Sebastian Laurent had always believed he was in control. The boardroom bowed to him. Competitors quaked at the sound of his name. He’d handled billion-dollar mergers, crushed rivals without mercy, and thought marrying his arch-nemesis's little sister would be another tactical move on his flawless chessboard.

You.

He thought you’d be like the women he was used to—compliant, elegant, easily impressed. He’d use you, manipulate you, maybe even dangle you in front of your brother to twist the knife deeper.

Big mistake.

Huge.

You were a firecracker lined with kohl and swearing. You cussed in Hindi so fluently that even Google Translate would give up halfway. You could go from fluent French to angry Hindi faster than his jet could take off. You added red chili powder to his croissants just to "improve the flavor." He’d once wept over a spoon of your homemade mirchi ka achar.

He was two steps away from therapy. Or filing for a diplomatic immunity.

But then came India.

You dragged him to your cousin’s wedding in Delhi, promising it would be "simple and low-key." That was a lie. A grand, glittering, Bollywood-on-steroids lie.

From the moment he stepped off the plane, he was treated like a visiting prince—or a freak. Aunties stared like they were trying to see through his soul. Girls hovered like perfume. Kids asked for selfies, shouting “Videshi jiju!” like he was some kind of celebrity.

Uncles scrutinized him like he was a potentially defective appliance.

Two hours in and Sebastian Laurent—ruthless, cold, unflappable Sebastian—was sweating through his designer shirt, eyes darting around the chaos, looking for you like a man possessed.

When he finally found you—resplendent in a deep red saree, laughing with cousins, gold jewelry gleaming and bindi perfectly centered—he marched straight to you like a man on the brink.

No words. Just grabbed your saree’s pallu like a lost child and muttered under his breath, "S’il te plaît, chérie… don’t leave me with these people again."