Arnav's POV •
The festival wound down slowly, but Arnav's mind did not.
Even when the organizers finally pulled him to the main stage for obligatory handshakes and photographs, his thoughts were still tangled around a single image—her hair lit by sunlight, her laughter spilling into the air like it belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.
By the time the formalities ended, the sun had dipped low behind the trees. Lanterns flickered on.
Crowds thinned.
Arnav should have left.
He had a schedule, a company, a life controlled to the minute.
But he found himself doing something he had never done in his entire career.
He dismissed the drivers.
Dismissed security.
Told Aman, "I'll go alone."
And he walked.
Not toward the exit.
Not toward his next meeting.
But toward the direction she had gone.
He didn't analyze it.
Didn't rationalize it.
He simply followed an invisible pull he didn't want to name.
Two streets down, the festival noise faded into evening quiet.
Cafés and boutique shops lined the stretch, warm yellow lights spilling over pavement.
Arnav slowed when he reached the small café Aman had mentioned earlier.
She was there.
Khushi stood inside behind the counter, talking animatedly to one of the other girls.
Her hands moved when she spoke—expressive, fluttery—and she laughed again, that same bright sound that had first cut into him like a blade dipped in honey.
Arnav exhaled once, quietly, his shoulders tense.
He stood across the street, close enough to see her clearly but far enough not to be noticed.
It felt strange—him, Arnav Singh Raizada, owner of half the city's skyline, reduced to a silent observer in the shadows.
But he didn't move.
Didn't want to.
Every few seconds she pushed loose strands of hair behind her ear.
Every few minutes she leaned forward to speak to a customer, smiling with genuine interest instead of forced politeness.
She wiped a table, nearly tripped over a stool, laughed at herself, and the staff laughed with her.
A warmth spread in his chest—unexpected, unwelcome, and wholly unmanageable.
He had never realized someone could be sunshine in motion.
He had also never realized something soft could make him feel this… possessive.
A group of college students entered, loud and energetic.
One of the boys said something to Khushi that made her laugh again.
Arnav's fingers curled slowly into fists.
He didn't like that.
Didn't like him.
Didn't like the way the boy smiled as though he deserved her attention.
Arnav shifted closer to the edge of the sidewalk, jaw tightening.
It was ridiculous.
He had no claim over her.
No reason to hate a stranger speaking to her.
No reason to feel this sharp, irrational spike of—
Her laughter floated out of the open window again.
The feeling hit harder.
He dragged a rough hand across his jaw, trying to steady breath that refused to cooperate.
He didn't understand this reaction. He wasn't used to emotions he couldn't control.
Obsession was not a territory he had ever allowed himself to enter.
But he was already inside it.
Khushi wiped down the counter, humming under her breath. She looked happy.
Peaceful. Entirely unaware that a man she had never spoken to was memorizing the curve of her smile and the small things she did when she thought no one was looking.
Her hand brushed her cheek where a streak of yellow color still clung to her skin from the festival.
She didn't notice it. Arnav did. He noticed everything.
A breeze pushed open the café's glass door slightly, and Khushi stepped outside to place a "closing soon" board.
The wind lifted her dupatta again—less dramatically than before, but enough to reveal the back of her shoulder.
Arnav's breath caught.
Not in desire.
In something dangerously close to concern.
She deserved to move freely without the world seeing her like that.
Without careless eyes lingering where they shouldn't.
Without cheap admiration thrown her way like loose change.
She tucked the fabric back clumsily but it slid again.
And again.
Arnav exhaled slowly, forcing himself not to cross the street.
Not yet.
Something inside him began stitching a plan, thread by thread, instinctively, effortlessly.
A plan that would ensure she never stood outside like this without protection.
That she never worked in a place where boys laughed too loudly in her direction.
That she never had to worry about safety or finances or stability.
He wanted—
He cut off the thought.
This was getting dangerous.
He stepped into the shadowed side street, leaning on the hood of a car, half cloaked in darkness but with a perfect view of her.
He watched as she locked the side storage cabinet, teased the barista inside the window, and tied her hair up in a loose bun that immediately slipped.
