Kiara hesitated at the doorway, her eyes scanning the room as she stepped inside. His cabin was everything she had expected from him,clean, controlled, almost intimidating in its perfection. Monochrome tones stretched across the walls and furniture, a floor-to-ceiling glass window spilling in light, a tall shelf lined with trophies, certificates, and awards.

But what stopped her were the paintings.

Her gaze lingered on them, one after the other. The strokes, the colors, the details she knew them all. Each one had been painted by her. She hadn’t realized he still kept them. A faint sting burned at the back of her chest, but she quickly masked it.

Turning sharply, she faced him. “Why did you bring me here?”

Aryansh walked closer, stopping a few steps away. His expression was unreadable, his voice calm yet commanding. “You came here for the first time. I’m not letting you leave without eating just like that.” He shrugged off his coat with ease, draping it over the chair before moving toward the sofa where a lunch spread had been set out.

Kiara’s lips curved into a bitter line, irritation flickering in her eyes. “Wife?” she asked, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Yeah, sureeee...wife. When your receptionist doesn’t even know my name, or that you have a wife.”

Her words were sharp, but for the briefest second, Aryansh almost smiled. The fire in her tone it hadn’t changed. She was still the same woman who once used to argue over the smallest things, who never let herself be walked over. He wanted to laugh, but instead kept his expression cold.

“She didn’t know it before,” he said evenly, opening the lids of the boxes one by one. “But now she does. She won’t repeat it again.” He gestured for her to sit, his tone casual. “Had lunch?”

Kiara stayed rooted where she was, arms crossed, eyes hard. “I’ll go back to the house and eat,” she murmured, her voice low but firm.

Aryansh looked at her then, really looked. The faint pout tugging at her lips, the stubborn set of her shoulders, the confusion flickering in her dark eyes,she hadn’t changed. Not in the ways that mattered. And though he had spent months pushing her away, denying himself even a glance, a part of him had never stopped remembering.

“Won’t you join at all?” His voice softened for half a second before he caught himself.

When she didn’t respond, he forced the hesitation away, letting his tone drop, steady and commanding. “Kiara. Sit and eat. Otherwise, you won’t be leaving my office.”

Her eyes widened, baffled. “Who do you think you are? That I’ll do everything you say?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t,not with the truth. That the sight of her in his office, after all this time, had shaken the wall he had so carefully built. That he didn’t want her to walk out just yet. That for once, he wanted her to stay.

Instead, he stood, crossing the space between them in long strides. His hand closed around hers not harsh, but firm enough that she couldn’t pull away. His voice was low, carrying both warning and something else he wouldn’t admit.

“Sit. Or else.”

Kiara’s breath caught, a mix of anger and disbelief swirling inside her. For a second, she considered fighting him again, pulling away, walking out. But the look in his eyes stopped her. It wasn’t just authority,it was something heavier, something she couldn’t place.

Finally, with a frustrated exhale, she gave in and sat beside him. The clatter of cutlery and the faint aroma of food filled the silence between them.

Neither spoke. She ate quietly, every bite tasting heavier than it should, while he sat calmly at her side, as though this was the most natural thing in the world.

But inside, Aryansh’s thoughts wouldn’t still. You still pout when you’re angry. You still refuse to listen until I push. You still… get under my skin.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel entirely in control.

The silence in the cabin stretched, broken only by the soft clatter of cutlery and the faint aroma of the food between them. Kiara ate quietly, keeping her eyes down, determined not to give him even a fraction of her thoughts.

Aryansh, however, found his gaze wandering to her every so often. The way she pushed her hair back absentmindedly, the way her lips pressed together when she tried not to frown, the way her shoulders stiffened as though she was carrying the weight of something unsaid.

Finally, in between bites, his voice slipped out before he could stop it.
“Remember how we used to share from one order before?”

Her spoon paused midair, her black eyes snapping up to meet his. For a second, there was a flicker recognition, memory,but then it was gone, replaced by a calm, detached mask.
“Does it matter now?” she asked evenly, her tone devoid of any warmth. “It was in the past.”

The dismissal cut sharper than he expected. His brows drew together, a hint of something breaking through his carefully guarded expression. “But it was a past we both sha-”

“Past which is meant to be forgotten,” she interrupted coldly, setting her spoon down without looking at him. “Because it ended.”

The words landed like ice. He froze, taken aback not only by her interruption but also by the finality in her voice. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Confusion flickered across his face, then something deeper than just hurt.

“Does the past not matter at all to you? Dov—” He stopped himself abruptly, teeth catching against his tongue. His voice softened, almost against his will. “Kiara.”

Her eyes remained on her plate, refusing to meet his.

“You act as if we once were nothing,” he said quietly, but the anger and hurt threaded through his tone, raw and unfiltered.

She opened her mouth to reply, to add more to her sharp dismissal, when a knock at the door broke the air.

The secretary peeked in, hesitant. “Sir, the meeting.”

Aryansh’s gaze snapped toward the door, his expression stormy, his voice clipped.

The secretary faltered under the weight of his glare. “S-sorry, boss…”

Aryansh exhaled, jaw tight. “Fine. I’m coming.”

