Happy Dussehra ✨

-• back home •-

The evening at the Upper East Side of New York city is bathed in the sounds of sirens and bright colours of the twilight sky. Flashy blue and red lights spin on top of the emergency vehicles, multiple men and women dressed in uniforms file in and out of the luxurious residential building. Press swarms the front entrance, local public watches from the sidelines. The traffic grows heavier in the streets.

You wouldn't glance twice at the regular crimes happening in the city's poorest ghetto areas but a daylight murder in the playground of New York's elite? That will definitely make it to the headlines.

Yuvraaj checks his wrist watch. He was supposed to pick up Sara from the hotel at seven pm. It's already eight thirty. He should have left the hotel early instead of hitting the roads at the busy hours of the day.

As soon as the signal turns green, he's pressing the gas and tearing through the cars. His hands flex around the steering, impatience flowing through his body. His eyes glimpse the hint of ink peeking out of his folded sleeves and he tugs it down.

It's not that he hates the ink carved on his skin. He still remembers why he got it. Being born as a royal, and assuming the role of a crown prince and heir of an empire from the day he started to speak, then being thrust with the responsibilities of his six siblings at the age of sixteen, there was nothing in his life that he chose for himself.

Losing music had made him bitter towards the world. The one thing that made him feel in control of his life was snatched away from him. As if his dreams, his choices, his decisions never mattered. He wanted that sliver of control over his life back. It was a decision made on a whim, slightly drunk, but on his eighteenth birthday he had found himself laying on his stomach in front of an unsung but talented tattoo artist in the suburbs of Mumbai city, asking the man to treat his body like a canvas and just give him pain to remember. The man didn't disappoint. He used a side of his back, shoulder, down to the forearm of his right arm, and drew skulls screaming and thrashing in the throes of flames, engulfed forever.

It was probably then he found out he was attracted to men too. He remembers the indescribable urge he felt to kiss the life out of that man after he saw the art on his body. He was turned on as hell. But like any other closeted, internally homophobic man in India, he denied his truth and tossed a wad of cash on the table, swinging his jacket on his shoulder before walking away.

That side of his life he has always left unexplored. He's in terms with his sexuality much better now, and is aware of his reality, but he still has no courage to go out and scream it to the world. Telling Rudra came naturally, Sara realised it on her own, he didn't admit it exclusively but knowing that two people know is kind of reassuring. And he's comfortable in his space. He might have been attracted to multiple men and women in his life, but he has only ever found salvation and sin in one, and that luckily happens to be a woman. He doesn't want to think beyond that.

His attention skims over to his left hearing the sound of sirens across the roads. The car slows down, he squints at the building in front of him.

Isn't that where Shivam Khatri lives?

Then he looks to his left, realisation dawning in when he takes in the name of the hotel; Hotel Astoria.

Does that mean-

His head snaps to the entrance of the building, lips parting in surprise when he sees the officers carrying out a body covered in a white duet. Hearing horns blare behind him, he quickly tears his gaze off the scene and drives inside the hotel premises. He finds her standing at the top of the staircase outside the hotel doors.

Sara lifts her head noticing a flash of familiar car in her peripheral vision. Dressed in a glamourous feather trimmed white jumpsuit, her hair tied up in a low pony that releases a few young strands to frame her face, she lets a smile enhance her already perfect features. Her white pumps click off the marble stairs as she reaches down to open the door for herself. Elegantly sliding in, her purse rests on her lap before she reaches for the seatbelt.

"Your stuff?"

"What stuff?" She looks up at him.

He tries not to stare at her luscious lips. "Your camera and laptop?"

She shrugs. "Didn't need them anymore so I sold them."

"That fast?" He frowns.

"They were already listed for reselling. I just met the guy and gave it to him."

He pulls the black Maserati off the porch and drives out of the main gates. His attention goes back to the building across the road. The crowd has started to thin out now. He glances at her to check for her attention. She's busy looking at her phone. There are words are on the tip of his tongue but he doesn't comment, looking ahead instead.

"Is it okay if I play some music? It's too quiet." She asks.

He nods in agreement.

Sara connects her phone to the player and presses on a random song from the recommended playlist. A. Rahman's Mayya vibrates through the speakers, the sexy, slow, pulsing beats eliminate the void of silence in the car. She reclines her seat back, drops her head on the headrest and slips her feet out of the pumps, dropping them on the dashboard, unbothered when the pants slide down to reveal her toned flesh. Her toes sway to the music, eyes glued to the window.

Yuvraaj inhales sharply.

Everything about this moment was testing his patience. Her secrecy, the languid, cocky smile on her face, her relaxed posture, the dark, enigmatic energy that she exudes, there's something so mysterious and confusing about this woman, it convinces you that unraveling her would salvage your tormented, trapped soul.

He tries not to look at her legs. Especially when she glides the tip of her toes across the flesh of her ankle, up to her shin, then down again, tapping the ends of her toes together, like she has transcended into a world of her own with the music, not in the car with him anymore, but somewhere alone, dancing, teasing every pair of eyes peeking at her through their worlds, proud and bold because they can only see her but never touch.

