he city glittered beneath the skyline, a wide stretch of lights that softened into shadow where the night grew denser.
Most people found comfort in the height, in the luxury, in the endless view from Arnav Singh Raizada's balcony.
He found nothing tonight.
Not comfort.
Not routine.
Not the cold, precise calm he usually settled into after a long day.
He loosened the buttons of his shirt, tossed his suit jacket over the back of a chair, and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.
His reflection stared back—sharp jaw, tired eyes, shoulders pulled too tight to be called relaxed.
But beneath all of that… something unfamiliar pulsed.
Not agitation.
Not frustration.
A rough, insistent longing mixed with irritation at the very fact that he felt anything at all.
He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly.
Khushi.
Her name throbbed through his mind like a second pulse.
It wasn't rational.
It wasn't planned.
It wasn't even something he wanted.
It simply was.
He closed his eyes. The memory was instant.
Her laughter—bright, unfiltered, soft around the edges.
Her dupatta catching the wind.
Her fingers fumbling with her hair tie.
Her nose scrunching in frustration.
Her smile—wide enough to soften the sharpest corner inside him.
And then… the protective burn.
The quiet fury whenever someone looked too long.
The sharp possessiveness that had risen out of nowhere.
Arnav opened his eyes sharply and walked to the bar counter.
He poured himself water, not alcohol—he needed clarity, not numbness.
But even as he lifted the glass, the water trembled slightly.
He frowned.
His hand never trembled.
Not for business.
Not for anger.
Not for anything.
Yet now…
He set the glass down carefully, jaw tightening.
A soft chime sounded—motion detectors from the hallway.
Anjali appeared a moment later, entering without knocking, as she always did.
She wore a calm smile that hid her own aches, but her eyes softened when she saw him.
"You're home late," she said gently.
Arnav didn't turn. "Meetings."
"Hmm." Her tone said she didn't fully believe him.
She stepped beside him, gazing out at the city. "Everything okay?"
It should've been an easy question.
"Yes," he could've said.
But silence filled the air instead.
Anjali gave him a searching look. "Arnav…"
He lifted one hand. "I'm fine. Just tired."
But tired wasn't the word.
He was unsettled.
Pulled.
Distracted in a way he had never been.
He didn't want Anjali to see it.
Didn't want anyone to know.
"Have you eaten?" she asked.
"No."
"Then come downstairs. I made something simple today."
A pause.
"It'll help."
He hesitated—not because he didn't want food, but because the moment he stepped away from the window, the memory of Khushi would follow him anyway.
Like a shadow. Like a warmth he couldn't turn off.
"Five minutes," he said.
Anjali gave a small, relieved nod.
"Alright. Don't overthink tonight.
Whatever it is… let it settle."
She left the room.
Her words lingered.
He wasn't overthinking.
He was trying not to think at all.
Arnav crossed to his desk where he had dropped his phone earlier.
The screen lit up instantly under his touch.
A notification from Aman blinked:
Draft contract ready.
Café acquisition in process.
Will finalize as soon as you approve.
Arnav's gaze hardened.
Good.
He typed only one additional line:
Keep it discreet.
No one connects it back to me.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard, and he surprised himself by adding:
And find out everything about the girl who works evenings.
Everything.
Not because he wanted to invade her life.
Not because he wanted control.
No.
Because he needed to know if she was safe.
If she traveled alone every night.
If she had family depending on her.
If anyone else already occupied the space in her world he was beginning to covet.
He hit send.
A slow breath escaped him. He leaned back in his chair, letting the city lights wash over him.
His control slipped further the more he let himself feel.
But pulling back felt impossible.
His mind kept returning to the moment she had nearly tripped inside the café.
How she laughed at herself.
How she didn't care who saw her stumble.
That innocence.
That freedom.
That softness.
It was dangerous.
He knew because part of him wanted to protect it.
Another part wanted to claim it.
And the darkest part—one he had always kept caged—wanted to pull her into his world and not let her go.
Arnav exhaled sharply.
"This isn't me," he muttered.
But the truth echoed back at him from somewhere deep:
It was him.
It was the part he had buried under work, power, and self-control.
The part that had always been starved.
And now that it had tasted something warm and bright…
It refused to let go.
He pushed away from his desk and walked toward the bedroom.
The lights dimmed automatically as he entered. He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
He needed distance.
He needed time.
He needed—
A memory of her on the street, humbly thanking the vendor for a tiny sweet, flickered in his mind so vividly that his breath faltered.
He didn't need time.
He needed answers.
And he needed to be the one to make sure she was never touched by anything that could break her spirit.
Even if she never knew.
Arnav lay back slowly, eyes on the ceiling.
The city hummed distantly outside. The night pressed in close.
He tried to sleep.
He couldn't.
Khushi's face drifted behind his eyes—smiling, laughing, glowing like sunlight through glass.
A warmth spread through his chest, unfamiliar and relentless.
His heartbeat thudded once.
Twice.
Harder.
Then—softly, quietly, dangerously—he whispered the truth that had been growing since the moment he first saw her:
"Khushi…"
The sound of her name tasted different on his tongue—like a promise waiting to be made.
A whisper escaped him, low and rough:
"You don't know it yet… but you're already mine."
The words settled over him like a vow he had not meant to make but could not take back.
And somewhere in the city, unaware of the storm forming around her, Khushi slept peacefully.
While Arnav stayed awake, eyes open in the dark, mind consumed by the girl who had unknowingly cracked the armor he had spent years building.
----
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