Kiaan had barely stepped foot inside the Chandra mansion when his mother intercepted him at the door.
"There you are," she snapped, hands on her hips. "You vanish for days and then just show up like this? What were you thinking, Kiaan? We have fittings! Tailors have been waiting!"
"I told you, I had to make a quick trip to Jaipur for business," Kiaan said calmly, too calmly.
"You could've done that after the shoot! It's your engagement, not a work trip!"
Before he could get another word in, she grabbed him by the wrist and practically hauled him down the hall.
"Now come! The tailor has been sitting for an hour!"
Inside the dressing room, the tailor and his assistants were laying out rows of intricately designed sherwanis. Kiaan stood in front of the mirror as fabric after fabric was draped over his shoulder, patterns discussed, colors debated.
Every few minutes, someone would ask him, "Do you like this one, sir?" "This cut, sir?" "Do you prefer the ivory or the gold thread?"
Every time, his answer was the same: "Whatever you think looks good."
He didn't care. His mind was still at the farmhouse.With Kavi.
His eyes stared ahead at his reflection, but all he saw was Kavi's bare feet dancing on the tiled floor, the little curl in his smile, the way his breath hitched whenever Kiaan got too close.
His mother looked at him from the doorway, squinting. "You look like the one getting forced into this wedding."
He didn't answer. Just nodded to the tailor and muttered, "Let's get this over with."
Meanwhile, in the Oberoi mansion, Kavi sat curled up on his bed, his phone resting on his chest. He finally gathered enough courage and tapped Pinky's contact. She answered after the first ring.
"Oh my God, finally! You absolute piece of shit—where the hell have you been?!"
Kavi winced. "Pinky…"
"No, no, don't 'Pinky' me like I'm some calm nun. What the fuck is wrong with you? I get it, you have issues, we all do. But I'm your person! If you can't talk to Alina or Roy, at least talk to me! Why do you think I'm here, huh? For the cute selfies? You ghost me for a whole damn week during your sister's engagement prep and then pop back in like it's fine?!"
"I'm sorry," he muttered, "I didn't mean to shut you out."
"You always say that," she snapped, "but then you do it again."
"I promise, I'll tell you everything. Just… after the shoot. I need time."
There was a pause. Then her voice softened slightly. "I'm still pissed, but fine. I'll wait. But if you keep treating me like I'm disposable again, I swear I'll un-brother you."
He laughed weakly. "Noted."
After the call, he texted the group chat with Alina and Roy. The retreat story held up well.
Alina messaged: I figured it was something deep. You looked like you needed space the last time we talked. I get it. Silent retreat sounds right.
Kavi felt a little less alone.But only a little.
Kiaan stood stiffly in front of the mirror as the tailor adjusted the collar of his sherwani. The man was mumbling about sleeve lengths and embroidery, but Kiaan wasn't listening.
He barely reacted when his mother re-entered the room, briefly scolding him again before stepping out to take a call.
The assistant held up a deep green fabric for approval. "Sir? This one?"
Kiaan nodded absently. "It's fine."
Then—buzz.
Kiaan's phone lit up on the dresser beside the mirror. A message from Kavi 💬.
He hadn't check his phone during the fittings, but this time, his gaze was drawn to it. The preview of the message was just an image.
He picked up the phone and tapped it open.
A photo filled the screen—Kiki, curled up on Kavi's lap, eyes half-closed in bliss. She looked older. Chubbier. Her fur was fluffed out around her neck like a little lion. And her tiny paws were tucked in, resting on Kavi's arm.
Below the picture was a short message:
"Look, she's grown up. She looks just like you."
Kiaan stared at it for a moment. His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He didn't type anything. Didn't even "like" the photo.
But his expression softened.
"Sir?" the tailor prompted again.
Kiaan blinked, eyes returning to his reflection. He looked like a groom. A groom about to commit himself to a lie.
He locked the phone and shoved it back into his pocket.
"Let's just finish this," he said, voice low. "Quickly."
The tailor nodded and went back to pinning.
But for the rest of the fitting, all Kiaan could see was Kiki's little face… and the ghost of Kavi's smile in that photo.
Monday Morning – Outside the Studio
The sun was sharp, almost too bright for how Kavi felt inside. The car ride with Riya had been mostly quiet, her humming beside him as she scrolled through Pinterest inspiration boards.
They pulled up to the sleek photography studio. Riya squealed, "He's already here!" and jumped out before the driver had even come around. Kavi stepped out slower.
And there he was. Kiaan.
Leaning casually near the entrance, dressed in a crisp white shirt and beige trousers. Sunglasses pushed up on his head. Looking perfect. Looking fake. Just like he needed to.
Riya ran to him and threw her arms around his neck.
"Baby, I missed you so much," she said as she kissed his cheek.
Kiaan's arms wrapped around her just tight enough to be convincing. "I just had to rush back from Jaipur. Couldn't miss today."
Kavi stopped a few feet away, heart in his throat. Their eyes locked. A brief second too long.
Riya turned and beamed. "Baby, say hi to my baby brother," she said, proudly holding Kiaan's hand.
Kavi stepped forward, stretched out his hand. "Congratulations, bhai."
Kiaan took it.
Their palms pressed together — warmth and ache instantly crawling up both arms like poison.
"Thanks," Kiaan said, barely above a whisper.
Their hands lingered for a second too long. Then pulled away, fast, like it burned.
A studio assistant rushed over. "Miss Riya, the makeup room is ready!"
"Oh, perfect!" Riya grabbed her two bridesmaids and followed the assistant, calling over her shoulder, "Kavi, stay with Kiaan and help him with his look, please! I want my baby looking his best!"
Kavi didn't answer. He just walked with Kiaan toward the men's dressing section, feeling like a prisoner heading to his own emotional execution.