The dawn arrived quietly in the Singhania mansion, sunlight spilling through sheer curtains like liquid gold. It found its way across the soft folds of a silk bedsheet, over a half-empty coffee mug on the nightstand, and finally, over Kiara sitting upright, lost in thought, the echo of last night still clinging to her skin.

The gala had ended, but the air between them hadn’t cleared. It was thick still, fragile and humming with something unspoken. She’d fallen asleep late, the scent of jasmine and expensive cologne haunting the folds of her saree. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Aryansh’s face, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when Kartik had leaned in to whisper something that made her laugh.

That laugh had been deliberate. She could admit that now, at least to herself.
Cruel? Perhaps. But necessary. He needed to know she could still make him burn.

Downstairs, she could hear the faint stirrings of the household, the clink of teacups, her mother-in-law’s voice directing the house help, and somewhere amid it all, his baritone, calm and controlled as always. Work calls before breakfast. Meetings. Meetings with him, perhaps.

Her reflection caught her eye in the mirror, hair tousled, eyes rimmed with a fatigue that had nothing to do with sleep. The woman who looked back wasn’t the girl from the gala anymore. That girl had flirted with danger. This one was watching it approach.

She moved to the window, pushing the curtains wider. The city below was already awakencars moving like silver ants, children in school uniforms tugging at their mothers’ hands, and somewhere in the distance, the faint peal of a temple bell. Life, ordinary and indifferent.

She wondered if that’s what peace was supposed to look like life going on, no matter what broke inside you.

Aryansh entered the room without knocking, tie half-done, phone still in hand. He looked exhausted but sharp, the way power often did. His voice, when he spoke, was casual. Too casual.

“You’re up early.”

“So are you,” she replied, not turning fully toward him.

He set the phone down, adjusted his cufflinks. “Big day. Meeting at eleven. Investors.”

“With Kartik?” Her tone was feather-light, but her eyes flicked to him just in time to see the pause.

He looked at her then properly looked. “You know?”

“I hear things,” she said, a small shrug, her voice sweet with indifference. “It’s a small city. Word travels.”

He didn’t reply, only slipped into his blazer and reached for his watch. She noticed his hands, the faint tremor that betrayed the control in his expression. There it was again that quiet storm she’d begun to recognize. He didn’t like the idea of her knowing Kartik, didn’t like the echo of that name in her mouth.

“Don’t be late for breakfast,” he said finally, turning to leave.

She smiled faintly. “Don’t be late for your meeting.”

Their eyes met in the mirror, his reflection behind hers. A pause stretched between them, thin as silk, dangerous as truth. Then he left, the door clicking softly shut.

Kiara let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The silence that followed felt like a decision.

She walked to the wardrobe, drew out a soft ivory kurta, and reached for her earrings, small silver drops that swayed with her every move. Today wasn’t about love, or anger, or pretending. Today was about control.

Her gallery awaited and art, unlike people, never lied.

The city had shaken off its soft morning haze by the time Kiara reached the cultural district. The streets here always smelled faintly of wet cobblestone and old stories like someone had painted nostalgia into the air and it never completely washed away.

She stepped out of the car and stood for a moment before the glass façade of her gallery. Sanskriti looked serene in the late morning light white walls, minimalist lettering, a row of potted bougainvillea blowing in the breeze. It was her sanctuary, her spine, the piece of herself she had built when her world had been dust.

Inside, the familiar scent welcomed her like a quiet embrace: linseed oil, varnish, and the lingering whiff of a jasmine candle someone had forgotten to put out the night before.

Rani came rushing toward her the moment the door chimed.
“Ma’am! The new Jaipur artist just delivered his pieces. They’re… very dramatic.”
Rani’s expression hovered between awe and protest.

Kiara smiled. “Art that makes you uncomfortable usually has something honest to say.”

She walked past the reception counter, her fingers trailing along the dark wood. Every corner of this place bore her imprint: the careful placement of spotlights, the curated displays of sculptures and canvases, the soft instrumental music that floated like breath from hidden speakers.