His fingers tighten around the steering, knuckles bloodless and white. He shifts in his seat, subtly adjusting his pants, flexing his jaw muscles, working on the stiffness of his neck by cracking it to the sides. Then he chances a glance back at her legs and almost growls in frustration. She has the end of her pants clinched between her toes, dragging them up and down, stretching and bending her knee agonisingly slow.

The fact that she is this happy and relaxed after practically murdering someone has to be the most deranged thing he has ever witnessed, and he's not far behind because his skin tingles all over. He wants to kiss her, strip her off and fuck her right at this instant. Her nonchalance towards someone's death is sick, and he's sicker to find it extremely hot.

"You're happy," he comments, maybe a conversation will distract him from his unholy thoughts.

"Happiest," she giggles.

He looks at the woman with intrigue. She is acting strange.

"Are you drunk?"

"I had a few glasses of champagne at the hotel bar, but that's it." Her hand reaches for his bicep, trails down to where his folded sleeves reveal his tattoo. Yup, definitely drunk.

At the next intersection, he takes the route back to the hotel. He wasn't taking her to a restaurant in this condition.

Sara frowns when the car stops at the entrance of their hotel. She steps out, thanking the concierge who opens the door for her. As soon as Yuvraaj comes around the hood of the car, she loops her arm around his. He looks down at her in evident surprise. She bites her lower lip and flutters her lashes at him. "Are you going to fuck me tonight? Is that why we're skipping dinner?"

His breathing stops, backtracks, then puffs out in a gust of exhale. "You're really drunk," he notices.

She stands back straight and drags the man inside the hotel. In the elevator, she backs him up against the wall, he plasters his arms straight, unmoving, unflinching as she looks up at him with lust ladened gaze.

He knows there's fire still crackling between them beneath the surface. But he refuses acknowledging it in her inebriated state, because that'd give her a chance to blame it all on alcohol the next morning, and he needs this woman in senses when he fucks her senseless. He needs her with her forgiveness, he needs her without any guilt, he needs her unapologetically, all to himself without any way out.

"You had so much to say on the phone call. Where's that man now?"

He looks away, clenching his hand around the metal bar, keeping his eyes on the numbers ascending the floors.

"We can treat each other as strangers tonight. No strings attached. Take the opportunity. You might not get it in the future." She lays the bait.

He laughs softly, looking down at the woman in amusement, with hunger. His fingers claim her chin, he lifts her gaze to his. "Little rebel, you're well too aware of my nature, do you really think you're putting out the fire between us within one night?" The pad of his thumb tugs at her bottom lip, he glides it gently across the plump, pillowy flesh. "You'll be fuelling it, and you're not ready for it yet."

She backs away, shrugging innocently, resting her hands around the bar adjacent to him, looking at him with hooded gaze. "We go back home tomorrow. All that started in the flight on our way here, ends tomorrow in the same flight on our way back home." She declares.

"That's a sweet misunderstanding. I'll advise you to not foster it though."

She bites her lower lip, dropping her gaze to his feet, climbing up slowly, her raunchy, delicious thoughts focusing on how sexily the clothes hug this man's broad, muscled figure, as if stitched directly to his body, made solely for him.

"Stop." He warns.

She smiles tauntingly, "I'm trying," and throws his words right back at his face.

His patience snaps with a growl. The distance between them erases in a flash. Their lips crash with vigour, sparks fly everywhere. He has no idea who moved first, he's assuming it to be him, but the force she met him with is making him second guess his assumption. He pins the woman to the wall, the metal box almost rattles, his lips come down on hers with a crushing power, as if he's intending to swallow the woman whole and keep her trapped beneath his heart, where it beats louder and louder in her presence. It might as well get the one it keeps beating so hard for.

The tempo of their lips follows the rhythm of a music, faster and faster, higher and higher, until it reaches a crescendo of their breaths, and dives down with breathless gasps, like one would feel falling from the edge of a cliff, down to the dark abyss, tearing through the strong, powerful winds, fearless to the ultimate end.

The elevator dings.

He tears himself off the woman. She looks up at him. Burning in her own desires for the man. Twenty years and he still feels incomparable. No other man can do it like him, no other man can own her like him.

He hoists the woman on his shoulder upside down and storms out of the elevator once it opens. She yelps. Her toes curl in excitement. The alcohol had already gotten to her head, the blood follows now. She feels heady, high, and turned on.

She's tossed on the bed carelessly. A breathy laugh bursts through her throat. He was right. She likes it when he manhandles her in the bed. Her head lifts off the bed, she looks at the man invitingly, her hand slowly rising to beckon him closer.

To her disbelief, he takes a step back. "Good night, Sara." He turns around and walks out of the bedroom.

Humiliated at the rejection, she throws a pillow at the man. But it hits the door. "Fuck you!"

"Soon." He calls back.

She turns to her right and pulls her knees closer, blocking out the demands of her body by burying her face in the pillow. Sleep comes to her well past midnight.

