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
𝐆𝐡𝐚𝐫
कोई मुझको यूँ मिला है जैसे बंजारे को घर
📓
V A N Y A
06:13 p.m., 24th May, Sunday, Penthouse 102, Skyview Tower, Aerocity Road, New Delhi
By the time we get home, Saturday feels like it's been three weeks long and personally out to assassinate my will to live. My shoes are already halfway off before the door clicks shut behind me. Mahir tosses his keys on the counter with a groan so dramatic, I'm tempted to applaud.
"Family function," he mutters like it's a death sentence. "Why do they always schedule these things on weekends? Isn't that against labour laws?"
I snort, slumping onto the couch. "Pretty sure the labour laws don't cover emotional trauma caused by extended family gatherings."
He shoots me a flat look, the kind that should probably sting but somehow doesn't anymore. "Still. Cruel and unusual punishment."
There's a beat of silence, warm and oddly domestic, before I remember the thing that's been waiting in the corner of my closet all week. "So..." I try to sound casual, but there's a telltale twitch in my lips. "Are you wearing the maroon kurta I picked out for you?"
He looks up from shrugging off his jacket, brows furrowed. "The one you called 'borderline hideous'?"
I grin, leaning my head on the armrest. "That's the one."
Mahir sighs like a man resigned to his tragic fate. "Yeah. I'm wearing it."
I blink, thrown off-balance by his easy compliance. "Wait. Seriously?"
"Seriously." He moves toward the wardrobe, expression unreadable. "If I'm going to be tortured tonight, I might as well wear something that makes you laugh about it."
I don't have a good comeback for that, not when my chest does that stupid, fluttery thing it does whenever he's effortlessly kind without meaning to be. So I grab the only shield I know: sarcasm.
"Fine," I say, standing and heading towards the washroom with my saree. "But you're not allowed to peek while I'm getting ready."
He rolls his eyes, his mouth twitching like he's holding back a smile. "Relax, Mrs. Oberoi. I'm not a teenager. You're not that interesting."
He says it so easily, but the heat in his gaze lingers just a second too long before he turns away, and my heart is suddenly far too aware of the truth he won't admit. Neither of us believes a word he just said.
📎
I step out of the washroom and the world... stalls.
The chiffon red sari clings like a whisper of danger and bad decisions, but the white pearl blouse saves me from feeling completely scandalous. I've worn saris before, countless family functions, endless awkward compliments, but tonight feels different. Maybe it's because he's here.
