They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

That’s cute. Very Pinterest-coded. Very “I’ve never actually been watched by a hundred people at once” kind of statement.

Wrong.

A girl’s best friend is that exact moment when people realize they can’t touch her. Not really. Not the way they want to. When they look at you like you’re right there but still out of reach, like you’re something they could almost have if they just tried harder. That mix of envy, curiosity, a little bit of lust… yeah. That’s the real addiction.

And I’m very, very addicted.

I step out of the matte black Maybach, trying to look like I do this every day, like I didn’t just almost trip on the edge of my own gown. The heel catches for half a second and my heart jumps straight into my throat.

God. Imagine dying like that. Naira Kapoor. The Fashion icon. Taken down by Dior.

I recover fast though. I always do.

Chin up. Shoulders back. Like I own the street, the night, the entire damn city.

It’s been seven months. Seven months away for shoots, interviews, brand launches, fake smiles, worse coffee, and hotel rooms that all smell the same. Coming back to India should feel normal, but it doesn’t.

It feels louder. Sharper. Like everything is watching me a little more closely, waiting to see if I’ve changed.

The cameras hit me before I could think too much.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

It’s blinding for a second, like stepping into white light, and then the noise follows.

“Naira! Over here! Just one look! ”

“Ma’am, who are you wearing tonight? ”

“Naira Kapoor in Dior! Slay, queen! ”

I almost laugh at that one. Slay, queen. As if I didn’t spend twenty minutes earlier arguing with my stylist about whether this slit was “too aggressive for the brand image.” As if I didn’t nearly stab myself with a safety pin.

I pause anyway. Of course I do.

I tilt my head slightly, letting the light catch my cheekbone the way I know it does. I practiced that angle in mirrors I pretended I didn’t care about.

My lips curve into that soft, dangerous smile people on the internet are weirdly obsessed with. The “signature smirk.”

God, I hate that name. I love what it does though.

One hand goes to my hip. The other tightens around my crystal-studded bag, and for a second I’m very aware of how heavy it is.

Why is it so heavy? What is even inside this? Lip gloss, phone, my entire ego?

The gown hugs me like it was stitched onto my skin. Black, but not just black. Midnight black. The kind that drinks light instead of reflecting it. The slit is… ambitious. If I sneeze wrong, this could turn into a scandal.

Behind me, my security team parts the crowd like royalty’s in town. Well, not that I need protection. I just like the aesthetic.

I walk in, careful this time. One step. Then another. Don’t trip. Don’t trip. Please don’t trip.

The party hits me all at once. Glass walls reflecting everything, gold everywhere like someone tried to bottle sunlight and failed, flowers that smell too sweet, too expensive. It’s the kind of place that screams money so loudly it forgets to have taste.

I’ve seen worse though. Way worse.

The moment I enter, I feel it.

Heads turning. Conversations dipping for half a second. That soft shift in the room like something just changed direction.

Whispers start, low but not low enough.

“She looks insane.”

“Is that Dior couture? ”

“God, she’s hot.”

“When did she come back? ”

I catch pieces, not all of it, never all of it. But enough.

My lips curl without me even trying. Good. Talk. Please talk. It’s boring when you don’t.

My heels click against the floor, a steady rhythm that should feel confident but honestly I’m just focusing on not slipping. The floor is too polished. Why is it so shiny? Who decided this was safe?

Every step feels like a tiny victory.

A server appears with a tray of champagne. I take one flute without looking, murmuring, “Thanks, sweetie,” like he’s been waiting his whole life to hand me overpriced bubbles.

The glass is cold against my fingers. The bubbles tickle my nose when I bring it closer, and I take a small sip, just enough to feel it. Not enough to lose balance. Again. Safety first.

“Miss Kapoor?”

I turn slightly. A girl stands there, probably early twenties, eyes shining like she just spotted a shooting star that decided to stand still for her. Her hands are shaking a little as she holds her phone up.

“Can I please get a picture with you? I literally adore you. You’re my favorite star.”

There’s something in her voice that makes me pause. It’s not just excitement. It’s… hope. Like this moment actually matters to her.

I blink at her for a second, then smile. “Sure, babygirl.”

She lights up instantly, like I handed her something huge.

We pose. I angle my face automatically, instinct kicking in. Left side, always. The light hits better. I tilt just enough, bring the glass up casually, like I wasn’t thinking about it at all.

Click.

Another girl slips in. Then another. Soon I’m surrounded by glossy lips, perfect hair, hopeful eyes, phones shaking in manicured hands. Their perfume mixes into something sweet and overwhelming, and I can feel the heat of bodies too close, the excitement buzzing in the air.

I give them what they want. Of course I do.

A pout here. A wink there. A small laugh when one of them squeals too loudly. My hand accidentally bumps into someone’s phone at one point and I almost knock it down.

