The last guest had left. The marble floors gleamed. The fancy crockery had been rinsed. Even the floral centrepiece still looked presentable.

But Faizan Mahmood stood in the dining room like a man carved from tension. His sherwani was still flawless. His expression—not.

She tiptoed in behind him, heels in hand, anklets jingling softly.

“Sab chale gaye,” she said lightly. “Mamu said the pulao was a hit. Which means I now outrank you in the Mahmood family legacy.”

Faizan didn’t speak.

Didn’t even turn.

She paused. “Faizan?”

Still nothing.

The silence hit like cold marble.

“…You’re mad.”

He finally spoke, tone even, expression unreadable. “Why would I be mad?”

She shifted, suddenly unsure. “Because I said that thing at dinner?”

He turned slowly now, eyes sharp.

“You said the Minister of Culture looks like a drama serial villain.”

She winced. “It was a joke.”

“In front of his wife.”

“I didn’t know she was his wife!”

“And when my mother said we were hosting a milad next week, you said, ‘Can I wear pastels or will I get cancelled?’”

“…That was also a joke—”

Faizan’s voice rose—not loud, but cutting: “Everything is a joke to you.”

She went quiet.

“You don’t know how to filter. Or pause. Or think.”

“I was just trying to keep things light—”

“They don’t want light. They want quiet. Grace. Control. You think everyone smiles at you because they like you? No. They smile because they don’t know what else to do with you.”

Her throat tightened. “That’s not fair.”

He stepped back like her presence burned.

“Neither was tonight.”

Her voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You didn’t,” he said coldly. “You embarrassed yourself.”

She looked like she’d just been slapped. Open-mouthed. Hurt flooding her face.