“Come in,” I call, my voice betraying none of the chaos happening inside me.
The door opens, and Dhruv steps in.
The way his expression changes when he looks at me—God.
It’s not dramatic. No exaggerated gasp or theatrical pause. Just the way his shoulders relax, the way his eyes soften, the way his lips part slightly like he forgot what he was going to say. And then he smiles, slow and genuine, like he’s trying very hard not to overwhelm me with whatever he’s feeling.
“You look…” he starts, then stops, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “You look beautiful, Sitara.”
My heart stutters.
“Not ridiculous?” I ask lightly, trying to keep my tone teasing instead of insecure.
He frowns immediately. “Never,” he says, firm. “Not once.”
“Do you think you look ridiculous?” He asks carefully, and I immediately shake my head because I know if I sayyes, a little bit, he’s going to start his three things punishment, although I find it endearing but it’s still problematic for me.
He chuckles. The room feels smaller suddenly as he steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint trace of his cologne—something woody and familiar now. His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles at my waist like it belongs there.
I suck in a breath.
His thumb brushes lightly against my back, just once, almost accidental. My heart starts racing like it’s trying to escape my chest.
“You okay?” he murmurs, eyes searching my face.
I nod, even though my pulse is betraying me. “Yeah. Just… nervous.”
His smile turns gentle. “Good,” he says softly. “That means it matters.”
Before I can respond, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black silk blindfold.
I blink. “Dhruv.”
“Trust me,” he says again, voice low.
My throat goes dry. “You really like saying that.”
He chuckles. “Only when I mean it.”
He lifts the blindfold. “Do you trust me?”
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
The word leaves my mouth easily, instinctively. It surprises me a little—but not enough to take it back.
He ties the blindfold gently, careful not to snag my hair, his fingers brushing my temple in the process. My senses sharpen instantly. Without sight, everything else feels louder. His breath. The rustle of fabric. The faint hum of the palace beyond us.
His hand slides into mine, warm and steady. The other settles at my back, guiding me forward.
“Careful,” he whispers near my ear. “Step.”
I obey, my heart pounding.
“Another,” he murmurs, voice deliberately slow, teasing. “Good. You’re doing great.”
I swallow, trying not to overthink the way his touch feels—protective, intimate, grounding all at once.
He guides me through what feels like a few turns, his hand never leaving my back, his fingers occasionally brushing lower when I falter. Each time, he steadies me with quiet reassurance, whispered directions that make my skin tingle.