“Oh shit, sorry,” I say quickly, grabbing it before it falls.

The girl laughs. “It’s okay, oh my god, you’re so real.”

Real. That’s funny.

Inside, I’m running ten different calculations. Where to stand. How to smile. Don’t spill the champagne. Don’t step on the dress. Is my hair still in place? Why is it so warm in here?

“Thankyou so much, ma’am!!” The girls squeal and walk away.

“Pleasure is all mine, beautiful ladies.” I smile and lift my chin a little higher, adjust my grip on the stupidly heavy bag, and step forward into the crowd again, hoping I don’t trip this time.

Because that would be tragic. And also… very on brand.

My heel catches in the carpet for a second and I nearly faceplant into a man holding a martini.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” I mumble, grabbing his arm before I fall.

He blinks at me, startled, then smiles like he just got blessed by the universe. “No problem at all.”

Yeah. Of course it’s no problem. It’s never a problem when it’s me.

I straighten up, pretending that didn’t just happen, smoothing my dress like I meant to stumble. My heart is doing that annoying thing again, beating too fast over nothing. Or maybe not nothing. Maybe just… everything.

And then I see him.

Aarav Khurana.

Leaning against the bar like he was designed to be looked at. I actually stop. Like fully stop. Mid-step. For a second too long.

Shit. Move, Naira.

I force my body to keep going, slow and casual, like I didn’t just forget how to function. He’s talking to some producer whose name I don’t care to remember.

Aarav has a glass of whiskey in his hand, his head tilted slightly as he listens, that lazy half-smile playing on his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing to people just by existing.

God, he looks good. Annoyingly good.

The kind of good that makes you want to roll your eyes and also stare a little longer than you should. The kind of face that has probably caused emotional damage in multiple countries.

His eyes haven’t found me yet, but I can feel it coming. That stupid, magnetic pull that I hate because it works every single time. It starts low in my stomach, like a warning, like my body is smarter than me and already whispering… trouble.

This room suddenly feels louder. Too many people. Too many perfumes mixing together. Too many fake laughs that sound just a little too sharp if you listen closely.

And right in the middle of it, him.

Aarav fucking Khurana.

He’s still too handsome for his own good. That movie-star face that makes girls do stupid things and headlines explode. But I’m not one of those girls.

I’m not the girl who falls. I’m not the girl who stays. And I’m definitely not something he gets to pick up and figure out when he’s bored.

I tighten my grip on my champagne, not even realizing I’m doing it until the glass almost slips from my hand.

Oh my god.

I fumble slightly, catching it just in time. A tiny splash of champagne spills over the edge onto my fingers.

Great.

I quickly lick it off before anyone notices, praying no one saw that. This is why I can’t have nice things.

I take a breath, straighten my shoulders, and finally glance at him properly.

Right on cue, his gaze lifts. And finds mine and stays there... Of course it does.

For a second, everything else just… fades. Not disappears. Just dulls. Like someone turned the volume down on the entire room except this one moment.

Game on, hottie.

He doesn’t look away.

That’s the thing about Aarav. He never just glances. He doesn’t do polite. He doesn’t skim past people like they’re background. When he looks, he looks properly. Like he’s trying to read you, peel something back, find something you didn’t offer.

It’s irritating. It’s also… a little too much.

The air shifts. I swear it does. Like something invisible just cracked between us.

Then he smiles. That same half-smile. The one that probably signed a thousand NDAs without even trying. He says something to the men around him, quick and dismissive, and then he starts walking toward me, like I summoned him without even trying.

I stay exactly where I am. One hand around my glass, the other resting on my hip like I’ve been standing like this my whole life. No reaction. No flinch. Don’t give him anything.

Inside, though, I’m very aware of everything— my heartbeat. My breathing. The way my dress suddenly feels tighter.

He stops in front of me. Close enough that I can smell him. Sandalwood. Something warm. Something deeper. It hits me instantly, and I hate how much I notice it.

“Hey, Miss Kapoor,” he says. His voice is low. Smooth. Annoyingly calm. Like he’s not even slightly affected.

“You’re... hard to miss tonight.”

I tilt my head slightly, bringing the glass to my lips just to give myself something to do. “I usually am.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle, watching me like he’s amused already. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

I raise a brow. “Why? Were you hoping I wouldn’t?”

“No,” he says immediately. Too fast. Then his expression shifts, just a little. Softer. More honest. “I was hoping I wouldn’t notice.”

I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. Because seriously, he can’t just admit things normally.

Seven months. That’s how long it’s been. We haven’t seen each other for seven months... my shoot, the launch, a million miles away. And here I am, back in the chaos of it all, and within five seconds he’s already acting like I’m the trouble.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

The music floats around us. Some stupid jazz band playing in the background, soft and expensive and completely unnecessary. People are still laughing, still talking, still networking like their entire existence depends on being seen.

