Siya's life in Chandipur was marked by resilience and solitude, her days consumed by nurturing the vibrant blooms of her flower shop. Abandoned at birth and haunted by the mystery of her parents' disappearance, she had grown accustomed to the whispe...
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The Deal:
Business was business, and if anyone knew how to handle a deal, it was me: Siya Sharma. When the Randhawas decided they wanted my flowers for their wedding, it wasn't because I offered the best prices. No, it was because I offered the best. Period. My blooms were a symphony of colour and scent, unmatched in their rarity. I'd grown them in my private garden like they were my children. After all, no one wants basic roses at a billion-dollar wedding.
As Mr. Randhawa sat across from me in my cozy flower shop, he flashed me one of those smiles...'you know the one'...that said he thought he could haggle me down.
"Ms. Sharma, you know how these things go. My wife's been eyeing some flowers from Italy—"
"Let me stop you right there," I interrupted with a tight smile, folding my arms over my chest.
"Italy? Really? Why settle for basic when you can have exquisite?" His smile wavered.
"See these?" I gestured to a bouquet of my signature hybrid blooms; rare, vibrant, and nothing short of stunning.
"They're not just flowers; they're art. They take months of nurturing, and trust me, no one else will have them. You want your wife to walk down the aisle smelling like every other bride, or do you want something no one else can offer?" A brief pause followed, but I didn't need an answer. I knew I had him the moment I mentioned 'uniqueness'. He walked out of the shop signing the contract, and the Randhawa wedding would now bloom with Siya Sharma's flowers. Another deal closed. Easy.
The Present:
It's been a week since I last saw Rathore. Not that it means I haven't seen him. Oh, Hukum Adhiraj Singh Rathore, heir to God-knows-what throne, seemed to be everywhere. Even when I didn't want him to be. Especially when I didn't want him to be.
Take today, for instance. Just across the street from my shop, some food stalls had popped up. Great for me...no more running around for meals between appointments. He'd sit there, sipping his coffee, a cigar dangling lazily between his fingers as he stared at me through the glass of my flower shop. His bodyguards would swat away the curious paparazzi, creating a bubble of solitude around him, but his gaze? That remained fixed on me.
And me? Well, lucky me got to watch all of this unfold from the comfort of my flower shop. I'd catch him staring at me; always staring as if he was waiting for something. As if he knew exactly how to get under my skin. And after that messy kiss a week ago? Yeah, it's hard to forget that kind of thing.
Every time I stepped out of the shop, his gaze followed me like a predator. He didn't cross the line, not really, but that stare? Oh, it sent shivers down my spine. Just like today. He'd had his lunch, his coffee, and probably half a pack of cigarettes while keeping his eyes glued to me. And thank God, now it was night, and he hadn't shown up yet.