He pushed back from the sofa and stood, his tall frame casting a shadow over the table. For a moment, his dark brown eyes lingered on Kiara, who still hadn’t looked at him, her face carefully blank though her knuckles had whitened against her lap.

Something twisted in his chest, but he said nothing more as he straightened his coat and turned toward the door.

“I’ll take my leave.” Aryansh slipped into his coat, his voice clipped, formal, as if she were no more than a business associate. “Thanks for sitting and having the least of lunch. I’ll ask the driver to drop you home.”

Without a backward glance, he walked out.

Kiara sat still for a moment, her chest tightening with something she couldn’t quite name. Relief? Maybe. Or maybe it was just exhaustion from being around him. She refused to linger on it. As soon as the door shut, she rose, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she followed downstairs. The driver was already waiting. Sliding into the back seat, she gave a short nod, and the car pulled away, carrying her toward her art gallery,her sanctuary.

Back in the office, Aryansh’s composure cracked.

He sat through the meeting, but his mind wasn’t there. His answers were curt, his tone sharp, his jaw tight enough to ache. The clients exchanged wary glances; his foul mood was impossible to miss. Krish, his secretary, stayed silent, shuffling papers with uncharacteristic caution. Even his younger brother, Ayush, seated at the end of the table, studied him quietly, the crease in his brows betraying his concern.

By the time the meeting ended, Aryansh barely waited for the room to clear. The moment the door shut behind the last client, he dragged a hand through his hair, muttering a curse under his breath. He couldn’t focus. Not when her voice, her words, kept replaying in his head like an echo he couldn’t shut out.

“The past is meant to be forgotten because it ended.”

Her dismissal burned more than he expected. He could still see the cold detachment in her eyes, the way she looked at him as though he was nothing more than a stranger. That cut deeper than anger ever could.

Grabbing his keys, he left without another word. The drive home blurred past him, the city lights flickering against the windows, his thoughts louder than the honks and engines on the road. For once, Aryansh didn’t care about work, deadlines, or deals.

He just drove straight home.

-*-*-

Meanwhile, Kiara unlocked the glass door of her gallery. The familiar scent of turpentine, oils, and canvas greeted her like an old friend. Normally, the space calmed her,the tall white walls lined with paintings, the quiet hum of the air-conditioning, the faint glow of track lights. But tonight, it did nothing to ease the storm in her chest.

Still in her office clothes, she threw her bag aside and yanked open her easel. She grabbed a blank canvas, almost tearing the wrapper off, and slammed it into place. Her hands moved automatically tubes of paint squeezed onto the palette in messy streaks of red, black, and deep blue. No thought, just raw emotion.

Her brush struck the canvas with force, angry strokes cutting across the white surface like wounds. Every line she painted bled her frustration, every color screamed the things she couldn’t say out loud. Her chest heaved as she worked faster, smudging, blending, scraping, her fingers soon stained with paint.

Faces blurred into the canvas half familiar, half imagined. His face appeared in the chaos of strokes, then vanished beneath smears of black. The memory of his voice“Sit and eat. Otherwise, you won’t be leaving my office.”tightened her jaw until it hurt.

Tears stung at the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Instead, she let the rage pour into her art. The brush flew like a weapon in her hand, until the canvas was no longer blank but alive with a storm of color and pain.

For Kiara, painting had always been her escape. Tonight, it was the only way to silence the part of her heart that still reacted to him.

-*-*-

Aryansh drove home, the weight of the day pressing heavier with each passing mile. The house greeted him with silence, vast and empty. No voices, no warmthjust stillness. Tossing his keys onto the console table, he headed upstairs, shedding his tie and shirt with an impatient tug before slipping into a pair of sweatpants.

He paused in front of the mirror for a second, his reflection catching him off guard. The sharp, unreadable CEO facade was gone. What remained was a man with tired eyes and the faintest shadow of regret etched across his face. Shaking the thought away, he went down to the kitchen.

The familiar hum of the refrigerator and clink of utensils against the counter filled the silence as he set about preparing dinner. Chopping vegetables, stirring the pot, moving on autopilot—it was routine, grounding. Yet, every slice of the knife, every stir, carried an edge of restlessness. Cooking had always calmed him, but tonight, even that wasn’t enough. His thoughts refused to let go of her.

-*-*-

Meanwhile, across the city, Kiara stood in front of her easel, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

She had lost herself in the storm of painting, each stroke heavier than the last, each color more violent. Red bled into black, blue tore through white, the canvas no longer something beautiful but an explosion of frustration. She didn’t even know what she was painting anymore. Shapes blurred into half-formed figures, then broke apart into chaos. Her hand ached, her wrist stung, but she didn’t stop.

Her breaths came ragged, sweat clinging to her skin as her brush finally slipped from her paint-stained fingers and clattered to the floor. She stepped back, panting, staring at the wreck she had created. The once-pristine gallery studio now looked as though a storm had torn through it,splashes of paint staining the floor, smudges across her clothes, streaks on her hands.

