THE PERFECT DECEPTION

Chapter 22

Jonathan

I sighed at the mirror as the green blazer clashed with the halfcoat. In my mind, she would have chosen my favourite colour, black. Instead, she decided on hues that reminded me of a nightmare's leprechaun. The gold rims complemented the heavy emerald brooch that caught her eye when my card appeared. My blue eyes sought any part of me that remained untouched by her influence, beyond the Polo shirts and formal pants, as her dress grazed my knee, nudging me towards another store.

She had the privilege of selecting my attire so that I could adorn her from head to toe. The theme for the mehndi was green, silver, and gold; perhaps next time, they'll avoid likening it to Saint Patrick's Day. My frustration stems not from hatred but concern that Vanraj or Anuj might dampen her radiant smile, which I cherish more than my attempts at brewing morning chai. I'm not one for social media or engaging with the thousands who may adore, idolise, or despise you, with some even harbouring malicious intent.

My handle, "@sparklingprinceofthesevenseas2024," wasn't part of my original plan, but Rhys and Levi thought that a few aesthetic photos of blues and mountains would cast me as a heartbroken teenager transitioning into a sultry summer mood. I struggle to connect with this generation's trend of defining eras; if that's the case, I'm in my lover boy era—feel free to mention Taylor Swift. Scrolling through countless reels and 'get ready with me' videos, I finally mastered the recipe after three failed attempts at work with Nicolas. The fourth attempt was for her, and the embrace that followed made the butterflies in my stomach soar endlessly.

I sighed and smiled at myself. Even the Grinch would be upset I stole Christmas. I rested my hand against my phone as Rhys sent me the list of number plates and the bodyguard's profile and pictures. I have plenty on guard, but none were trained as effective as those whose tattoos were as dangerous as their past life. I sighed as one was a past sniper for the Bratva, a runaway from a girl who was a terror to them. I never intervene in such a mess, but I love it when they deal with me. 

Since a strange letter arrived at my office, threatening to take away what I cherish most, even Anupama has started questioning some of my methods and habits. I sometimes find myself holding her close as I survey my surroundings. It's been incredibly nerve-wracking, with thoughts racing wildly, almost as if a demon is mocking me with warnings that my past deeds will soon catch up to me. I rubbed my face as the bathroom door quivered against its latch, a smirk forming on my lips. She had shut the door, not wanting any kisses until she could put this incident behind her and not be reminded of it by my touch the next day.

Her loud groan echoed as her heel clicked against the marble tile, causing my smile to fade and my jaw to slacken. I rose to my feet, eyes widening at the sight of her. Shivers raced through every nerve as if her name were tattooed on each blood cell. My manhood swells, pressing against the zip, making it ache, but I don't hiss. Instead, I am lost in the very sight of an angel. Yet this angel did not believe she resembled the identical diamonds worthy of sparkling beside the queen's throne.

Silver beads cascaded down her figure, contrasting against the silk net draped over her shoulder, while the blouse clung to the curves of her chest, each droplet more precious than any breath I had taken in this life—or perhaps my life was blessed, for I had beheld her. The silver was merely an illusion; she was the treasure veiled in grime. I approached her as one might approach a weeping angel with utmost gentleness. Anupama huffed loudly before my hand could graze the softness of her back. "Why would you buy something so cheap?" she exclaimed, her voice pitched high, her face flushing red with annoyance rather than the cold of an ice age reborn.

Beauty was captured in its finest and most unadulterated form. A subtle smirk played upon my lips as my gaze wandered over the expanse of skin barely concealed by the blouse's knot, tied into a bow. "I assure you, no one will be wearing anything that costs over $10,000," I retorted with a smugness that only narrowed her eyes at me as if I were the next entry in her death note. A mental note to myself: never let her join a cult, for I might be the first sacrifice. "It looks cheap," she declared venomously, yet all I could perceive was "Blah, blah, blah, unbearably beautiful."