She shakes her head. “You’re impossible. One moment you’re possessive, the next you’re a devil warning me away from my own friend. And now, suddenly, you’re all concerned about my comfort? From where I am standing, you only care about making me miserable. Isn’t that why you married me? To make me suffer?”
Hell… if only I could make sense of why I married her. Why these emotions burn the way they do. None of it makes sense,except that it’s her I want. And that thought messes me up more than anything.
I don’t reply to her. Instead, I say. “Stop being stubborn and unpack.”
“I am not doing it, especially when I don’t plan to stay here for long.”
“You’re not leaving. Not anytime soon… not ever. End of discussion,” I say, forcing to steady my voice, even though every nerve in me screams to kiss her and shut her up. “Now get dressed. We’re going partying.”
“I am not going with you and your girlfriend,” she snaps, pushing past me.
I grab her hands and pull her back. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“She acts like she is,” Meera shoots back.
“And you encourage her by declaring that seeing her and me together doesn’t matter to you,” I snap, my voice tight.
“I am stating the facts,” she fires back.
“You really have a talent for being difficult.” I exhale sharply. “Now just get dressed. If not—”
“Go on,” she cuts in. “Threaten me. That’s your favourite thing to do, right?”
“I don’t need to threaten you,” I reply coolly. “I just need to remind you that I can make your loser boyfriend lose his job.”
Her breath falters. “You will do no such thing.”
“You want me to prove what I am capable of? Try me.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows.
I press on. “Or you can get dressed and come with me. And save yourself from watching your dear loser journalist friend lose his job.”
“I’ll come,” she mutters after a few long seconds.
“That’s my good wife,” I smirk, releasing her hand. She tosses her nightdress onto the couch and pulls out a maroonsaree from her suitcase. Then, without a word, she heads to the bathroom.
The moment the door closes behind her, a slow smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
Another battle won.
???
It’s been an hour since we settled into the VIP lounge of the club. Esha sits opposite me, rambling nonstop about her new villa or some vacation she went on. I nod, barely listening. My gaze keeps drifting to the woman beside me. My wife.
Meera sits with a bored expression, scrolling through her phone, taking slow sips of her Coke. Fuck, she looks ravishing in that maroon saree. So breathtaking it almost hurts to look at her. Her hair falls loosely around her shoulders, her face devoid of makeup, yet she outshines every woman in this place. And of course, every man in the damn pub checks her out, making my blood boil.
My jaw ticks. I need to get the hell out of here before I end up killing someone.
Meera shifts beside me, setting her phone in her bag.
“I need to go to the restroom,” she says, already rising from the couch.
The moment she stands, I am on my feet too.
“I’ll come with you,” I say. No way in hell I am letting her walk through this place alone, not with the way every bastard in here has been eyeing her.
She shakes her head. “No. I can go by myself.”
