There are many things I expected from my "three-month PR marriage."A joint calendar. A media circus. Possibly an emotional rash.
What I did not expect was… this.
Darian Malhotra standing shirtless in my kitchen, making coffee like it's foreplay.
It's 2 a.m.I can't sleep — blame the caffeine, the applause, or the cryptic text message that's still haunting me.So I come downstairs for water… and find him there.
The kitchen lights are dim, city glow spilling through the glass walls.He's in sweatpants and nothing else, hair slightly messy, like someone just told him perfection was optional.
He looks up, startled."Oh. You're awake."
"Yes," I say weakly. "And apparently hallucinating."
He smirks, pours himself coffee, and offers me a mug."Couldn't sleep either," he admits. "Too many numbers in my head."
"Let me guess — business projections, not sheep?"
"Same thing," he says. "Sheep just have better ROI."
We stand in silence for a while, sipping coffee, the air between us thick with unspoken… something.
It's weird, this version of him — softer, quieter, less bulletproof.For the first time, he doesn't look like a man managing a brand.He looks like a man trying not to fall apart.
I lean against the counter. "You really think I was brilliant tonight?"
He glances at me, eyes unreadable. "You know you were."
"Well," I say, smirking, "I just wanted to make sure the compliment was real. Coming from you, it's rarer than good airline food."
He huffs a laugh. "You never stop talking, do you?"
"Only when I'm thinking of something dangerous to say."
He steps closer, his voice dropping. "Then say it."
Oh no.
This is not allowed.This is not part of the contract.
I should make a joke. I should step back.Instead, I say — softly —"Sometimes I think you like me."
He tilts his head, eyes darkening just enough to make my brain forget how words work."Sometimes," he says slowly, "I think I do too."
Silence.The city hums.My heart performs interpretive dance.
And then, mercifully (or not), his phone buzzes on the counter.He steps away, picks it up, frowns.
"Work call?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Private number."
There's a pause — then he shows me the screen.A text.
She doesn't know yet, does she?
Cold seeps through my veins.
"Who's sending these?" I whisper.
He doesn't answer. Just deletes the message and puts the phone away."Don't worry about it," he says quietly.
"Don't worry?" I scoff. "You're getting stalker texts and—"
He cuts me off. "It's nothing. I'll handle it."
The tension that was soft and warm a moment ago suddenly turns sharp.Like reality remembered what story we're in.
I cross my arms. "Fine. Handle it. But don't expect me to play dumb forever."
He looks at me — hard, tired, something like guilt flickering behind his eyes."I never asked you to."
We stand there, two people pretending the world isn't tilting under our feet.His hand twitches, like he wants to reach for me but doesn't.Mine does the same.
For a long, long moment, it feels like gravity might win again.
But he turns away first.
"Goodnight, Lyra," he says, voice low.
"Yeah," I whisper. "Goodnight, Mr. Damage Control."
Back in my room, I stare at the ceiling.The city outside glitters, restless, relentless.And I realize something terrifying:
Somewhere between pretending and surviving…I started feeling.
And that's the most dangerous PR crisis of all.