But here, it feels… slower. Quieter. More dangerous.

“You don’t look like you belong in a room like this,” I say, swirling my champagne, mostly so I don’t have to just stand there staring at him.

“No?” he asks.

“No,” I repeat, meeting his gaze properly now. “You look like someone who ruins things.”

There’s a beat. Then he smiles. Slow. Sharp. Like he enjoyed that a little too much.

“Maybe I do.”

Of course he does.

He gestures toward the bar. “Drink?”

“I already have one,” I say, lifting my glass slightly.

“Then have another.”

And before I can argue, he turns and starts walking.

I hesitate for half a second. Do I follow him?

Obviously I follow him. Because I’m curious. Because I’m stupid. Because it’s him and I clearly haven’t learned anything.

I step forward quickly, and my heel almost twists again.

Ouch!

I grab the edge of the bar to steady myself, hoping he didn’t see that.

Well... he definitely saw that.

I can feel it without even looking.

We move toward the side of the ballroom, into a quieter corner. There’s a wall of mirrors, gold lights casting everything in this soft glow that makes people look better than they actually are. A velvet curtain hangs half-open, hiding us just enough to feel private.

Which is probably a bad idea.

Aarav picks up another glass and hands it to me. Our fingers brush for a second.

Just a second.

And it’s stupid how noticeable it is. Like my skin registers it before my brain can.

I quickly take the glass, pretending I didn’t feel anything.

“Do you always look this…” he trails off, looking at me like I’m something both sacred and doomed. “Dangerous?”

I take a sip, buying time. “Do you always flirt this... badly?”

He laughs.

God. That laugh, it’s criminal. Deep and soft and just a little bit tired. The kind that sinks straight into your bloodstream before you can throw up a wall.

“I’m out of practice,” he says.

Yeah, right.

“Try harder,” I challenge, because if I stop talking, I might actually start thinking.

And that would be a very bad idea.

He looks at me for a long second. Longer than necessary. Long enough to make me painfully aware of everything.

The way I’m standing. The way my fingers are wrapped too tight around the glass. The way my breath is not as steady as I want it to be.

It’s like he’s arguing with himself. I can almost see it in his eyes. That tiny flicker of hesitation. Or maybe it’s restraint. Or maybe I’m just imagining things because my brain has decided to stop functioning properly.

Then he moves.

It’s not sudden. Not rushed. That almost makes it worse.

His hand finds my waist slowly, like he’s giving me time to stop him. Like he’s asking without asking. His touch is warm through the fabric, firm but not forceful, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up.

My back brushes against the wall behind me. Cool, solid. It sends a small shiver up my spine that I absolutely did not sign up for.

The glass in my hand lowers slightly. I don’t even remember telling my fingers to move.

My breath catches, just for a second, but it’s enough. Enough for me to notice. Enough for me to hate that he might notice too.

He leans in, just a little. His voice drops, right near my ear.

“Tell me to stop.”

I should. I really should.

This is exactly the kind of situation that turns into headlines. Into regret. Into something messy and complicated and impossible to walk away from cleanly.

My brain is listing reasons. Loudly. Rapid fire. Stop him. Step back. Say something sarcastic. Laugh it off.

But my mouth doesn’t listen. I don’t say anything. And I know he understands that silence.

His lips brush mine. It’s barely there. Not even a kiss. Just a soft, testing touch. Heat. A question.

My heart does something stupid. Like actually stupid. It skips and then overcompensates, beating faster like it’s trying to win something.

I tilt my chin up before I can overthink it. “Do it,” I whisper.

I don’t even recognize my own voice. It’s softer. Rougher. Like it belongs to someone else.

So he does. And everything tilts.

His mouth is warm. Softer than I expected. But there’s something underneath that softness. Something that pulls, that insists, that refuses to stay careful for long.

My hand moves on its own, gripping the lapel of his tux because I suddenly need something to hold onto. My balance feels… questionable. Which is honestly very on brand for me.

For a second, it’s almost gentle. Almost like he’s trying to be careful with me.

Then it’s not.

The kiss deepens, and something in my chest tightens and loosens at the same time. It’s messy in the best and worst way. I feel like I’m falling and there’s nothing to catch me except him, which is a terrible idea.

His hand shifts at my waist, pulling me closer, and I go without thinking. My brain is just… gone. Completely useless. Fantastic.

It feels like drowning. But not in a bad way. In that strange, soft way where you don’t fight it.

He pulls back slightly, just enough for us to breathe.

I don’t realize how hard I’m breathing until that moment hits me. My chest rises too fast, my fingers still clutching his jacket like I forgot how to let go.

His forehead rests against mine. “Naira,” he murmurs, like it’s the first time he’s said something real in weeks.

Then he kisses me again.

