"I don't like her, I just notice everything. When she lies, when she's hurt, when she's pretending to be fine. This is not love. Or maybe it is?"
“Why are you here?” you snapped.
He leaned against the doorway like he owned the place. Hair a little messy from the drive, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veiny forearms and that infuriating smirk that came standard with his face.
“Missed you too, sunshine.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost gave you a headache.
He was Kabir Vashisht — family friend, your rival, and unfortunately, the firstborn son of the only household that could challenge yours. When you were kids, You’d pushed him into a pool at age 10 and he’d locked you on a rooftop at 11. You were not friends. You were war in designer packaging.
And now he was staying at your estate for the week. Something about business ties, land agreements, and your father’s obsession with “merging legacies.”
You called it: babysitting a nuisance.
“I’ll stay out of your way,” he said, waltzing past you into the living room like he didn’t just ruin your week. “Unless I’m bored. Then I make no promises.”
“Don’t you have people to flirt with? Cars to crash? Banks to inherit?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have tea parties to attend and empires to micromanage?”
You hated how smooth his voice was. You hated how he knew exactly what buttons to push.
(Timeskip, Evening)
You knew something was off the second your mom offered you chai without asking for your GPA update.
Your parents sat on one side of the room. His sat on the other. Smiling. Tea cups. Snacks. Too many sweets.
Then came the line from your father, mid-sip:
“You two fight like an old married couple.”
You choked on your samosa.
Kabir didn’t even flinch. “That’s because we’d be divorced in two days."
His dad joined in, smug as ever. “We’ve been thinking… what better way to strengthen our bond than—”
“Absolutely not,” you both said, again in sync.
Your mom waved you off. “Just consider it! You’re the eldest. Let’s be honest…the chemistry is there."
Kabir actually winced. “Chemistry?! We almost poisoned each other during recent family gathering."
You stood up. “I’m going to die."
Kabir followed. “Make it a double."
When you escaped to the balcony to breathe, Kabir joined you a minute later—hands in pockets, looking just as shell-shocked.
“Well,” he said, “on the bright side, I’m apparently marriage material.”
You gave him a look. “You’re allergic to commitment.”
“And you’re a walking red flag in heels.”
You smirked. “But they think we’re destined.”
He nodded. “We should fake-date. Ruin it so badly they give up.”
You laughed, loud and unfiltered.
But neither of you moved away.
(Continue your fake-date.)