BOOK ONE OF THE SWEET AND SOUR SERIES
Vanya Sharma hated marriages. Growing up seeing troubled and failed marriages carved a bitter spot in her heart, especially when one of them belonged to her parents. While escaping the shadows of her past, she f...
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༘⋆🌷🫧💭₊˚ෆ
𝐏𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐡𝐚𝐫 𝐤𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐲𝐞 𝐤𝐨𝐢 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐲𝐚𝐚𝐫 𝐤𝐚𝐫 𝐥𝐞
दो दिन के लिए कोई इकरार कर ले झूठा ही सही पल भर के लिए कोई हमें प्यार कर ले झूठा ही सही
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𝗩 𝗔 𝗡 𝗬 𝗔
08:40 Am, 07th April
It's been a week since I moved back into Mahir's penthouse, and things have been... weird.
At first, I thought he was avoiding me out of pure, righteous fury over the accidental kick. And by accidental, I mean maybe slightly deserved, but still. He was dodging me like I was a walking health hazard, always leaving the room right before I entered, staring at walls with newfound interest, and treating me like a cursed object.
But then, something shifted. He wasn't avoiding me anymore.
No. He was observing me.
Not in an obvious, over-the-top, stalkerish way—no, that would have been easier to deal with. Instead, he lurks.
I catch him watching me when I'm working on my laptop, his gaze flickering from my face to the screen like he's collecting data for a case study.
When I'm making tea, he somehow ends up beside me, subtly adjusting the gas flame like I'm incapable of functioning in a kitchen.
And just last night, I swear I caught him reading one of my books. He was holding it upside down, but that's not the point.
All of it is confusing and highly suspicious.
As I walk into the living room, trying to untangle the mystery that is Mahir Oberoi's sudden personality transplant, my foot catches against the edge of the couch.
Oh, great.
Time slows as I flail, my arms windmilling like a tragic cartoon character. I brace myself for impact, already mourning the loss of my dignity but warm hands grab me before I can crash.
My breath stutters as I glance up, heart lurching to my throat.
Mahir.
Again.
This man and his habit of appearing out of nowhere like a broody, well-dressed ghost.
His grip is firm, and steady, his fingers pressing against my waist like he belongs there. His cologne—rich, crisp, unfairly good—encloses around me like a snare.
