The Unexpected

11. Reception

I woke up today without having Saransh inside the room. I had desperately slept before he came back from the washroom yesterday. I can't let him use his sweet, shameless talks get to me.

I couldn't stop thinking about him.

And I couldn't stop thinking about what he said. His words echoed in my mind, twisting and turning, refusing to settle. I wanted to push them away, to focus on something—anything—else, but they clung to me like a stubborn whisper, refusing to be ignored.

The spell was broken when the beautician's voice cut through my thoughts.

"The makeup is done."

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, hardly recognizing the person staring back. Am I really the same girl from just a few days ago? The makeup artists have worked wonders, making my features sharper, more radiant, and the golden lehenga I'm wearing highlights every curve in a way that feels both foreign and empowering. Dare I say it—I look beautiful.

It's almost time for our wedding reception, and all the family members have already left for the venue, leaving just me and Saransh in this massive mansion. We're supposed to make some grand entry together, another unnecessary spectacle in my opinion, but I'll cooperate. Seeing my brothers again will be more than worth it.

A knock on the door jolts me from my thoughts. "It's time to go, are you ready?" Saransh's voice filters through the door.

"Yes, coming," I respond, and practically run to open the door. For a second, I wonder if he'll like the way I look today. But who cares what he thinks?

I pull the door open, and he stands there, mid-motion, his hand frozen in the air. His eyes rake over me once, twice, and his dumbfounded expression makes me pause. His gaze locks with mine, but then continues to roam over my face, my lehenga, and back up again.

"Ahem, ahem," I clear my throat, breaking the silence. His reaction catches me off guard, and I can't tell if he's impressed or just... surprised. He runs a hand through his messy, perfectly tousled hair, and I feel my throat go dry. Clad in a black Armani suit with a white shirt, he looks every bit the dark, handsome devil you'd see in movies.

But my eyes are drawn to the unbuttoned part of his shirt—three buttons left undone, revealing a glimpse of his broad, muscular chest. My mind wanders—what would it feel like to run my hands over that chest? To trace the lines of his abs? I shake my head slightly, trying to rid myself of these completely inappropriate thoughts. I might need holy water after this.

"Let's go," Saransh mutters before I can embarrass myself further by ogling him any longer. He turns and walks toward the car, and I follow like some lost puppy. To my surprise, he opens the car door for me. So gentlemanly.

We both settle into the backseat, and the silence is suffocating. I glance out of the window, but I can feel his gaze on me. What is up with him today? His staring is unnerving.