Chapter-10

Chapter 10

The mansion’s night garden shimmered like a scene from a fevered dream. Brass candle stands flickered, oil lamps cast amber halos, and wooden torches flared in rhythm with the breeze, bathing everything in molten gold.

Shadows played across Aryaman’s face, sharpening the sculpt of his jaw, deepening the steel in his gaze. Dressed in a half-buttoned crimson shirt and sleek black jacket over tailored trousers, he radiated an effortless, masculine authority. Power didn’t just follow him—it obeyed him.

Ananya stepped into the glow like a flame come alive. Her high-slit red gown flowed around her legs with every step, revealing toned limbs and strappy heels that sparkled like provocation. The fabric clung to her curves, shifting like liquid fire.

Aryaman’s gaze flicked over her, pausing—just for a breath—before meeting her eyes again.

She smirked. “Like what you see?”

He raised a brow, lips curving. “Not bad.”

She scoffed. “Not bad? That’s all?”

His gaze dipped again, this time slow and deliberate. “Fine. You look sexy.”

He said it too calmly. Too knowingly.

The shoot began.

Photographers ushered them into poses—sultry, curated, tantalizing. They moved like seasoned performers, their bodies brushing, faces grazing, hands settling into practiced intimacy. It was a well-oiled illusion of heat.

One pose had Aryaman behind her, palm spread across her waist, the other hand grazing her bare shoulder. He leaned in—close enough to whisper, but never speaking.

In another, he lifted her easily, arms locked around her thighs, their bodies flush. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her spine arched, lips parted. The camera caught it all—the breathless tension, the suggestion of something deeper.

And then, the almost kiss. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling, lips a heartbeat apart. His fingers slid to the small of her back, drawing her closer. Her nails skimmed his jaw, eyes dark with unspoken promise. The air between them pulsed.

Each frame sold desire.

And the heat between them? Almost believable.

Meanwhile, Krishna moved silently through the crew, offering ginger lime water with a careful smile. Her eyes widened with every glimpse of Aryaman and Ananya’s poses—half fascination, half second-hand embarrassment.

Pinkesh Uncle caught her expression and chuckled. “Bitiya, city people are a little bolder. This is nothing for them.”

Krishna whispered, aghast, “This is nothing?”

Pinkesh launched into stories of steamier Mumbai shoots—like the time he faked an emergency call to escape a particularly risqué scene. Krishna tried to contain her laughter but snorted, hand flying to her mouth, eyes crinkling with delight.

Aryaman, mid-pose, noticed her.

She was laughing—not her usual composed, caretaker smile, but something softer. Unfiltered. Her nose scrunched, her eyes gleamed. She tried to hold it in but failed miserably.

A ghost of amusement flickered across Aryaman’s lips.

“Aryaman?”

He blinked. Ananya was staring.

“You seem distracted,” she said coolly. “Bored already?”

He smoothed his features. “Just curious what they’re laughing about.”

She wasn’t convinced. But she let it go.

Later, they took a break. Ananya sipped her wine slowly, the tight knot in her chest loosening with each swallow. She’d overreacted. Aryaman was too rational to fall for something so… impractical as love. He wasn’t the emotional kind. He never had been.

Even during their most intimate nights, she could feel the distance. But he was skilled. Attentive. He knew how to touch, how to please. That was enough. Love was not the foundation of their future. Strategy was.

This marriage mattered—for her business, for his ambitions. He needed her vote as much as she needed his investment.

And Krishna? An ordinary village girl? She had no place in their world.

Across the lawn, Aryaman nursed his whisky, half-listening to the chatter around him.

Ananya was perfect—beautiful, poised, educated. Stanford to Harvard. Their lives synced like a well-planned merger. Same taste in cars, wine, and books. No chaos. No surprises.

He swirled his peg, watching the amber liquid dance in the glass. He wasn’t madly in love with Ananya, but that didn’t matter. Their relationship was built on compatibility, mutual pleasure, and social standing. That was enough.

He sipped again.

Krishna, though… He barely knew her. She was the event management company's accountant. A B.Com graduate. Not just a helper, as he learned from his mother recently. But still—small town, modest dreams.

Too quiet. Too proper.

She even called him Aryaman-sir.

He smirked at the memory.

There was nothing there.

And yet…

His gaze landed on her out of habit, like one glancing out a window during a long drive—unthinking, unattached, yet reluctant to look away too quickly.

She was straightening a candle stand nearly her height, her dupatta tucked securely, unaware of his gaze. He observed her, not with hunger, but with… curiosity.

Her body, he’d once told Ananya during the dance practice, “needed work.”

But now… maybe he was hasty.

Her face first: wide, unguarded eyes. A small, round nose. And her lips—not sculpted, but when she smiled…

That damn smile.

It shifted her entire face—made it warm, open, almost familiar. Especially

tonight, under lantern light, it was… distracting.

She laughed again at something Pinkesh said. Aryaman watched her lean toward the candle, tiptoeing to adjust the flame. Her waist moved beneath her kurta—soft, subtle. Not carved, but curved.

Something a man could hold.

His jaw clenched.

What the hell was he thinking?

He looked away, fingers tightening around his glass.

Across the lawn, the crew began resetting for the final shots.

He rose.

Ananya smoothed her gown. “I was being ridiculous, wasn’t I?”

Aryaman smiled, all surface. “You? Never.”

She rolled her eyes. “Seriously. I overreacted about Krishna.”

“You did.”

She glared. “You could at least pretend to disagree.”

“Fine,” he said, chuckling. “To be fair, maybe I looked unnecessarily curious. But trust me—I’m not attracted to Krishna.”

Observation is not attraction.

Ananya seemed satisfied. She leaned in and kissed him. He kissed her back, hands moving over her like clockwork—efficient, practiced. His lips responded. His body moved. But his mind wandered to the pending shipment email.

It wasn’t a distraction. It was detachment.

Ananya melted into him, sighing against his mouth. He held her, responded on cue, a lover rehearsing lines from a well-worn play.

When they broke apart, her cheeks were flushed. “You always know how to make me feel better.”

He nodded absently.

I should send that email first thing after this shoot.

They posed for the final shot.

And then—a scream.

Aryaman turned just in time to see the tall candle stand crashing. It struck Krishna squarely.

Flames flared. Hot wax splashed over her arms and feet. Sharp metal sliced skin.

The world blurred.

He ran.

“Krishna!”

He dropped to his knees beside her. “Are you okay? Krishna—look at me!”

She winced, voice thin. “I’m fine, Aryaman-sir.”

“No, you’re not. You’re bleeding—damn it!”

“I really am—”

“Enough.”

Pinkesh jumped in. “Aryaman-sir, she’s staying in the staff quarters tonight. With her brother, Mohan—”

“With Mohan?” Aryaman echoed, like snapping out of a trance.

Krishna quickly added, “He would’ve been alone, so"

“Leela Ma'am gave us permission,” Pinkesh immediately clarified.

Aryaman exhaled, steadying. Then, without thinking, he scooped her into his arms.

“Ah! Aryaman-sir!"

“Shut up, Krishna.”