They Don't Know about Us

Chapter 43 - A Claim in Red

A/N: Silent readers, please how much more do you need me to beg? Pls comment <3

Warm light spilled across the hotel's garden, strung overhead in rows of delicate fairy lights that swayed gently with the evening breeze. Down the stone pathway, the fountains glimmered—arcs of water rising and falling in rhythmic loops, catching flecks of amber from the lights.

Beneath it all, low jazz hummed from the speakers scattered discreetly through the hedges, soft enough to blend with the laughter drifting from the banquet hall, a live band of musicians playing inside the banquet.

Riddhima inhaled slowly as the doors closed behind her, shutting out the crowded ballroom. Her heels clicked against the stone, sharp at first then slowing when she reached the quiet stretch of the garden.

She needed air. Needed distance from the polished smiles and subtle glances that had followed her since she'd walked in wearing this dress.

She had known the effect it would have the moment she slipped into it.

The gown clung like molten ruby, shimmering faintly under every movement. The bodice was fitted like a second skin, beaded delicately along the scoop neckline that framed the curve of her collarbone. The ruching at her waist drew taut at the center, cinching her figure before cascading into a sleek, floor-length skirt that hugged every step.

And the back—God, the back.

A daring plunge, fabric falling away entirely until the gown met her lower back, held by only the delicate straps resting at her shoulders.

Her hair, freshly curled, fell in dark waves over one shoulder to expose the sweep of skin, warm and flushed from nerves.

She could feel eyes on her all night—not for the reasons she wanted, but for the reasons she couldn't control. Every time someone's gaze lingered, she felt acutely aware of the space between her shoulder blades, the vulnerability of being seen.

A week ago, this dress was meant for another evening. Another celebration. She'd joked that good fabric shouldn't go to waste. But as she walked beneath the fairy lights, she wondered if maybe she'd forced beauty onto a day that didn't deserve it.

The cool night helped steady her breath. Her emotions, however, churned beneath the surface—swirling restlessness, a throbbing ache she refused to name, and beneath that, the spark of something else. Something reckless.

She rounded the hedge leading to the rose arch—and paused.

Muskaan stood close to Rahul beneath the canopy of lights. Close enough that their shadows blended on the stone. Muskaan's black gown swept elegantly to the floor—sleek satin that hugged her body with a thigh slit revealing one toned leg, catching the moonlight each time she shifted weight.

A pair of delicate straps crossed her collarbones, trailing into a subtle V that framed her décolletage. Her earrings—gold, minimalist—glimmered when she laughed softly.

Rahul leaned in, his suit perfectly cut—a charcoal black tailored jacket over a crisp white shirt, top button undone like he'd abandoned formality as soon as he saw her. One hand rested lightly on her arm; not possessive, just steady, like a touch that had always belonged there.

They were whispering. Too close to be casual, too intimate to be innocent. Rahul murmured something that made Muskaan's lips curve in a shy smile Riddhima rarely saw on her. He leaned closer, forehead nearly brushing hers.

Riddhima looked away instinctively—just for a moment—because witnessing something that tender felt intrusive. But the sound of Muskaan's quiet laughter tugged her back, her eyes drawn unwillingly.