I risk another glance at her. She’s looking at him now, chin tilted, eyes bright, like she’s memorizing his face.
Something ugly twists inside me.
I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be this person—petty, territorial, threatened by a woman who hasn’t actually done anything wrong.
But the thought lands, sharp and unwelcome:She could have him if she wants to.
The idea makes my throat go dry. I am aware Dhruv loves me, and I also know it’s unhealthy to compare myself with someone else. But the thought of losing Dhruv makes me panic.
Dhruv looks at me again, this time longer. His brow creases slightly, like he’s noticed something shift. His thumb pauses, then presses gently into my knuckles as if he’s asking me:You okay?
I force a small nod.
Liar.
The woman says something else, leaning in just a little more, and I swear her laugh brushes against his shoulder. That’s it. Something inside me snaps and I squeeze his hand once.
Nothing.
I squeeze it again.
Harder.
His head snaps toward me immediately. Our eyes lock, and whatever he sees on my face makes his posture change. He straightens, shoulders squaring, attention fully on me now.
“Excuse me,” he says aloud, voice calm but firm as he pushes his chair back.
The movement draws attention. Conversations falter. Forks pause mid-air.
Dhruv stands and the room goes still.
“We’ll be taking our leave,” he announces, his tone polite, authoritative. “Please continue enjoying your dinner.”
There’s a murmur of surprise, a few confused glances. Someone begins to protest—But Raja-sa——and Dhruv simply inclines his head, final.
I rise beside him on instinct, my chair scraping softly against the floor making my cheeks heat up a bit. His hand moves to the small of my back, warm and steady, guiding me forward as if this has always been the plan.
We walk out together. The doors close behind us, muffling the noise of the room, and the sudden quiet of the corridor makes my pulse roar in my ears.
Dhruv chuckles suddenly and my steps falter beside him, a frown forming on my face. Slowly, I turn to face him.
“What,” I say, voice tight, “is so funny?”
He looks at me like I’m the most fascinating thing he’s seen all evening.
“You,” he says easily.
I fold my arms over my chest. “I don’t appreciate being laughed at.”
He steps closer.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not laughing at you.”
“Then why are you laughing exactly?” I challenge, my heart hammering for reasons that have nothing to do with anger and everything to do with how close he is to me right now.
He leans in, just enough that his voice drops. “You squeezed my hand exactly the way I told you to.”
“So?”
