And yet here I am.
Stuck—with a girl I’ve loved quietly for years. A girl who gives me hope without trying. A girl who feels like home without demanding it.
And I don’t know what to do with that? I don’t know how to resist her.
Trust, with the lights on
SITARA
I have no clue why I am this nervous.
It makes absolutely no sense, which is ironic because if there’s one thing I usually have an explanation for, it’s my own anxiety. I can trace it back, dissect it, label it, file it away neatly with a bow on top. But this—this jittery, fluttery, heart-in-my-throat feeling? I have nothing.
Dhruv asked me out on a date.
Adatedate.
Not a formal dinner. Not a palace event. Not a “we’re married so let’s sit across a table and make polite conversation” kind of thing. An actual date. His eyes were shining when he asked, bright and hopeful in a way that caught me off guard. I remember thinking, absurdly, that he looked younger in that moment. Softer. Like the man in front of me wasn’t a king or a ruler or someone who carried entire regions on his shoulders, but just… Dhruv. A man asking his wife out because he wanted to spend time with her.
I didn’t have it in me to say no.
And if I’m being honest with myself—and I’m trying to be, really trying—I don’t think I wanted to say no either.
That realization alone has been enough to send me spiraling all afternoon.
He insisted on making it a surprise. I insisted I hated surprises. He smiled in that maddeningly calm way of his and said,“Trust me.”And just like that, the argument dissolved before it even began, because somewhere along the way, trusting Dhruv Singhania has become… easy.
Too easy.
That scares me a little.
What scares me more is the dress.
The dress currently hanging on the wardrobe door, taunting me.
It’s a bodycon.
Abodycon.
I stare at it like it personally offended me. It’s elegant, understated, a deep wine color that I know would look beautiful onsomeone. Just… maybe not me. I can already imagine how it’ll cling in places I’d rather it didn’t, how every curve I’ve spent years learning to tolerate—if not love—will be highlighted unapologetically.
“He doesn’t understand,” I mutter to myself, smoothing my palms down the fabric like it might soften if I glare hard enough. “Men like him never do.”
But even as I say it, I know it isn’t true.
Dhruv would never make fun of me.
That certainty sits deep in my bones, solid and unshakeable. He’s never once looked at me with anything other than warmth. Admiration, even—though that still makes my stomach flip uncomfortably when I think about it.
I exhale slowly.
Fine.
I’ll let him win today.
I slip into the dress, adjusting it carefully, half-expecting to hate the reflection staring back at me. I don’t love it. But I don’t hate it either. It’s… different. Vulnerable. Like I’m showing up without armor.
My heart races as there’s a knock at the door.