It’s nothing like the soft, drawn-out kisses in movies. This time there’s no hesitation. It’s deeper. Rougher. Less careful.

His hand slides into my hair, not harsh, but enough to tilt my head back slightly. The other presses at my hip, grounding me, pulling me into him like there’s no space allowed between us.

I let him.

Worse, I kiss him back with the same ferocity.

My back hits the wall, the cold seeping through the fabric of my dress. It should bring me back to reality. It doesn’t.

His lips taste like expensive whiskey and something darker, something I can’t name but feel everywhere.

My fingers tighten in his jacket, probably wrinkling it, which is expensive and also not my problem right now.

My knee bumps slightly against his leg and I almost lose my balance again.

Seriously?

I shift quickly, trying to steady myself, and for a split second I’m very aware of how ridiculous this would look if I just slipped mid-kiss and took both of us down.

Iconic. Truly.

His presence steadies me without him even realizing it, his body anchoring mine, and somehow that makes everything worse. Or better. I don’t know anymore.

We don’t speak. There’s no space for it. No room for logic or sense or anything remotely responsible.

It’s just heat. Breath. The sound of my own heartbeat in my ears.

His teeth graze my bottom lip, slowly, like he’s trying to memorize something. Or maybe I’m just projecting because I’m definitely trying to.

A small sound escapes me, low and embarrassing, and I immediately want to disappear.

His hand dips lower, gripping my thigh in response and I know if we were anywhere else... if there weren’t a hundred people just outside this velvet curtain... we wouldn’t stop.

But we do. Barely.

He pulls back first. Just a little.

We’re both breathing like we ran somewhere instead of just standing here making terrible decisions.

Our foreheads stay pressed together.

“This is a bad idea,” I whisper, my voice more honest than I intended.

“The worst,” he says.

And still, neither of us moves.

Because for all our warnings, for all the promises we don’t make... we both know it’s not something you build a future on.

It’s just a moment. A reckless, stupid, completely ours kind of moment. And right now, that feels like enough.

I step away from him like I’ve been released from a spell. Or maybe something I shouldn’t have touched in the first place.

My lips feel swollen. I can actually feel where his mouth was, like it left an imprint I can’t wipe off. I swipe my thumb across my lower lip, and yeah… lipstick smudged. Of course it is. My hair is probably a mess too. My heart is still racing like I just ran up ten flights of stairs in heels.

Fuck.

His cologne is still there. On me. Around me. Stuck in my head like a bad decision dressed up to look expensive.

Whatever that was… it’s done. Over. Finished.

I repeat it in my head like it’ll become true if I say it enough times.

I lift my chin, straighten my shoulders, and walk back into the party like nothing happened. Like I didn’t just lose my mind in a velvet corner five seconds ago.

My heels click louder this time. Or maybe it’s just in my head. Everything feels louder.

The bar is crowded. Men leaning too casually, laughing too loudly, and women pretending not to notice, but noticing everything.

I squeeze myself between two investment bros who smell like money and bad decisions. One of them shifts, clearly annoyed, but I don’t even look at him.

I tap the counter twice. “Whiskey. Neat,” I say, already leaning forward slightly. “And don’t even think about adding ice unless you want me to break the glass over your overpriced beard oil.”

The bartender looks up, surprised for half a second, then laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

Good answer.

I grab the glass the second it’s in front of me and take a sip.

No. Not a sip. I down it.

It burns immediately. Sharp and hot, sliding down my throat and settling heavy in my chest. I close my eyes for half a second, letting it hit. Letting it cover… whatever the hell just happened back there.

Good. That’s better.

The second one, I take slower. This time I actually taste it. It’s smoother, warmer, spreading through me in a way that feels… steadier. Or maybe just numbing.

Either works.

“Easy there,” one of the guys next to me says, amused. “Rough night?”

I glance at him, then look away just as quickly. “You have no idea,” I mutter.

He laughs like I just said something charming.

I don’t stay. I don’t want to think. That’s the problem. The second I stand still, my brain starts replaying everything. His voice. His hands. The way he said my name like it meant something.

No. Absolutely not.

So I move.

The dance floor is already packed. Lights flashing, music loud enough to drown out thoughts if you let it. I step in without thinking too much about it.

And then... I dance.

Not the sexy, slow, look-at-me kind. No, this is wild. Free.

My hair sticks slightly to my neck, then flies back as I move. My heels hit the floor harder than they should, slightly off-beat at first before I find the rhythm. My arms go up, not elegantly, just… free. Like I’m shaking something off.

Everything.

Every stupid headline. Every person who thinks they know me. Every comment about how I’m just another rich girl playing dress-up with a career. Every man who thought I’d be easy to figure out.

I spin too fast at one point and nearly crash into someone.

“Oh shit, sorry,” I laugh, grabbing their shoulder to steady myself.

They grin. “You’re good.”

Am I?

