I sit side-saddle on Arjun's TVS Apache, a toned-down version of Romil's, but still enough to make me grip the seat a little tighter. Half-formed words hang in the air between us, never quite making it out, as if we both know better than to say them. But I can't shake the image of him earlier—the disappointed slump of his shoulders, the way understanding tugged at the corners of his mouth in a soft, pitying smile as he watched me close the gate and walk toward him. That look said more than any of the words we didn't speak.

We ride in silence, and I don't bother breaking it. By the time we reach The Lalit, it's five past eight. I step off the bike, waiting while Arjun parks. When he returns, I notice his tux for the first time—a curious blend of burgundy and rosewood, with a black lapel and a striped tie over a white shirt. He is sporting his short quiff with gel and wearing fake horn-rimmed glasses that sit comfortably on his tanned face.

Arjun walks next to me, eyes glued ahead, not once glancing my way, and with every step, the frustration simmers hotter beneath my skin. It takes everything in me to keep my expression neutral, especially when he hands the invite over to the doorman, all businesslike, as if I'm just some formality he's escorting inside. How can his opinion and demeanour change once I set one detail about me right in his head?

One correction, and he's already shifted away, cold and distant like I flipped a switch I wasn't meant to touch.

We step into the banquet hall, the glow of crystal chandeliers casting soft, golden light across a sea of round tables draped in white. The ceiling is intricate, almost intimidating in its grandeur, like something from an old movie set. Place cards rest at each place setting, an organized chaos of identities around every table. My heart quickens, scanning for one name—my name.

Before I can say anything, Arjun excuses himself with a brief nod and strides off toward a cluster of men in stiff suits and women in sleek dresses. I stand there, exposed and untethered, the cool air of air conditioning hitting my arms like icy pinpricks. I rub at my skin absentmindedly, goosebumps crawling up as I take in the elegant space. Everything feels surreal, polished, and perfect. Everything except me.

But what if there's no seat for me? My stomach drops as I glance around at the sea of expensive faces sipping on expensive champagne, my face contorting in silent dread. What happens if I don't have a seat? Do I just awkwardly stand in a corner like I am a crasher? No, that can't be it. Arjun showed the invite on his phone to the doorman who looked like he moonlights as a bouncer, so it's not like we're sneaking in. Does that mean there's a place card with my name on it somewhere?

My phone pings. I look down—Romil. Of course.

Romil: I'm drunk.

Then, another message pings.

Romil: Just by looking at you.
Romil: Please don't look my way, I'll pass out.

I laugh under my breath. My eyes search the people sitting in front of me, but I can't find him.

Romil: Why do you insist on doing the exact thing I just begged you not to?

Me: Where are you?

Suddenly, a raspy voice comes from right behind me, 'Behind you.'

The hairs on the back of my neck rise and I whip around. And there he is, smiling at me like I'm the happiest thing ever happened to him. I can't help it—I beam right back at him, as if all the awkwardness, all the "what-ifs" evaporate into thin air. It's ridiculous how much his stupid smile is working on me.

He's in a navy-blue tux over a crisp white shirt, the top two buttons undone, casually revealing just enough of his chest to show off two silver chains. One herringbone and one link. Despite the laid-back vibe, the beige pocket square is perfectly folded, like he's secretly a detail freak. His curls, of course, fall messily onto his forehead, the kind of effortlessly tousled look that makes me roll my eyes internally... and also sigh a little too loudly.

Because honestly, does he have to be this good-looking? It feels a bit unfair.

'Done checking me out?' he teases, his smirk growing.

I look away, bashful, 'Maybe.'

'Only maybe?' He steps closer, and I can feel the warmth of him, which is a little dangerous with the way my pulse picks up.

Before I can come up with anything remotely witty, the lights dim, and a deep voice echoes over the speakers, announcing the start of the charity auction. The crowd shifts, everyone making their way to their seats. Just as I'm about to stand there awkwardly, Romil grabs my hand and pulls me toward a table. Arjun's already seated, still carrying on with the charade of pretending he didn't come here with me.