But when she entered the main gallery hall, she paused.

The Jaipur paintings were wild, fevered, almost alive swirls of vermillion and cobalt clashing and kissing on oversized canvases. One showed a woman on a cliff edge, hair flying like black fire. Another had hands reaching toward a sun too bright to touch.

Rani spoke from behind her. “The artist said this series is titled ‘Rereadings of Pain.’”

Kiara let out a soft exhale. Pain has always been the first language of artists. And the second language too.

She approached the cliff painting, inches from the canvas. The brushstrokes were frantic, rushed, like someone trying to outpace their own confession.

Her heart clenched unexpectedly.

The woman in the painting wasn’t her but the despair in the strokes, the storm in the colors… she recognized it. She had lived that once, in a time when she had not understood why the person she loved most had treated her as if she were disposable.

As she stared, her reflection blurred slightly over the paint her own eyes layering over the painted woman’s.

The morning’s quiet ache returned, threading itself through her ribs.

A vibration from her phone broke the moment. She pulled it out.

A message from an unknown number.

Kartik:
“Hope today isn’t too hectic. I dropped by your gallery’s website. Impressive as always.”

A pause. Then another message.

“Also—your laugh last night? Still unfair.”

Kiara’s lips curved into a slow, amused exhale.
She didn’t reply.

Not yet.

She slipped the phone back into her bag and walked toward the office cabin at the back of the gallery. The door was glass but frosted at the edges, giving the room a diffused, gentle quality. Inside, the sketchbooks were piled neatly on the desk, each filled with charcoal drawings of abandoned homes, of monsoon clouds, of a woman’s silhouette dissolving into broken brushstrokes.

She sat and opened her calendar to check appointments. A client wanted an original mural. Another wanted a series of abstracts. Normal things. Easy things.

But her mind kept circling the ballroom from last night.

The saree she’d worn still hung in her room, its folds carrying whispers of perfume and adrenaline. The moment Aryansh had seen her frozen mid-step, breath caught in his throat that alone had been intoxicating.

She remembered the way his gaze had locked onto her, as if she’d reclaimed the gravity he had once lost.

She remembered Kartik leaning closer, his voice warm, teasing, dangerous only because Aryansh was watching but she couldn’t care any less about it.

Most of all, she remembered the quiet furor in Aryansh’s eyes, the kind that didn’t erupt outward but folded into itself, turning sharp inside his chest.

She tapped a pencil against her sketchbook, letting the rhythm anchor her.

Control, she reminded herself.
The one thing she would not let slip.

Her thoughts drifted to Aryansh’s morning expression how still he had gone when she mentioned Kartik. How the pain flickered through him so briefly she might’ve imagined it if she hadn’t spent years learning the language of his silences.

She pressed two fingers to her temple.

Kiara had always been composed. Even when life had ripped through her. Even when betrayal had burned beneath her skin. She had learned to smile through the ache and speak through the breaking.

But right now, the memory of how close he’d come last night the brush of his breath at her ear, the way jealousy had darkened his voice kept replaying.

A knock on the office door pulled her back.
Rani peeked in.

“Ma’am, someone came asking for you.”

Kiara raised a brow. “A client?”

“No… he said he’s a friend. From college.”

For a heartbeat, Kiara didn’t react.

Then:

“Send him in.”

As Rani left, Kiara smoothed her hair, straightened her kurta, and set her sketch pencil aside.

But when the door swung open, she didn’t need an introduction.

Kartik stood there casually, warm, familiar.

Not the smooth-talking charmer from the gala. Not the board member from the foundation meeting.

Just the boy she once sat with on library steps, sharing stolen packets of chips and discussions about art and architecture and the future.

He leaned against the doorframe, grinning. “Told you we needed a proper catch-up.”

Kiara shook her head softly, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re still dangerous,” he replied, stepping in. “That saree should be a criminal offense, I was sure your husband would have murdered me yesterday.”

Kiara rolled her eyes, but the faint flush in her cheeks betrayed her.

