Mission Love - Chasing Mr. Right ✓

Thirty -Eight

Recap: I won the bet at what cost?

The next morning, I woke up with one thought—never again. Never again would I buy Ryan anything. Never again I was repeating the same mistake.

But my day had bigger problems. Mehndi day had arrived, and with it, a whole new reason to panic.

The house was alive. Loud. A chaotic mess of color, music, and laughter.

Gold streamers fluttered from the railings, marigold petals rained down with every excited twirl, and laughter spilled through the corridors, mixing with the rhythmic dhol beats pounding against the walls. The scent of mehndi hung thick in the air, tangled with the sugary sweetness of jalebis and the spicy warmth of pakoras.

Women fluttered through the halls, bangles jingling as they carried trays of sweets and cones of henna. Someone had dragged a speaker into the courtyard, and the latest Bollywood wedding anthem blasted through the air. A group of aunties, already high on sugar and gossip, clapped along while younger cousins danced, twirling in embroidered lehengas that glittered in the afternoon sun.

It was the kind of chaos that should’ve consumed me. Should’ve made me lose myself in the whirlwind of celebrations.

But my mind was elsewhere.

I shifted slightly, the emerald green lehenga brushing against my ankles. The color was rich, deep, and carefully chosen—though I wasn’t about to admit why.

Because it suited me? Sure.

I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, letting my gaze skim over the crowd.

Ryan was standing with my father, just a while ago, his tall frame impossible to miss even in the sea of guests.

And then—poof. Vanished.

Not that I was looking for him. Obviously.

"Aisha, come!"

I hurriedly nodded, and scooted over to sit in the middle, resting my hands, palm up on my lap as the mehndi artist started to trace delicate vines across my skin.

He did see me earlier.. I noticed his gaze stumbling my way briefly.
So...why am I so annoyed?

Maybe..

A tiny, ridiculous part of me had expected him to say something. Something about the outfit. Or the hair. Or—literally anything.

Instead, he had just stared. Long enough that my stomach did something annoying, and then my father called him away, and that was it.

Now, hours later, he still hadn’t reappeared.

Not that I cared.

The mehndi artist let out an exaggerated sigh, breaking me out of my thoughts.

"Didi, you’re moving too much."

"Sorry." I bit my tongue, and readjusted to sit properly.

She started again, the designs were intricate, precise, and I should have been admiring them, but I couldn't just sit idle for some reason. I shifted in my seat, and immediately regretted it when the mehndi artist shot me a glare so sharp it could have cut glass.

"Didi, if you smudge this, I swear—"

"I’m not moving, you're moving!" I snapped, even though, technically, I was.

Beside me, one of my cousins smirked. "You keep looking at the doorway."

I stiffened. "No, I don’t."