“Doing what?”
“Making me flustered.”
He smiles, unabashed. “It’s becoming a habit.”
I look down, smiling to myself, nerves still there but steadier now.
Public appearance or not.
As long as I’m not alone, I think I can do this.
Jealousy, jealousy
SITARA
I knew it was going to be one ofthosedinners the moment I walked into the room.
Not because of the polished cutlery or the officials seated around the long table, all smiles sharpened with politics. I’ve attended enough formal dinners now to know how these things go—measured laughter, careful words, deals made under the pretense of jokes, everyone pretending they’re relaxed when they’re actually calculating ten steps ahead.
No. I knew it was going to be one ofthosedinners because of the woman sitting on Dhruv’s other side. She’s beautiful in a very effortless way. Tall and confident. She looks like she belongs in rooms like this and knows exactly where to place her hands, when to smile, how loudly to laugh. She’s wearing an elegant, understated but expensive gown, and she leans toward Dhruv just enough to seem engaged without being inappropriate.
And Dhruv—thetraitorthat he is—looks good tonight.
Not that he ever doesn’t, but something about the dark jacket, the crisp shirt, the way he’s sitting straight yet relaxed, one arm resting on the table, the other… holding my hand beneath it.
I cling to that detail like a lifeline.
I had whispered to him earlier, barely moving my lips,I’m nervous, and he’d responded just as quietly,If it gets too much, squeeze my hand twice. We’ll leave.
I believed him. I still do. But belief doesn’t stop the tightening in my chest as I watch the woman beside him throw her head back and laugh at something he says.
It’s not even a full laugh. Just a light one that seems polite.
Still. I don’t like it.
I shift in my chair, trying to focus on my plate, on the soft clink of cutlery, on the low buzz of the conversation around us. Dhruv’s thumb rubs slow circles over my knuckles, grounding, reassuring, as if he can feel the way my thoughts are starting to spiral.
He glances at me. Just for a second and our eyes meet, the corner of his mouth lifts.
A smirk.
My stomach flips. Does he know what I am feeling? Surely he can’t know. But Dhruv has this infuriating habit of knowing things about me before I’ve even figured them out myself.
He turns back to the conversation, responding to something the woman says about infrastructure funding, his tone polite, professional. He’s not flirting. Not really. He’s just being… Dhruv. Very Calm and only occasionally amused in that subtle way of his that makes my chest feel tight on a good day.
She laughs again.
I curl my fingers tighter around his hand.
Stop it, Sitara,I scold myself.You’re being ridiculous.
He’s allowed to talk to other people. He’s allowed to smile. He’s allowed to exist in the world without me hovering like an insecure shadow.
I know this.
Iknowthis.
So why does it feel like someone’s pressing a thumb right into the center of my chest?