Kartik continued, gentler this time. “Really, Kiara. You looked…”
He paused, searching for the right word.
“…unreachable.”

The smile on her lips faded just slightly.

Because someone else had used that word for her once.

Someone whose voice still laced through her dreams.

She swallowed it down. “Sit, Kartik. Tell me what brings you here.”

Kartik sat, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m in charge of the art wing for the children’s hospital expansion. We need someone to curate it. Bright colors, local artists, murals. I thought of you.”

Her breath stilled.

She didn’t answer immediately.

Her gallery had never worked on something so large.

Kartik watched her carefully. “Think about it. We can meet again. No rush.”

Kiara nodded slowly. “I will. Thank you.”

Kartik pushed up from the chair. “And Kiara?”
She looked up.
“Next time we talk… drop the formal tone. You sound like you’re interviewing me.”

She laughed. This time it was genuine. Light enough to ripple the quiet.

He stepped back toward the door.
“Oh and before I forget,” he added, leaning slightly against the frame again, “your husband has the death glare of a man who thinks I’m competition.”

She kept her face calm, but the air around her stilled.

Kartik smirked. “Relax. I’m not the enemy. But I am the friend he fears most.”

Kiara looked away, the faintest tremor crossing her breath.

Kartik left with a wave.

When the door clicked shut, the gallery fell silent again.

But this time, the silence had a pulse.

Her pulse.

And somewhere across town, she knew without needing to see him that a man in a glass tower was feeling a pulse of his own.

A dull, steady throb of something that was not fear, and not love, but something far more volatile. Possession would rather be the correct term she thought.

The glass tower of Aryansh Industries rose like a solitary blade cutting into the afternoon sky. Even from the lobby, one could sense the hush that followed power—an unspoken order that echoed through polished marble floors and quiet corridors.

On the top floor, behind a pair of intimidating blackwood doors, the man himself stood by the window.

Aryansh rarely allowed the city to loom over him. Today, he let it.
Maybe because he felt slightly… off balance.
Just slightly.
But for a man like him, even a slight wobble felt like the world tilting.

He hadn’t slept much.

His mind had played the gala on loop—Kiara’s black saree, her soft laughter at Kartik’s jokes, the way she had looked everywhere but at him unless he forced her to.

There had been a moment, almost imperceptible, when she’d touched her earring—a small, unconscious gesture she always made when she felt watched.
And he had been watching her.

Too closely. Too long.

Now, in the broad light of day, he hated that he remembered such tiny things.

He rubbed a hand along his jaw, the muscle ticking.

A soft knock pulled him from the spiral.

His assistant stepped in. “Sir, Mr. Kartik Mehra has arrived for the meeting.”

A shard of heat slid down Aryansh’s spine.

He never showed his emotions. But something in his stillness sharpened, and the assistant instinctively kept her tone professional and brisk.

“Send him in,” he said.

The door shut.

Two breaths later, it opened again.

Kartik walked in with the easy swagger of a man who had never feared shadows. He wore no tie, just a crisp shirt rolled to his elbows. His casual confidence filled the room in a way that irritated Aryansh for reasons he refused to name.

“Mr. Singhania,” Kartik greeted, dropping into the seat opposite the desk. “I heard your security is tighter than a bank vault.”

Aryansh didn’t smile. “We work on sensitive deals.”

Kartik stretched out comfortably, unbothered. “Relax. I’m not here to steal your company. Only your attention.”

His grin was pointed.
Aimed.
Sharp.

Aryansh felt the edge of a nerve twitch.

Kartik pulled out a folder. “Hospital wing expansion. Art installations, structural changes, corporate sponsorship. Your company’s on the board—so we need your approvals.”

Aryansh kept his voice stable. “You’re heading the art wing?”

“Yes. And I’ve spoken to Kiara for curating.”

A pause.
Not even a full second.
But in that fraction, something inside Aryansh jolted—like someone tugged a thread tied to his lungs.

Kartik noticed.