The next morning, until the time of their check out, she ignores him completely. To hide her swollen, sleep deprived eyes, she puts on her sunglasses and struts out of the bedroom in a tailored, custom made three piece white suit. The double breasted white jacket draped over her shoulders loosely. Yuvraaj stares at the woman above the rim of his coffee cup from behind the kitchen counter. She drags her stuff to the middle of the living room before sitting down to watch the television. Shivam Khatri's news is all over the headlines. She listens to them patiently with her resting face, not an emotion defying her.

"Staring at me won't get you ready for the departure." She remarks.

He chuckles and throws the remaining coffee in the sink, strolling inside the bedroom for a shower.

While he showers, she decides to call Tanvi. The young girl answers the call sobbing. Sara escapes to the deck to talk to the girl comfortably. They talk for over twenty minutes, and for the most part, Sara spends it reassuring the girl that everything is going to be fine. Tanvi expresses how proud she is of her mother for gearing up the courage to do what she did, but also fear for her mother ending up behind the bars. Sara reminds her who her father is and not to worry about anything else. Tanvi wishes her safe flight, admitting she's not in the right headspace to go out of the house right now, not that the paparazzi and press will even allow her to. Sara conveys her understanding of the young girl's predicament through sweet words and sugary endearments. In the end, they wish each other best and promise to remain in touch before hanging up.

Turning around, she steps back inside the living room, freezing in her position when she finds Yuvraaj come out of the bedroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips.

All of him on display.

The corded muscles.

The intricate veins.

The tattoo.

And his heavily muscled, buffed body.

She quickly looks away. Then looks back because how the fuck he's going to know with her sunglasses on?

"Sorry, I forgot my suitcase in the living room." He carries his stuff back inside the bedroom.

Sara relaxes, realising how wound up and tight her muscles had become in less than a minute of staring at him half-naked. Maybe she needs to get laid. She should have done that when she had the opportunity. It'll be difficult once she returns to her hectic life back in India.

Yuvraaj comes out half hour later, dressed his best in a fleecy black sweatshirt and black trousers. "Are we keeping up with the facade of being in a relationship in India as well?"

"For a few weeks, yes," she mumbles.

"Then?" He pauses hooking his wrist watch around.

"Then we break up." She shrugs.

"Why?"

"The typical. You wanted something different in life, I wanted something else. It wasn't working out as we expected. But we're glad we gave it another chance. We won't have any regrets in the long run."

He shakes his head in disappointment. "This is all so easy to you, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is." She accepts the criticism easily. "Shall we?" Hands gripping her two suitcases, she looks at the man expectantly.

"Yeah, after you, my lady." He motions sarcastically.

"Such a gentleman. I'm so lucky!" she smiles sweetly, placing a hand on her chest like she's touched. Then she turns around and saunters out of the room.

He rolls his eyes and follows her out.

He checks out of the hotel for them and has the chauffeur drive them to the airport. Once strapped to their seats in the jet, Yuvraaj allows the take off, and in less than two hours, they're in the air, leaving the New York city behind.

This time, she doesn't initiate any conversations.

He doesn't try either.

They have lunch and dinner in their own company, then he dives into work and she sleeps for the rest of the flight duration.

Upon landing in India, he finds his secretary standing next to the car waiting for him, while his guards lug the massive suitcases to the trunk.

"Good trip?"

He lifts his shoulders casually. "Not boring."

Her eyes drift to Sara walking down the stairs behind him before she looks at him playfully. "That's it?" She smirks.

He chuckles softly and opens the door of the backseat, sliding inside. She opens the door for Sara. Thanking the woman, Sara sits in and closes the door, waiting as Zoya takes her seat on the passenger end.

The quiet drive is pierced by Sara's question, "How's your son, Zoya?"

The woman in question stiffens. "Great."

"How old is he now? Fourteen?"

"Fifteen."

"Sixteen," Yuvraaj corrects tersely.

Zoya swallows, hands clenched around her iPad.
"Right, sixteen."

"Still in the boarding school?"

Zoya nods with a strained attitude.

Yuvraaj glares at Sara, shaking his head to stop her from asking anything further.

"Still sensitive?" She mouths.

He nods softly.

She drops the topic and looks outside the window.

Yuvraaj drops her off at her apartment complex. The guards help her carry her stuff to her door before wishing her good night. Sara unlocks the door of her apartment and walks in, turning the lights on. Uncle Virat has been spending more and more days at his son's place, perhaps wanting to bond with him as much as he can. She's afraid one day Rudra will grow frustrated and demand the man out of their lives. He has lived like a lone wolf all his life, now suddenly he has a father and a half brother wanting to be a part of his life.

As she slips off her pumps, her bare feet thump over the wooden flooring, and toes hit something papery. It slides off father away. Sara crouches to pick up the envelope. Did her uncle drop it here accidentally? Opening the envelope, she takes out the content and her stomach drops into the pits of a new found anxiety.

Photos.

Several of them.

With the man she hired to stalk Karishma.

Then of Karishma's love affair that he shot for her.

One from the time when he delivered the camera to her.

And the last one, of the man himself, bound to the chair, bloodied and bruised. A gasp escapes her mouth. She flips the photo around and reads the words scrawled on it with red ink.