"What was that earlier?"

Ayaan Gupta's voice was calm. Too calm. But beneath that polished tone, there was something unmistakable—a quiet thread of simmering jealousy that clung to every syllable.

The moment you stepped into the house, something about him shifted. The charming businessman who had turned heads at the party was gone. In his place stood the man only you truly knew. The one who could read the smallest flicker in your expression. The one who loved you with such intensity, he sometimes didn’t know where to place all that love when it began to feel sharp and territorial.

He walked ahead in silence, removing his cufflinks with a practiced flick, then sank into the plush ivory sofa in the drawing room. His elbows rested on his knees, his legs slightly apart. His eyes never left you. Not when you bent slightly to slip off your heels, not when your deep red saree swayed around your waist as you walked slowly toward him.

You stopped between his knees, the air around you suddenly heavy. His silk tie was still knotted around your wrists from earlier—an impulsive act during the drive back home, when the tension in the car had grown thick with unspoken words. You hadn’t resisted. You understood what it meant. Ayaan wasn’t angry.

He was claiming space.

The golden embroidery of your saree caught the warm light of the chandelier, casting subtle glimmers across the room. The open-back blouse you wore left your spine bare, save for a single dori that now hung loose, a silent remnant of his touch.

"We were just talking," you said quietly, your gaze flickering away. "He was my classmate in school. From Class Nine."

Ayaan let out a soft scoff. “Was it something important?”

His voice remained even, but something in it made your heart beat a little faster. He wasn’t accusing. He was observing, owning the space you stood in.

You looked down, suddenly unsure of yourself. The evening had begun beautifully. He had taken you to a formal gathering hosted by one of his senior partners. You had stood beside him, radiant in red, the wife he introduced with pride. He had always done that—shown you off, as though the world needed to know you were his.

You remembered the first time you met him. It was at your cousin’s wedding in Jaipur. You were in a sea-green lehenga, juggling your dupatta, a plate of chaats, and your nerves. Ayaan had appeared beside the dessert counter, tall and self-assured in a black bandhgala, smiling like he knew something you didn’t. That smile had undone you.

You never believed in love at first sight. Until that moment.

You gave him your number before the sangeet ended. He messaged you before midnight. After that, everything unfolded like a monsoon—sudden, powerful, and impossible to ignore.

Ayaan had always wanted you close. On business trips, to late-night conferences, to long brunches with clients. He glowed when you took interest in his work. He soaked in your admiration like it was a prayer. He never treated you like a trophy. You were his partner. His equal.

Which is why this moment hurt in ways you hadn’t expected.

You hadn’t meant anything by the chat with Eric. He was just an old friend. But when you laughed at something he said, you hadn’t noticed Ayaan watching. You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched, or how he finished his whiskey a little too fast.

Now, in this quiet room, he was watching you like a man who had been betrayed, not by an action, but by a smile.

He stood up slowly. You held your breath as he stepped closer, the heat from his body rising like a tide around you. One hand lifted to your face, his fingers brushing your cheek. His thumb paused at your lips. His touch was gentle, yet it commanded your full attention.

"Don’t smile at anyone like that," he said softly, his voice low and dangerous like a warning cloaked in silk. "Not the way you smiled at me the first time. That smile is mine."

His thumb lingered at the corner of your mouth, as if claiming the memory.

“These lips already belong to me.”