We hold each other’s gaze for a second longer than necessary before moving apart. Kriti walks past me while I head inside.
I pick a spot and start with some light cardio.
The gym is almost entirely surrounded by glass walls. From inside, I can see the entire view outside. Kriti is standing near the entrance of the gym, talking to someone.
And not just anyone… she’s talking to Raghav, who steps into view a second later. He’s wearing a fitted black gym tee beneath a woollen cardigan, with sleeves pushed back just enough to show off the strength in his arms. The fabric sits perfectly over his frame like it was tailor-made for him. And resting against his chest is the familiar chain and pendant, catching the light just enough to draw my attention without asking for it.
I slow down, my grip tightening slightly around the dumbbell in my hand as I watch them more carefully. Kriti is smiling, leaning in slightly while talking to him. Once again, the way she looks at him is not hard to read.
And I don’t like it… at all.
Does Raghav know about Kriti’s feelings for him? A man like him can obviously read a woman’s intentions… or maybe he already knows. Maybe he’s an equal participant… just not in public. Because why else would a woman like Kriti, who studied in France and is a sommelier, choose to live in a quiet valley like this? Yes, Raghav must be the reason.
Urgh! I came here to clear my head, yet here I am, holding a dumbbell and watching something that I have no reason or right to react to. Why can’t I curb my irritation at the thought of Kriti trying to get closer to Raghav? Why doIeven care?
I force my attention back to my workout, but a moment later, I glance outside again. Kriti has moved a little closer to Raghav. And then slowly her hand drifts towards his neckline, where the chain rests against his chest. She brushes something off his tee that I’m sure isn’t even there.
Something inside me snaps tighter. I hate it.
For a second, Raghav does nothing. Then his hand comes up to stop her, and he takes a step back.
Finally… Thank God his brain kicked in.
Kriti smiles again, a little softer this time, almost shy. Then she steps back as he turns and heads straight towards the gym.I don’t even realise when that irritation turns into something uglier.
Jealousy?
No. I refuse to call it that.
Suddenly, I don’t want to stand here anymore. I don’t want to hold these stupid dumbbells anymore. So I put them back in place, wipe my hands, and walk towards the treadmill instead. If I keep moving, maybe my thoughts will stop moving too. I step forward just as he walks in, and we almost collide. His gaze meets mine, as if assessing me.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, clearly surprised, as if he didn’t expect to find me here. Because apparently, I’m not supposed to exist anywhere he does.
My lips part instantly. “I’m not allowed in your private villa. I’m not allowed in your stable or anywhere near your horses. Now don’t tell me I’m not allowed in the gym either, just because you happened to show up while I’m working out.”
His expression hardens just a fraction.
“And this time,” I add, holding his gaze, “I didn’t follow you.Youfollowed me. I was here first. Maybe if you hadn’t been busy wasting time chatting with your sommelier, you would’ve made it here before me.”
He studies me for a second longer. Not my words. Butme.
The tension. The irritation. The way I’m holding myself. He notices everything.
“Why are you so pissed off?” he asks finally, less annoyed now and more observant. “You even look… off.”
That does it. The last thread of my patience snaps. Because I cannot tell him why. I cannot tell him I didn’t like what I saw outside. So instead, I do the only thing I can think of. I shut him out.
“I don’t need to explain my mood to you,” I retort, “And not everything revolves around you, RK.”
He looks slightly taken aback by my words and tone, but the next second, his expression shifts back to neutral as if he does not care. Without further argument, he walks past me, and that infuriates me even more.
Fine! I don’t care either. I head to the treadmill and increase the speed slightly, forcing myself to focus on my rhythm and breathing. On anything that isn’t him.
But it does not work.
As soon as I start walking on the treadmill, my eyes flick towards him again. He has taken off the woollen cardigan and is now in a black sleeveless tee that hugs his broad frame. The fabric stretches across his chest before tapering down his torso. His arms are completely bare, showcasing every line of defined muscle, every movement of strength in a way that is impossible to ignore.
He drops to the floor and starts doing push-ups as if it is any other day. There is no show in it. No need to impress. Yet, I cannot look away. My eyes keep drifting back to him.