I don’t even answer that. I just keep moving.

That’s when I catch his eyes.

A stranger.

Dark curls, slightly messy like he didn’t try too hard. Sharp jaw. Those eyes… warm, brown, the kind you could get lost in if you were bored enough.

He’s already looking at me.

I smirk.

He steps closer, not hesitant, not overly confident either. Just enough. His hand finds my waist like it’s a natural place for it to be, and for once, I don’t overthink it.

We move together. Not perfectly. Definitely not gracefully. I almost step on his shoe at one point and laugh under my breath.

“Careful,” he says, amused.

“Blame the heels,” I shoot back.

“Sure. I believe that.”

I don’t.

But I don’t care.

The music pulses around us, loud and heavy, vibrating through my body. His hand shifts slightly at my waist, guiding, steadying, and I let him. Just for now.

It’s easy. Too easy.

And when his face dips closer, when his lips brush mine, I don’t stop him.

Why would I?

We kiss. It’s fast. Heated. Not deep enough to mean anything, not soft enough to pretend it does.

It tastes like distraction. Like rebellion. Like something I’ll pretend didn’t happen tomorrow morning.

Exactly what I need. Exactly what I shouldn’t want.

For a second, it works. It actually works. My head clears. My chest feels lighter. Like I’ve successfully pushed everything else away.

Then.... my head starts to pound.

Not the good kind of dizzy. Not the kind that comes with excitement or adrenaline.

This is worse.

Too much noise. Too many thoughts trying to come back all at once. Not enough water. Definitely not enough food. My body is basically protesting everything I’ve done in the last hour.

Great timing.

I pull back, slightly breathless.

“Sorry,” I say, pressing my fingers briefly to my temple. “I need air.”

He nods, not offended. “Yeah sure.”

I turn quickly, maybe too quickly, because my heel slips just a little and I have to grab someone’s arm to stop myself from falling again.

I am actually unbelievable.

“Careful,” someone says.

“Working on it,” I mutter, already moving.

I push through the crowd, the music getting muffled with every step until I finally reach outside.

The night air slaps me across the face.

I inhale deeply, once, twice, trying to steady myself. My skin feels warm, my head still buzzing, my lips still… yeah. Not going there.

My phone vibrates inside my clutch, rattling loudly enough to annoy me.

“Okay, relax,” I mumble, digging it out.

I sigh, squinting slightly at the screen, already regretting every text I haven’t replied to this week.

Then I tap on my driver’s contact and bring the phone to my ear. He picks up almost immediately.

“Get the car ready from the back entrance,” I say. My voice sounds a little off. Lighter. Tired. “And bring mints. My mouth tastes like fucking regret.”

He chuckles softly. “Yes, ma’am.”

I hang up and lean back against the cool wall, closing my eyes for a second.

Just one second.

──── ᥫ᭡ ────

Inside the car, I collapse into the leather seat like it’s the first real thing I’ve touched all night.

I lean my head back, eyes closing for a second, the cool leather against my skin feeling way too good. My feet hurt. Like actually hurt. I kick my heels off without even looking where they land, one hitting the door with a soft thud.

“Sorry,” I mumble automatically.

The driver chuckles from the front. “Happens every time, ma’am.”

Yeah. It really does.

I let out a small breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and sink deeper into the seat. My body feels heavy now. Not in a bad way. Just… done.

My phone is still in my hand.

Ding.

I don’t open my eyes.

Ding.

I crack one eye open. Annoying.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

“What the fuck is wrong with y’all,” I mutter, squinting at the screen as it lights up my face in the dark car.

By the time we hit the first red light, my notifications look... insane. Like I accidentally broke the internet again without trying.

I scroll lazily, my thumb moving slower than usual.

•New collab opportunity from LuxeSkin.

•Are you available for a cover shoot next week?

•Your dance video is trending, Naira. Let’s talk paid partnership.

I pause on that one.

Dance video?

Oh. Right.

I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head slightly.

“So this is what works,” I murmur to myself. “Flex your moves, almost fall twice, and suddenly I’m a business strategy.”

Honestly, not surprised.

I tap open my calendar, squinting at the blur of dates and reminders. Everything feels slightly tilted. Not drunk exactly. Just… off. Like my brain is a second behind everything.

Another notification pops up.

Subject: Possible brand ambassadorship. Urgent.

I grin.

Of course it’s urgent. Everything is urgent when it’s me.

I open it, skim it for barely three seconds, then switch to messages and type back without overthinking.

Only if the paycheck’s as hot as I looked tonight. 💋

I stare at it for a second, then hit send. Perfect.

I drop my phone onto my lap and let my head fall back again, staring up at the ceiling of the car. The city lights slide past the window in soft blurs, smearing into each other like someone painted them in a hurry.

By the time we reach my building, I feel… calmer. Or maybe just tired enough to not care.

