My Mr. Artist

Chapter 12

Kiyah

I think today I'm really out of luck. First my ex‑boyfriend's brother, and now his sister. Who's next....his wife?

I know for sure I dug my own grave by inviting a pitiful stranger to share her sorrows, only to find out she's the sister of the man who caused mine.

How pitiful. I sighed.

"D... do you know, I... um... really, really like you. From now on you'll be m... my best friennnnd forever," Saira declared with half‑closed eyes, leaning onto the table. Her once‑perfectly styled hair now tumbled loosely over her shoulders, a little messy, some food spilled across her expensive clothes—enough to make my heart ache for the dress. Her tone was slurry and drunk. Sitting opposite her, I couldn't help but sigh again and recall what had happened earlier.

_

"Oh, by the way, my name's Kiyah. Yours?" I'd asked as we walked, her following behind.

"Saira. Saira Awasthi," she'd said—and I'd almost tripped over my own feet.

I'd turned to stare at her with wide, shocked eyes and blurted out. "Wait, you mean you're Saransh Awasthi's sister?"

She nodded, then furrowed her brows, asking how I knew her brother.

For a moment, it felt like the universe had cornered me—my married ex's sister standing there, calmly asking a question loaded with landmines. What was I supposed to say? That I knew him through his breathtaking kisses, his honeyed promises, or his remarkable talent for breaking hearts?

I steadied myself.

"I'm actually the architect hired by the Awasthi Group to work on this mahal," I said, watching her closely.

She looked different from her brothers, perhaps younger than them and even me, but the way she carried herself lent her a composed, almost regal maturity.

"That explains it," she murmured, gesturing with her eyes for me to keep walking.

"Haha... ha. I think it's quite late now, don't you? We should just head to our respective homes, right?" I laughed nervously, silently cursing myself for not following my mother's age-old advice about not inviting strangers out for drinks.

She merely looked me straight in the eye. "It's okay. I don't want to go home. I'll tell my driver to return without me. I'll go with you."

And she did exactly that.

Without waiting for my response, she turned and spoke to her driver, casually dismissing me in the process, while I stood there, torn between laughing and crying.

Was she not even a little afraid that I might kidnap her and sell her?

The car ride had been silent, awkward. And just like that, we'd ended up at the only pub I knew in this city, a retro‑themed place with soothing music and a safe atmosphere for women, not far from where I lived. I'd discovered it half a month ago after working myself to the bone on drafts. I have good alcohol tolerance, and the place was comforting for a lonely soul like me.

We'd settled in a corner seat. I'd asked Saira to order her drink, but she'd only shrugged and told the waiter to repeat my order. I'd even double‑checked her alcohol tolerance, warning her it was a strong drink. She'd said she was good without even looking at me.

It turned out to be...

A lie. A total lie.

This girl had never even touched alcohol in her life. Her tolerance was nonexistent—worse than nonexistent. I regretted it. Absolutely regretted it. She'd gotten drunk on half a shot of whiskey in soda and had started spilling everything.