Her fingers fumbled with the hair tie.
She scrunched her nose in frustration.
Arnav felt something inside him loosen unexpectedly.
He didn't smile—
it wasn't something he did—
but the edges of his tension shifted.
A kitten wandered near the café entrance.
Khushi gasped and knelt instantly, letting the little creature climb onto her lap.
She stroked it gently, murmuring to it with a tenderness that made Arnav's chest burn.
Someone like her should not be struggling in a small café job.
She should not be tiring herself, carrying heavy trays, cleaning tables at night, or dealing with reckless customers.
She should not be working here at all.
And in that moment—
watching her laugh softly as the kitten nuzzled into her—
Arnav made a decision so quietly that even he didn't hear it out loud.
He would take her out of this life.
He would bring her into his world.
He would keep her safe.
Even if she never knew he was the one doing it.
The café lights dimmed.
Staff began cleaning and counting cash.
Khushi stepped back inside, placing the kitten gently on the ground, waving goodnight to it before closing the door.
Arnav remained where he was, unseen, unmoving.
He watched her tie the apron behind her waist.
He watched her gather her bag.
He watched her wipe the last table even though it didn't need wiping.
He watched her stretch slightly, back arching just enough to make his pulse throb with something dark and protective.
He watched her lock the café.
And when she stepped onto the street alone, he straightened instantly.
She shouldn't walk home alone at this hour.
She shouldn't navigate these lanes without protection.
She shouldn't be anywhere that made him feel this restless.
His hand twitched toward his phone.
He could tell Aman to send a car.
Discreetly.
From a distance.
She would never know.
But before he could act, her phone rang.
She answered with a cheerful, "Payal! I'm leaving now!"
He listened to her voice without meaning to.
"Don't worry, I'm walking the main road! Haan, haan, I ate! No, I'm not tired—just a little—okay fine, fine, I'll be home soon!"
She laughed again and hung up.
Arnav exhaled slowly.
His heartbeat steadied.
Her sister's call meant she wasn't completely alone.
Still, he followed.
Not closely.
Not obviously.
He maintained distance like a ghost—silent, deadly, invisible—but his senses were tuned entirely to her.
Khushi walked with a spring in her step, humming softly.
The evening breeze tangled her dupatta again and she fought with it, muttering under her breath.
She almost bumped into a man exiting a shop, apologized, smiled, and kept moving.
Arnav's jaw clenched at the man's lingering stare.
He stepped forward half a pace—ready to intervene—but Khushi was already walking away, oblivious.
She didn't know the city the way he did.
She didn't know its shadows, its predators, its dangers.
She didn't know someone was watching her.
Someone who wasn't supposed to.
Someone who couldn't stop.
---
A slight chill settled over the evening as she neared the bus stop.
A street vendor handed her a small sweet after she complimented his display.
She giggled at his joke and thanked him.
Arnav's fingers tightened around the car door handle where he stood parked in the dark.
She was too kind.
Too trusting.
Too open with strangers.
He didn't like that either.
"I'll get you out of this," he murmured under his breath.
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
He stilled.
His own voice sounded foreign to him—lower, rougher, weighted with a promise he hadn't consciously decided to make.
He should walk away.
He should go home.
He should erase this entire evening from his mind.
But he didn't.
He waited until Khushi boarded her bus safely.
Only when the bus pulled away did he finally step back, breathing out a long, controlled exhale.
His phone buzzed.
Aman: Reached home, sir?
Arnav typed back: Schedule meeting tomorrow. First thing.
We're buying that café.
He didn't add why.
He didn't have to.
As he slid into his car, the image of Khushi's sunlight-touched hair flickered behind his eyes like a brand that would not fade.
And in the quiet of the night, with the engine humming softly, he let the truth settle into the corners of his mind.
He was already changing.
Already unraveling.
Already wanting.
Khushi Kumari Gupta had no idea—but Arnav felt it with a terrifying, thrilling certainty.
This was the beginning of something he would not be able to walk away from.
Something he didn't want to.
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