What keeps the world moving? Love? Certainly not. Hope? Not really. Money? Absolutely, and no one knows it better than the rich upper class elites of India. But money is not the only thing you can earn. In fact, these elites will tell you there is o...
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I take a deep breath as I smooth down the fabric of my gown, feeling the cool silk under my fingertips. The deep burgundy color glows softly in the light, the dress hugging my body in all the right places and flowing elegantly to the floor. My hair is curled and frames my face beautifully. A small smile tugs at my lips, remembering the last time I put on this gown. If I close my eyes, I can still feel Vihaan's touch all over my body, the words he whispered to me, the way he looked at me.
Since our moment in the dressing room, one thing has become clear to me: I am no longer just playing a part. Somewhere along the line, the boundaries have blurred, and what was once just a physical attraction has become something far more complicated. More real. And that's fucking scary because this arrangement is supposed to be temporary. We weren't supposed to feel like this. I wasn't supposed to feel like this.
I turn toward the door, my heels clicking softly against the floor as I make my way down the hallway. Each step brings me closer to him, and I can feel my pulse quicken, my breath catching just slightly. When I reach the top of the staircase, I pause, catching a glimpse of Vihaan standing at the bottom, waiting.
He's looking down at his phone, oblivious for a moment, but the second he glances up, his eyes meet mine, and everything else seems to fall away. His gaze moves over me slowly, taking in every inch of me in that dress, and the air between us thickens with unspoken words. I walk down slowly, careful not to trip. Vihaan comes at stands at the foot of the stairs, offering me a hand which I take.
Vihaan's lips brush softly against the back of my hand, sending a shiver down my spine. His eyes don't leave mine as he murmurs, "You look beautiful, Mrs. Randhawa," his voice low, intimate.
I can't help the blush that rises to my cheeks, feeling the warmth spread across my skin. It's ridiculous, really, how something as simple as his compliment can make my pulse race. "Thank you," I manage to say, though my voice comes out softer than I intended. I try to mask the flustered feeling by stepping closer to him, smoothing my dress with a bit more force than necessary.
His hand doesn't leave mine as we leave the apartment and stand in front of the awaiting limousine. Vihaan holds opens the door for me and I climb inside and he follows me right after. Although there is enough room on the bench to my left, I sit so close to Vihaan that our thighs touch. He doesn't complain, though. Instead, he places his hand on my thigh as the limo pulls out into the traffic.
As the limo moves through the evening streets, the city lights flicker past the tinted windows, but I barely notice them. All I can focus on is the warmth of Vihaan's hand resting on my thigh, the subtle pressure grounding me while simultaneously setting every nerve in my body on edge.
I lean back into the leather seat, my heart pounding against my ribs. He shifts slightly, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against the fabric of my dress, and I feel the tiniest jolt of electricity shoot through me. I glance at him, trying to gauge his expression, but as usual, Vihaan's face is a carefully crafted mask. His eyes, though, betray a flicker of something deeper—something I'm not quite ready to name.
