The illegitimate daughter of a powerful businessman, she was sent to live with her six half-brothers after her father's sudden death.
The boys were born from privilege, pride, and perfectly manicured bloodlines. No one welcomed her. No one cared.
De...
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Steam still clung faintly to my skin when I stepped out of the bathroom, towel-drying my hair. I was halfway across the room when I froze.
He was there.
Veeransh.
Standing tall by the window, and yet when he turned to face me, something in his eyes was restless.
For a heartbeat, I just stared, unable to make sense of it. Then instinct kicked in. "What are you doing here?" I whisper-yelled.
When he didn't answer immediately, I spun toward the door, fingers twisting the knob. It was locked. Relief flickered through me—at least none of the brothers could walk in and start another storm.
"I came through the balcony," he said simply.
I turned back, eyes narrowing. "You what?"
He exhaled slowly, his tone edged with disapproval. "You shouldn't leave that door open, Scarlet. Anyone could've entered."
"Apparently, anyone did," I muttered, clutching the towel a little tighter.
"Now tell me what you're doing here before I scream."
Even the fly outside my window knows I would never scream and disclose his presence.
His expression softened then—something regretful replacing the authority in his tone. "I got worried."
My brows drew together. "Worried? For what?"
"For you," he said quietly. "When I saw Karan..." he paused, gaze lowering for a second before meeting mine again, "...because I've already done enough wrong to you."
I didn't know what to say. My throat tightened.
He took a hesitant step closer. "I should've never left you alone that night at Ranveer's engagement. I should've stayed."
His voice roughened. "I told myself I was protecting you, but I was protecting my own fear. I'm sorry, Maheer. For all of it. For every time I walked away when I shouldn't have."
He stopped just in front of me. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath. His words hung between us, raw and trembling.
His gaze flicked to my hair, damp strands trailing down my collarbone, then back to my face. I caught the subtle shift in his breathing—the way his throat bobbed.
The way his shirt was slightly unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, and there was a faint mess in his hair, like he'd run his hands through it a hundred times before walking in.
The worried crease in his brow somehow made him look more... handsome.
The emotionally drained, angry, and humiliated self of mine is overloaded. I hate how easily others still have the power to hurt me.
