From him. To me. Back to him.
As if she’s bracing herself for something—unsure whether the danger is what he might do next… or whatImight do.
That realization twists something sharp and painful inside my chest.
Because that fear doesn’t belong in her eyes anymore.
Not because of him. Not because of anyone.
He doesn’t get to take up space in her like this. He doesn’t get to rattle her with a look, a gesture, a memory. He doesn’t get to remind her of a version of herself that felt small and disposable and easily abandoned.
I breathe out slowly, forcing my body to stay where it is even as every instinct screams at me to move. My anger doesn’t fade—it just tightens, coils inward, turning colder, more deliberate.
I shift just enough to put myself between her and him, even though the distance hasn’t changed. Even though the room is full of people and light and sound.
Because she needs to feel it. That she’s not alone in this moment. That whatever he thinks he still has over her—whatever satisfaction he thinks he earned—it ends here.
I glance down at her once more, my voice low, steady, meant only for her. A promise without needing to say the words. He doesn’t get to hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here. And I swear to myself, with a quiet certainty that settles deep in my bones—This will not be left unfinished.
“I have something important to deal with,” I say, and the words come out clipped, my jaw locking mid-sentence. “I’ll be back.”
It sounds like an order. The realization hits immediately, sharp and unpleasant. I hate that it sounds like that. Hate that my voice carries authority even when I don’t want it to. “Please,” I add, softer this time, forcing myself to slow down. “Find Devraj. Stay with him. Don’t leave his side.”
Her fingers curl around my bicep.
Not tight. Not desperate. Just… there. Warm. Real. Anchoring me for half a second longer than I deserve. The kind of touch thatreminds you that you’re still human when everything inside you wants to turn feral.
“He doesn’t deserve your time,” she says quietly.
Her voice doesn’t shake, but her eyes do. And that does something ugly to my chest.
She’s right. He doesn’t. But this isn’t about him deserving anything. This is about what he took. I look down at her—really look this time—and the room fades into the background. The polished floor, the murmured conversations, the glittering lights—all of it disappears.
All I see is her.
The girl who once stood in front of a mirror and searched her own reflection for a reason she was left behind. The girl who learned to make herself smaller in her own head. The girl who convinced herself she was charity—something given, not chosen. I know this runs from way before him, but his abandonment felt like the final blow, and I do not like that, nor will I tolerate it.
He planted that poison inside her. Watered it. And then walked away untouched, clean, smiling. I lean down just enough that my mouth is near her ear, my voice meant only for her. “I won’t be long.”
Her grip tightens for one brief second—just long enough for me to feel how badly she doesn’t want me to go. Then she lets go. And something inside me hardens.
I turn sharply, scanning the room, my gaze cutting through faces and bodies like they’re not even there.
Lakshman.King of Jodhpur. He’s mid-conversation, laughing lightly, glass in hand, completely at ease. Our eyes meet—andthe change in his expression is immediate. The smile slips. His posture straightens. He knows something’s wrong.
I don’t slow down.
I step into his space, close enough that he has no choice but to feel the shift in the air. I lean in, my voice low, controlled, every word measured.
“We need to talk,” I say. “Now.”
He inhales sharply, the sound barely audible. “Dhruv—”
“Now,” I repeat, quieter than before, but heavier. Final.
There’s no threat in my tone.
Just certainty.
