Her Deviant Husband | [✓]

Chapter 28

Athira's pov.

The mirror in front of me reflected my frustration as I tugged at the blouse, trying to tie the damn thing with trembling hands.

The pearly white lehenga weighed heavily on me, and every second I spent fumbling with the strings of my backless blouse felt like another moment slipping away.

Maa had insisted that everything be perfect for the engagement party, and I had spent hours getting my makeup and hair done, only to find myself standing in this ridiculous, impossible garment. It looked lovely. Just my style but still!

Fashion is pain.

The lehenga was beautiful, soft pastel pink and white threads sewn into a design that looked like it belonged in a royal collection.

But the blouse?
The backless blouse with only two delicate strings holding it together?

It was a joke, and I was the punchline.

My fingers fumbled around the ties, frustration bubbling inside me. Each time I tried to knot the two damn strings, they slipped, making the task feel like it was meant to break me.

"Fuck," I hissed under my breath, my fingers slipping once again. I tried twisting the fabric tighter, but the blouse refused to cooperate.

This wasn't the time for my helplessness to take over. I needed to get it right—before the party started, before anyone could notice how undone I was by freaking blouse strings!

I let out a sharp breath, my jaw clenching in frustration. It wasn't just the blouse. It was everything. The whole engagement thing. The façade.

"You're going to need some help."

I froze at the sound of that voice. The low, dangerous, unmistakable drawl that had haunted my every step for far too long. Reyansh. Of course it had to be him.

"Go away, Reyansh," I ordered, not bothering to turn around. "I don't need your help."

I heard the door creak open behind me and felt his presence flood the room before I even saw him. I could feel the heat radiating off him, his every step purposeful and sure.

His shadow fell over me as he approached, and I braced myself, knowing exactly what was coming.

"You sure about that?" he asked, his tone far too casual. "I mean, you're struggling, and I'm right here."

I clenched my jaw and turned my head just enough to shoot him a glare, but the second I looked at him, I regretted it.

He was standing in the doorway, one shoulder leaned lazily against the frame, exuding the kind of arrogance that made my blood boil.

His dark brown eyes, flecked with amber, gleamed in the dim light, catching every ounce of my reluctant attention. Those eyes—they were sharp and probing, like they could peel away my layers and leave me bare.

His lips quirked into a familiar smirk, the kind that screamed he knew exactly the effect he had on people, especially me.

And fuck, did he look good.
Too good.

He was dressed in an all-black tuxedo, the jacket perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and lean frame. The first few buttons of his shirt were popped open, exposing the bronzed skin of his collarbone and a hint of his chest. His hair was its usual mess of chaos, artfully disheveled and impossibly roguish, like he'd just rolled out of bed—or like someone had dragged their hands through it.

I hated it.

Hated how good he looked, hated the way my heart skipped a beat despite my better judgment, and hated most of all how he stood there like he owned the goddamn room.