The gushing of her pulse was so loud that Imlie could barely think straight.
Of course, she'd known he would be here. Aryan Singh Rathore was, after all, the brother of the host, and this was the first media appearance of the much-wanted heir to Rathore Empire.
She'd known he'd be here and she'd taken on this assignment regardless. Regardless?
In spite of more like.
She kept her head dipped forward, but her eyes lifted up from beneath thick, black lashes. She could pick him out of the crowd easily – and not just because they'd spent six blissful weeks together. Not just because they'd sat up late talking about anything and everything, laughing, sharing food and secrets as though their lives depended on it.
Her stomach rolled and she tamped down on the visceral emotional response.
Guilt. Grief.
She'd betrayed him – there was no arguing with that. She'd lied to him from the moment they'd met, and the more time they'd spent together, the more she'd come to love him. She'd known he was falling for her, too, and the lie became worse and worse, until it was threatening to swallow her whole.
He'd been right to cut her from his life.
And yet... It still hurt. The ease with which he'd walked away from her, refusing to let her explain, refusing to see her. He'd cut her from his life and replaced her almost instantly, if the tabloids were to be believed.
And now, five years later, they were in the same room, breathing the same air, and she was powerless to speak to him. All she could do was stare.
The ceremony droned on, but Imlie paid scant attention despite the fact she was supposed to be working.
The couple were the new guard of leadership of this Empire. They were smart and relatable, and everything she'd been expecting: beautiful, young, vital, elegant. They were, also, obviously very much in love. Not that they were overt about it, such gestures of affection would be inappropriate, but Imlie was an investigative journalist and that gave her a talent for reading body language. She saw what passed between them in each look, each hint of a smile about their lips – and in the way they both stared at their baby – a tiny little packet of cherubic pink cheeks and a shock of dark hair.
Aryan was focused on the ceremony, which left Imlie free to observe him unnoticed. He had an autocratic profile, too symmetrical, perhaps, to be considered traditionally handsome, and yet he was the most dynamic and charismatic man Imlie had ever known.
A kaleidoscope of butterflies rampaged her insides as she scraped her gaze from his brow to his nose, to those lips – and a thousand memories of his kisses battered against her, so that she was weak at her knees suddenly.
Their first kiss had been perfection – a stolen moment, when she'd got her keys tangled in the strap of her handbag. She'd made a sound of intense impatience and stomped her foot but when she'd looked up at Aryan, their eyes had met and he'd smiled and before she'd known what was happening, his lips had taken hers. Gently, so gently, but she'd known herself to be lost in that moment. It had been like catching a butterfly. A flick, a twist, a snare.
Imlie closed her eyes against the intensity of the memory; it didn't help. Her heart was hurting in a way she hadn't thought it still could.
It had been five years. Five years and so much had happened since then. She wasn't the same woman who had fallen hard for this man. And even if she were – even if she still loved him as fiercely as she had back then – what would be the point?
He'd hated her when he learned the truth. Then the article had been published, and twenty four hours later, the subject of her investigative piece – Arvind Shekhawat – had been burnt alive in his car.
She'd killed Aryan's Jiju, his everything and he'd never forgive her for that.