I pick up my heels from the floor, holding them by the straps as I push the door open before the driver can even get out.

“Goodnight,” I say quickly, already halfway out.

“Goodnight, ma’am.”

The marble steps feel colder than I expect under my bare feet. I wince slightly.

Okay. That was a bad idea.

I walk faster anyway, because turning back now would be embarrassing and also I’m too lazy.

The code goes in without thinking. Muscle memory. The door clicks open, house lights glow to life and the second I step inside, the silence hits me. Totally blissful.

I don’t bother turning on more lights or checking my reflection. I already know what I look like... ruined makeup, lipstick worn off, hair smelling like tequila and some stranger’s cologne. Sexy in a very “don’t talk to me until next week ” kind of way.

I throw my heels in the hallway. Toss my bag somewhere near the console table and walk straight to my bedroom, peeling off nothing, fixing nothing, just… done.

The bed looks like heaven.

I fall into it face-first, then roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling for half a second before I drag the sheets over me.

They’re cold and smell like my lavender linen spray. A luxury I paid for in cash and chaos.

I curl slightly into them, pulling the fabric closer like it’s going to hold me together or something.

Tonight was… a lot.

I danced. I laughed. I almost broke my ankle twice. I kissed someone I don’t care about. And someone I definitely shouldn’t.

I shift on the bed, trying to get comfortable, one leg tangled awkwardly in the sheets. Of course. I kick at them lightly until they settle.

“Perfect,” I mumble, even though it’s not.

But it’s enough.

My eyes start to close before I even realize it. Sleep comes fast, heavy, pulling me under before I can think too much, before anything can catch up to me.

And for a moment, it feels quiet.

But peace?

That bitch never stays.

The next morning hits me like karma in six-inch stilettos.

I wake up to the sound of my phone buzzing non-stop on the nightstand. Not one notification. Not two. It just keeps going, buzzing against the nightstand so aggressively it almost falls off.

“Okay, okay, I’m up,” I mumble, my voice rough, eyes still half shut.

My head throbs the second I try to move. Of course it does. Whiskey, bad decisions, zero water. Perfect combination.

I roll over slowly, squinting at the light from my phone like it personally offended me.

102 unread messages.

37 missed calls.

I blink.

What.

Instagram: 1.2M views •50K comments.

I sit up a little too fast and instantly regret it. My head pounds harder, and I press my fingers to my temple like that’s going to fix anything.

“What the... hell,” I whisper to no one, already opening the notifications like I’m about to emotionally sabotage myself.

I scroll. And scroll.

And then I see it.

A reel.

The video is grainy, slightly shaky, filmed from somewhere in the crowd. The lighting is terrible. The angle is worse.

But it’s very clearly me. On the dance floor. With him.

Lip-locked with that hot stranger like I owned him.

I watch it once, my face completely blank. Then again.

And then I let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Seriously?” I mutter, dropping back against the pillows. “That’s what went viral?”

Out of everything I did last night.

The dancing. The almost falling. The whole… everything.

This?

“Y’all are bored,” I add under my breath, tossing the phone onto the bed beside me.

For a second, I think that’s it. That it’s just one stupid clip and people will move on in, what, five minutes?

Then my phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

I grab it back, already annoyed, and this time I open the articles.

NAIRA KAPOOR’S LATE-NIGHT KISS GOES VIRAL.... FASHION ICON OR PARTY LIABILITY?

Rich, Reckless, and Unapologetic: Has Naira Finally Gone Too Far?

Is this the end of the Luxe Queen’s Brand Deals?

I stare at the screen.

“Oh,” I say slowly. “So that’s the kind of viral we’re doing today.”

Cool.

Cool cool cool.

I drag my hand down my face, then flop back dramatically, pulling the duvet over my head like that’s going to block reality.

Because let’s be real... I’ve been dragged for worse. Way worse.

I wore a sheer gown at Cannes once and people wrote thick pieces about morality like I personally destroyed society.

And now this.

A kiss. In a club. At a party where half of Mumbai’s elite were busy doing cocaine in the bathroom and filming thirst traps in the corridor which is ten times worse than what I did.

But no. Obviously I’m the headline.

I push the duvet down again and reach blindly for my phone.

I open WhatsApp.

Bad idea.

Rhea: Babe, you’re everywhere.

Aanya (PR Manager): Call me NOW.

Dad: We need to talk.

I freeze for half a second at that one. Yeah. That’s going to be fun.

Another message pops up from some random blue-tick brand account.

We’re reconsidering the campaign.

I snort.

“Of course you are,” I mutter, tossing the phone across the bed like it personally betrayed me.

It lands near my pillow, screen still lighting up with more messages.

Honestly, it’s almost impressive how fast people switch up.

Last night I was trending for my dress. Today I’m trending for a kiss. Tomorrow I’ll probably trend for breathing wrong.