The canvas screamed back at her, a mirror of the turmoil inside. And yet, despite the release, the frustration in her chest hadn’t eased...it had only twisted deeper.

Kiara let out a shaky breath, glancing around at the mess. Her shoulders sagged, her anger finally subsiding into exhaustion. She walked to the sink, scrubbing at her hands until the water ran streaks of red and black down the drain. The smell of paint clung stubbornly, no matter how much she washed.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Without thinking too much, she pulled up a cab app and booked a ride. One last look at the chaos she had unleashed,the ruined canvas, the paint-streaked floor,made her chest tighten again. This wasn’t her usual art, this wasn’t her peace.

This was just anger on display.

And she couldn’t bear to look at it anymore.

The cab ride home did little to settle Kiara’s storm. She sat pressed against the window, fingers tapping her knee restlessly, the city lights blurring past her vision. Every inhale felt shallow, every exhale tight. Even after painting her anger raw, the frustration still lingered like something stuck in her chest that refused to dislodge.

By the time the car pulled up to the Singhania residence, her jaw ached from how hard she’d been clenching it. She stepped out, thanking the driver absently, and walked up to the front door.

The moment she stepped inside, a warm aroma drifted toward her spices simmering, freshly sautéed vegetables, something rich and comforting she hadn’t smelled in a long time. She froze mid-step. For a second, she thought perhaps a cook had been called in. But as her gaze slid toward the kitchen, she saw him.

Aryansh.

Dressed down in sweatpants and a plain T-shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, he moved easily in the kitchen. The sight was jarring, almost intimate. He glanced up, catching her at the doorway, his expression unreadable but his voice steady.

“You go and change,” he said simply, as though it were the most natural thing. “I’ll bring out the dinner.”

Her first instinct was to argue, to remind him she hadn’t asked for this, that she wasn’t in the mood for small domestic gestures. But she was too drained to fight. The heaviness in her limbs demanded surrender. Without a word, she turned and climbed the stairs.

In the privacy of their room, she shut the door and leaned back against it, her eyes fluttering shut. A long bath was what she needed, and so she gave herself that letting the hot water soak into her bones, easing the tightness in her chest. By the time she dressed in something comfortable and returned downstairs, the storm inside her had dulled into something quieter, manageable.

The dining table was set. Plates arranged neatly, dishes laid out with precision, steam curling into the air. Aryansh stood at the end of the table, adjusting the last bowl, his composure calm, focused. He gestured silently for her to sit, and she did.

They ate in silence at first. The clink of cutlery filled the room, strangely grounding. She was halfway through her plate when she noticed his phone buzzing beside him. Once, twice, then again. Each time, he muted it without glancing at the screen, continuing with his meal as though nothing was happening.

Finally, Kiara put her spoon down and spoke softly. “You can pick it up.”

For the first time since they’d sat down, his eyes lifted to hers. Dark, steady, unreadable. His thumb pressed against the screen again, silencing yet another call. Then he said, voice low, deliberate:

“I do not repeat the same mistake twice, dove.”

Her breath caught, her fingers curling slightly against her lap. The word hung between them dove ,an old name, a tender slip into the past he’d avoided for so long. She didn’t know how to respond, didn’t even know what he meant fully, but the intensity in his tone told her enough.

Something had shifted.

And for the rest of dinner, the silence between them felt different. Not empty. Not cold. But weighted.

Dinner passed in weighted silence. The clink of cutlery and muted vibration of Aryansh’s phone were the only sounds between them. Kiara barely tasted the food; her mind kept circling back to the single word that had slipped from his mouth dove. A name from another time, a name he had no right to use now.

When the plates were cleared, Kiara excused herself quietly, retreating upstairs. In the room, she sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing absently against the hem of her dress. The bath had eased her body, but her mind refused rest.

Why now? Why act as though he cared? she thought bitterly. Where was this man the past months, when silence was easier for him than even looking at me?

She lay back, staring at the ceiling, frustration creeping into her chest again. And beneath it all, buried deeper than she wanted to admit, was something else. Something softer. The sound of his voice calling her dove wouldn’t stop echoing.

Meanwhile, Aryansh sat alone in his study, a glass of water untouched on the desk beside him. His jacket was thrown over the chair, his phone dark. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling much like she was.

He thought of her face at the table,the anger, the shock, the hurt. He hadn’t meant to let the old name slip, but it had clawed its way out, unbidden. And when he saw the flicker in her eyes, he knew she remembered.

He rubbed at his temple, exhaling heavily. He had wanted distance. He had wanted safety. But the past refused to stay buried. And now, with her under the same roof, the cracks in his resolve were spreading.

Upstairs, Kiara turned to the side, pulling the blanket around her. Downstairs, Aryansh closed his eyes, gripping the armrest of his chair.

Both of them lay in their separate corners of the house, restless with unspoken words, memories clawing at the walls they had built.

And just as Kiara’s eyes finally began to close, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message. Unknown number.

Her brows furrowed as she reached for it. The screen lit up.

“Did you really think you could escape the past, Kiara?”

She froze, looking at the screen.