He smirked, leaning back.
“Relax, Singhania. Kiara’s brilliant at what she does. Genius, really.”

Aryansh pressed his palms flat on the desk. “I’m aware.”

“Of her talent,” Kartik clarified. “Are you aware of anything else?”

He didn’t blink.

Aryansh didn’t move.

Two men, one room, and the quiet stretched thin and dangerous between them.

Kartik’s voice dropped, warm on the surface, sharp beneath.
“You should’ve seen her this morning. She looked… calm. Beautiful, of course. But calm.”
He paused deliberately.
“Peace has a way of making some men insecure.”

Aryansh’s jaw hardened; the silence around him felt like metal cooling.

“I don’t get insecure,” he said softly.

Kartik grinned like he’d expected that answer. “You should try it sometime. It’s healthy.”

Something feral flickered behind Aryansh’s eyes.

Kartik flipped open the file. “Anyway. Approvals. Numbers. Budgets. Let’s keep this civilized.”

But the conversation never quite touched numbers.

Not really.

Because every time Kartik mentioned Kiara, every time he used her name casually, every time he leaned back in that chair like he belonged in her universe—

Aryansh felt a foreign pressure inside him.

It was jealousy.
He recognized it.
He hated recognizing it.

He had no right anymore.
But logic didn’t apply to old emotions that refused to die.

Kartik slid a document across the table. “You’ll need Kiara to sign this too. She’s free today, so I dropped by her gallery. Should’ve invited you along. You two could’ve had a little… reunion.”

Aryansh’s pen halted midair.

Kartik continued, with a half-laugh. “She’s changed a lot. In a good way. You know that, don’t you?”

The pen snapped.

Not loudly, not dramatically—just a muted crack as plastic gave way between his fingers.

Kartik’s eyes flicked to the broken pen, then up to Aryansh’s face.

A slow, knowing smile.
“Thought so.”

The rest of the meeting went on as a formality, paperwork sliding across polished wood, signatures exchanged, voices steady, expressions controlled.

But between the lines of conversation, two truths settled:

Kartik was not afraid of him.
And Aryansh was not indifferent to Kiara.

When Kartik finally stood to leave, he said lightly, “You should visit the gallery sometime. It’s good for the soul.”

Aryansh didn’t respond.

He just watched him walk out of the room.

For a moment, the office was silent again.

Then Aryansh dropped into his chair, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled against his mouth.

He stayed that way, motionless, until a flame of clarity burned behind his eyes.

Whatever peace he’d pretended to hold… it cracked today.

And beneath it, something older stirred—something possessive and unresolved and deeply, painfully human.

Across the city, Kiara was living a life that no longer involved him.

But she still lived inside him like a heartbeat that refused to stop.

The glass tower of Industries rose like a solitary blade cutting into the afternoon sky. Even from the lobby, one could sense the hush that followed poweran unspoken order that echoed through polished marble floors and quiet corridors.

On the top floor, behind a pair of intimidating blackwood doors, the man himself stood by the window.

Aryansh rarely allowed the city to loom over him. Today, he left it.
Maybe because he felt slightly… off balance.
Just slightly.
But for a man like him, even a slight wobble felt like the world tilting.

He hadn’t slept much.

His mind had played  on Kiara’s soft laughter at Kartik’s jokes, the way she had looked everywhere but at him unless he forced her to.

There had been a moment, almost imperceptible, when she’d touched her earring a small, unconscious gesture she always made when she felt watched.
And he had been watching her.

Too closely. Too long.

Now, in the broad light of day, he hated that he remembered such tiny things.

He rubbed a hand along his jaw, the muscle ticking.

A soft knock pulled him from the spiral.

His assistant stepped in. “Sir, Mr. Kartik has arrived for the meeting.”

A shard of heat slid down Aryansh’s spine.

He never showed his emotions. But something in his stillness sharpened, and the assistant instinctively kept her tone professional and brisk.

“Send him in,” he said.

The door shut.

Two breaths later, it opened again.