I lay onto my back again, staring at the ceiling like it’s going to give me answers.

It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.

I reach for my sleep mask, dragging it over my eyes, blocking out the light, the phone, the entire world for a second.

“If this is my cancellation arc,” I mumble softly into the quiet room, “I’m not dealing with it before coffee.”

Or ever, ideally.

I pull the duvet up again, curling into it slightly, ignoring the buzzing phone, the missed calls, the messages piling up like consequences.

Because if I’m going down…I’m not doing it panicking. I’m doing it in silk sheets. With smudged mascara.

And exactly zero energy to give a fuck right now.

The sleep mask doesn’t stay on for long.

I’m barely ten minutes into pretending I don’t exist when the front door slams open so loudly it actually makes me flinch under the covers. Like… physically flinch. My heart jumps, and for a second I just lie there, staring into the darkness behind the mask, hoping maybe I imagined it.

I didn’t.

Heavy footsteps echo through the marble-floored hallway... fast, furious, and all too familiar.

Oh god.

I don’t even lift the mask. I just groan into my pillow, dragging it over my head like that’s going to block out reality.

“No. No, no, no,” I mumble. “Please don’t be him. Anyone but him.”

“Naira, get your ass down here right now!”

Yeah. Him.

My dad’s voice booms through the flat like he’s announcing the end of the world. Great. Dad’s home. And he’s yelling in full desi-dad surround sound.

I squeeze my eyes shut even harder.

“Maybe if I stay still, he’ll think I’m dead,” I whisper into the pillow.

Another loud step. Something rattles in the living room.

Yeah, that’s not going to work.

I drag the sleep mask up slowly, blinking against the sunlight flooding in through the windows. It hits my eyes too fast and I immediately regret opening them.

“Why is it so bright,” I groan, pressing my palm over my face.

My head still hurts. My body feels like it’s been run over. My brain is already replaying things I don’t want to replay. And now this.

I sit up, hair falling into my face like it also gave up on life, and consider my options.

Option one. Ignore him.

Option two. Pretend I’m still asleep.

Option three. Accept my fate and go get yelled at like a functioning adult.

Another stomp echoes.

Chandelier. I swear the chandelier just shook.

Yeah. Option three.

I swing my legs off the bed, immediately stepping on something sharp.

“Ah fuck!” I hiss, hopping on one foot.

My shoe. I glare at it like it personally attacked me, then kick it aside before I lose my balance again.

I don’t even bother fixing myself. What’s the point? I know what I look like. Hair a mess, makeup half gone, wearing an oversized Balenciaga tee that’s definitely not meant to be worn like this.

I shuffle out barefoot, one hand dragging through my hair, the other holding onto the wall for balance because apparently walking is difficult today.

By the time I reach the living room, I’m fully awake. Not by choice.

He’s standing right in the center of the living room like he owns gravity itself, suit still sharp from God-knows-what power meeting he just walked out of, but his expression?

Yeah. That’s not business anger.

That’s personal.

“Dad, please tell me this isn’t about the reel,” I say before he can start, flopping onto the velvet couch with dramatic flair. “Because if it is, I swear to God—”

“You kissed a married man!” he roars, throwing his phone on the coffee table.

The screen’s still lit up with a paused video of me... in a dimly lit corner, wrapped around Aarav in that stupid dim corner like the world didn’t exist.

I blink. Once. Twice. Fucking thrice. My brain takes a second to process.

“Excuse me?” I say slowly, sitting up properly now, the blood draining from my face but my voice staying dry as ever. “He’s... what ?”

“Married, Naira!” he snaps, voice sharper now. “Married. As in, wife-at-home, ring-on-his-finger married.”

Something drops in my stomach. Hard. But I don’t let it show. I swallow it down fast, pushing out a scoff instead.

“No, no. That’s not…” I shake my head, already feeling something twist inside me. “That can’t be true. That guy—Aarav— he didn’t say...”

The second I say his name, Dad glares at me like I’ve personally embarrassed our entire bloodline.

“He didn’t say anything, did he?” he says, almost cold now. “You didn’t ask either because You were too busy playing seductress to ask the basic damn question.”

I wince slightly.

“Okay, that was rude,” I mutter, even though it lands because… yeah. That stings.

I lean forward and grab his phone before he can stop me, because clearly mine’s having a meltdown. I scroll through the news alerts, headlines, and those goddamn reels.

It’s literally everywhere.

NAIRA KAPOOR SPOTTED LOCKING LIPS WITH AARAV KHURANA, THE MARRIED CEO OF KHURANA GROUP.

SCANDAL AT SURAJ MAHAL: NAIRA KAPOOR AND THE BILLIONAIRE BAD HUSBAND.

MARRIED AND MESSY: THE KISS THAT’S GOT MUMBAI’S ELITE BUZZING.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck.

