

But I still felt her warmth in my palm.

---

AMAYA — POV

When the photographer dismissed us, I walked toward the exit—fast, too fast.

I needed air.

Distance.

Silence.

But Nevan caught up to me before I reached the door.

He didn’t touch me.

He didn’t block me.

He just stood close.

Too close.

Close enough to feel the heat of him at my back.

“Amaya.”

I closed my eyes for a second.

“What?”

He hesitated.

A rare thing for him.

“Thank you… for today.”

I turned slowly.

“For what exactly?”

“For letting me be close,” he said quietly.

“And for not pretending it didn’t affect you.”

My heart skipped.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.

His eyes softened in a way that made my throat tighten.

“You do.”

I hated how gentle his voice had become.

I hated how it made something inside me crack.

I stepped back.

He didn’t follow.

But his expression shifted—something darker, restrained, fighting itself.

“Amaya,” he said softly.

“If I ever cross a line… tell me. I’ll stop.”

I swallowed.

“And if I don’t tell you to stop?”

His jaw tightened visibly.

Painfully.

“Then,” he said in a low, controlled voice,

“I’ll still try to.”

My stomach dropped.

He turned away first, shoulders stiff, as if walking away from me took effort.

And God help me—

I watched him go.

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NEVAN — POV

I stepped out into the quiet hallway and leaned against the wall, dragging a hand through my hair.

I should not want her.

I should not crave her.

I should not want to pull her into my arms and kiss her until she stopped lying about feeling nothing.

But I did.

And I hated it.

Because desire was a weakness.

And she was the kind of weakness that could break a man like me.

I exhaled.

The announcement photos would go live tomorrow.

The world would see us as a perfect, powerful pair.

But they wouldn’t see the truth.

The truth was simple:

She was the first thing I couldn’t control.

And the way she looked in midnight blue…

the way she trembled under my touch…

She was going to ruin me.

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