Kartik walked in with the easy swagger of a man who had never feared shadows. He wore no tie, just a crisp shirt rolled to his elbows. His casual confidence filled the room in a way that irritated Aryansh for reasons he refused to name.

“Mr. Singhania,” Kartik greeted, dropping into the seat opposite the desk. “I heard your security is tighter than a bank vault.”

Aryansh didn’t smile. “We work on sensitive deals.”

Kartik stretched out comfortably, unbothered. “Relax. I’m not here to steal your company. Only your attention.”

His grin was pointed.
Aimed.
Sharp.

Aryansh felt the edge of a nerve twitch.

Kartik pulled out a folder. “Hospital wing expansion. Art installations, structural changes, corporate sponsorship. Your company’s on the board so we need your approval.”

Aryansh kept his voice stable. “You’re heading the art wing?”

“Yes. And I’ve spoken to Kiara for curating.”

A pause.
Not even a full second.
But in that fraction, something inside Aryansh jolted like someone tugged a thread tied to his lungs.

Kartik noticed.

He smirked, leaning back.
“Relax, Singhania. Kiara’s brilliant at what she does. Genius, really.”

Aryansh pressed his palms flat on the desk. “I’m aware.”

“Of her talent,” Kartik clarified. “Are you aware of anything else?”

He didn’t blink.

Aryansh didn’t move.

Two men, one room, and the quiet stretched thin and dangerous between them.

Kartik’s voice dropped, warm on the surface, sharp beneath.
“You should’ve seen her this morning. She looked… calm. Beautiful, of course. But calm.”
He paused deliberately.
“Peace has a way of making some men insecure.”

Aryansh’s jaw hardened; the silence around him felt like metal cooling.

“I don’t get insecure,” he said softly.

Kartik grinned like he’d expected that answer. “You should try it sometime. It’s healthy.”

Something feral flickered behind Aryansh’s eyes.

Kartik flipped open the file. “Anyway. Approvals. Numbers. Budgets. Let’s keep this civilized.”

But the conversation never quite touched numbers.

Not really.

Because every time Kartik mentioned Kiara, every time he used her name casually, every time he leaned back in that chair like he belonged in her universe

Aryansh felt a foreign pressure inside him.

It was jealousy.
He recognized it.
He hated recognizing it.

He had no right anymore.
But logic didn’t apply to old emotions that refused to die.

Kartik slid a document across the table. “You’ll need Kiara to sign this too. She’s free today, so I dropped by her gallery. Should’ve invited you along. You two could’ve had a little… reunion.”

Aryansh’s pen halted midair.

Kartik continued, with a half-laugh. “She’s changed a lot. In a good way. You know that, don’t you?”

The pen snapped.

Not loudly, not dramatically just a muted crack as plastic gave way between his fingers.

Kartik’s eyes flicked to the broken pen, then up to Aryansh’s face.

A slow, knowing smile.
“Thought so.”

The rest of the meeting went on as a formality, paperwork sliding across polished wood, signatures exchanged, voices steady, expressions controlled.

But between the lines of conversation, two truths settled:

Kartik was not afraid of him.
And Aryansh was not indifferent to Kiara.

When Kartik finally stood to leave, he said lightly, “You should visit the gallery sometime. It’s good for the soul and might help you to decide what to do next.”

Aryansh didn’t respond.

He just watched him walk out of the room.

For a moment, the office was silent again.

Then Aryansh dropped into his chair, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled against his mouth.

He stayed that way, motionless, until a flame of clarity burned behind his eyes.

Whatever peace he’d pretended to hold… It cracked today.

And beneath it, something older stirred something possessive and unresolved and deeply, painfully human.

Across the city, Kiara was living a life that no longer involved him.

But she still lived inside him like a heartbeat that refused to stop.

He called Kiara just then picking up his phone “Hey, I just wanted to tell you that I urgently have to leave for some business dealings, Ill be back soon, Sorry for leaving you again” 

Kiara paused in the middle of her painting and looked at her phone she picked it up recording a voice note “It’s really fine, Have a safe flight and take care”