I drop the phone back onto the table like it burned me.

He’s married.

The thought hits again, harder this time.

The man who backed me into a shadowy corner like he owned the damn night. The man who kissed me like I was his sin and salvation wrapped into one dangerous girl in a black backless dress.

Aarav Khurana. And he’s anything but married.

I let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Wow,” I say, leaning back slightly. “That’s… great. Love that for me.”

Dad is still watching me, waiting for a reaction. Guilt. Panic. Something.

But that’s not what comes. It’s not guilt. It’s not even embarrassment.

It’s anger.

Because I didn’t know. Because he didn’t tell me. Because now it looks like I’m the villain in a story I didn’t even agree to be part of.

My jaw tightens.

“You should’ve checked, Naira,” Dad snaps, pacing like the marble floor personally offended him. “Do you have any idea what this looks like? Sponsors are backing out. Brands are calling. Your face is everywhere next to a man who has a bloody wife.”

His voice doesn’t even sound like his normal angry voice. It’s tighter. Controlled. Which is somehow worse.

“I didn’t know, Dad!” I snap back, pushing myself up from the couch a little too fast. My head spins for half a second and I have to steady myself on the armrest before I fall flat on my face in the middle of this crisis.

“I didn’t know,” I repeat, slower this time, like saying it properly will make it more believable. “He didn’t tell me. I didn’t exactly stop mid-kiss and ask for his marital status, okay?”

He stops pacing and looks at me like I just proved his point.

“Exactly,” he says. “That is the problem.”

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my already messy hair.

“And anyway,” I continue, bitter now, sarcasm dripping from my words, “he’s the one who kissed me, remember? Or are we doing that thing again where a grown man makes dumb dick decisions and somehow it’s still my fault?”

“Watch your language,” he says immediately, voice dropping. That warning tone. The one that usually works.

It doesn’t today.

“The world is watching you right now,” he adds, gesturing vaguely, like the walls themselves are recording me. “The media is eating this up. And you’re trending... for the wrong reasons.”

I follow his hand toward the TV.

Big mistake.

My face is right there. Of course it is. Paused mid-video, next to Aarav’s smug-ass face like we’re some kind of headline couple.

His hand is on my waist. My head is tilted. My lips slightly parted. The whole thing looks staged. Sleazy. Intimate in the worst way.

I feel my jaw tighten as I stare at it.

“He has a wife,” I murmur, mostly to myself now. The words feel heavier the more I say them. “He has a wife and he still…”

I fall silent. Because suddenly, my brain decides to replay everything. The way he looked at me. That quiet confidence. That small pause before he touched me, like he knew exactly what he was about to do. Like it wasn’t impulsive.

Like it was a choice.

My stomach twists.

He chose that. He chose me.

And now I’m the one standing here, looking like a scandal.

I snatch my phone from the armrest, ignoring the messages and missed calls, and pull up the trending section. Most reels are of me and him in that infamous corner, half-lit and too close. But a few clips from the dance floor surface too.... the ones with the other guy. The one I twirled with. Who smiled at me like I was magic, not scandal.

Too bad I don’t even know his name.

I let out a breath, dropping my phone onto my lap.

Great. Now I’ve got two strangers in my life, one of whom is married, and the other? Just a mystery with good rhythm.

I sigh, plopping back down on the couch.

“I can fix this,” I mumble, more to myself than Dad.

“Oh, really?” he says, crossing his arms. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that, Naira? Cry on camera? Apologize? Promise to behave?”

I make a face immediately.

“God, no,” I say. “I’m not that desperate.”

I lean forward, grabbing my bag from the side table and digging through it. Lipstick. Where is it. Why is my bag a black hole.

I finally find it, nearly dropping it when it slips from my fingers.

“Got you,” I mutter, catching it mid-air.

I twist it open and swipe it across my lips, not even bothering with a mirror. I’ve done this enough times to know where my face is.

The color is cherry red.

“If I’m going to be scandalized,” I say, pressing my lips together and wiping the edge with my thumb, “I might as well look good doing it.”

Dad just stares at me. Like he’s trying to decide if I’ve completely lost it.

Maybe I have.

My reflection catches faintly in the dark TV screen. Smudged eyes. Messy hair. Red lips too perfect for the rest of me.

I look… like myself. Just more exposed.

I lean back into the couch again, exhaling slowly.

So yeah... I kissed two strangers, one of them apparently comes with a wife, and now I became everyone’s morning gossip for ruining a marriage I didn’t even know existed.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Here is Chapter One, sweeties. And yea… Naira kissed trouble, walked into scandal, and still managed to put lipstick on before panicking. Very her.

She is just a girl, okay? A very chaotic, expensive, poor-decision-making girl. What’s life without a little mess? *winks*

See you in the next chapter… if the scandal doesn’t swallow her first.