I take the seat between the two of them, trying not to notice how Romil's hand lingers for a second longer than necessary. My eyes land on the little place card with my name on it, and before I know it, I'm snapping a photo. Because, of course, I need proof that this moment—me, at a fancy auction with my own name on a place card—actually happened.

The crowd's murmurs quiet down, and all attention shifts toward the stage where a woman in a bottle-green gown, who looks like she's just stepped off a red carpet, waves a perfectly manicured hand toward the first item being wheeled out. It's a painting—abstract, of course, because this is exactly the kind of place where people pretend to understand abstract art.

'I bet it goes for at least ten peti,' Romil whispers, leaning close enough that I can smell the faint scent of his cologne, something woodsy, warm, and sweet.

'Peti?' I whisper back.

'One peti is one lakh. One khokha is one crore. It's business jargon,' he explains.

'Ten lakhs for... squiggles?' I ask, suppressing a laugh as I catch sight of the painting. It's literally just a bunch of lines in varying shades of orange.

'Trust me, some billionaire out there is telling himself it means the passage of time or the beauty of imperfection,' he says, his lips dangerously close to my ear, making me shiver.

I turn toward him, a chuckle bubbling up, but it dies on my lips when our faces come so close that our lips almost brush. My breath hitches, and I suddenly forget what was funny in the first place.

As if on cue, the auctioneer's voice booms over the microphone, announcing the starting bid at seven lakhs, and we both pull back, awkwardly. Hands shoot up in the air almost instantly. Romil raises his eyebrows, giving me an 'I told you so' look.

The bid goes to a woman Arjun was talking to earlier. She stands, waving and blowing kisses to the crowd like she's just hit the jackpot, even though she's paying ten lakhs for something that looks suspiciously like Majnu Bhai's painting from the movie Welcome.

Next up, the second item rolls out—a sleek, framed black-and-white photograph of some distant city skyline at dusk. The auctioneer, with her same dramatic flair, announces, 'Two lakhs!' and my jaw drops just a little.

'Two lakhs?' I whisper. 'For a photo? I could take that on my phone.'

He chuckles softly beside me. 'Well, apparently this one is "art",' he says, using air quotes and making me stifle a laugh.

I glance around, noticing the polished crowd, people raising their bidding paddles without a second thought. There's a buzz of competition in the air, the rich battling each other with their wallets. I shift uncomfortably, reminded just how out of place I am here, surrounded by people who could probably spend two lakhs on a piece of toast if it was labelled 'artisan.'

Soon, the drinks are served, and Romil and I both decline in unison, as if just the mention of alcohol might curse us. We exchange a meaningful look and then we both face forward, pretending nothing happened.

On my other side, Arjun's jaw is clenched tight, but I don't bother asking why. I thought we were friends, but the second he realized I'm not cut from the same cloth as the rest of them, he shifted gears fast. Now, there's this tense air about him, like he's biting back a speech—one that's all about how he assumed wrong and now feels like I hoodwinked him into thinking I was someone I'm not. I purposely avoid looking in his direction.

The lights dim even further, and suddenly the woman in green is bathed in a spotlight, practically glowing. She steps forward to present a short film—one of those feel-good montages showing how the funds from last year's auction helped children in need. It starts rolling, soft piano music filling the room, but I can feel my eyelids getting heavier by the second. My stomach growls, reminding me that dinner hasn't even been served yet. Fantastic.

Just as I'm starting to wonder if it's rude to nap at a charity auction, my phone buzzes in my lap. I glance down and see Romil's name on the screen, even though he's sitting right beside me.

Romil: Wakey-wakey, methi paratha girl! It's not goodnight yet.

A second text pops up.

Romil: Wanna get out of here?

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to keep from smiling. Without turning towards him, I let my thumb hover over the screen for a second before I tap a single word: Yes 😊

*****

A/N

I love writing text messages more than the conversations. Do you love reading them?
Thanks for coming so far. 

Ps: I have a feeling that next chapter is gonna be so much fun

XOXO
Shailey