The upbeat music with drum tunes pulsed in my AirPods headset, my head moving in rhythm of it. Swaying left and right as I flipped the pancake like a trained chef I am.

No matter how much I've changed in the last few years, my taste in music never faded. I still listen to the rocky songs whether I'm in the gym or in a boring meeting.

Okay, let's cut the meeting part, I'm sincere in that department.

A smile touched my lips as the song changed, soft flute notes blending into romantic Bollywood lyrics.

It was a Bollywood song, and this week's anthem.

Because every week, Siya finds one song she likes and then plays it on loop—nonstop. If she connects with it, it becomes her personal anthem for seven days straight.

I noticed this habit when we first moved in. She was doing her skincare routine and some cheesy romantic number played on her tiny speaker.

It wasn’t even loud enough to reach the living room, but somehow, I still heard it. I wasn’t eavesdropping. I swear.

At first, I didn’t think much of it—until it played again. And again. Then a new song the following week.

I keep forgetting the names, but I think this one’s called Khoya Khoya. And I already know I’ll be hearing it all week.

Because I want to know why she smiles and blushes while listening to it. What do those lyrics mean to her? Why does she turn her gaze away whenever our eyes meet?

I want to know it all.

Heat rushed in my system as the memories of last night clouded my senses, consuming me once again in a timeless loop.

Remembering the way those enchanting words left her lips— the sweet, and dangerous to my heart confession echoed in my head.

The way she smiled, her face was glowing with a bright crimson hue, the gentle kiss on my cheek which sent shivers still lingered on my mind like a fleeting cloud.

Flipping the pancake again, I paused as I set my eyes on the— burnt pancake.

The underside was completely black. Crusty. Unappetizing. I inhaled deeply and leaned against the counter, staring at it.

I let out a chuckle as the realisation settled in. That’s how far gone I am in love now—so much so that I have no sense of my own surroundings. A person could kill me, and I still wouldn’t spare them a single ounce of attention.

If I'm thinking about Siya. That's how much she affects me.

And she didn't even know it yet.

I'm lost in a reverie of her confession since the second I woke up and found her clinging to my arm. Her hair was all over her face, and when I brushed it away, I couldn’t think straight.

I couldn’t think about anything—except the dream I had last night.

My grip on the counter tightens and I close my eyes shut, "I'm truly fucked up." I muttered, trying to calm my racing heart.

If a dream could make me like this then her real confession would destroy me.

Abruptly, I turn around when I hear some rustling, and witness an angel standing in-front of me— Messy bun. Fresh pajamas in pastel red, oh and a rosy-cheeked smile.

I raise my brows in surprise,"You're early, Mrs.Oberoi." I pointed it out, teasing her.

As she usually sleeps till 8 or 8:30 but today— I looked at my wristwatch— it was almost an hour early.

The blush on her cheeks deepened at my remark, she nodded in agreement.

There was something different about her, the flushed smile, rosy cheeks, and so much in happy mood.

She frowned looking at god knows what was beside me on the counter. A gasp escaped her, when she strolled towards me and took a good look at— oh, the burnt pancake.

"It was just a one time mistake, actually the pan was much more heated than I wanted and this happened." I tried to explain.

As if to inspect it curiously, she reached out to touch the pancake, but I stopped her midway. “It’s still hot. Don’t touch it.”

I took her hand away from the pan and placed it on my pounding heart. She’s the only one who can reach me there—can she feel my thumping heart?

Her fingers spread over my heart like a blooming flower, capturing every beat of my heart.

"What will you do now?" She asked, raising her brows in a taunting manner.

"Now, I'll make you your breakfast."

She clutched my shirt as I was about to turn around, jerking me to face her again."I— wait. Leave the pancakes, I want parathas. Aloo wale."

I stared at her for a moment, but when she tried to suppress a smile, I nodded. “Okay, Mrs. Oberoi, aur kuch hukum aapka?” I teased with a smile on my face.

She shook her head repeatedly, eyes shut from grinning ear to ear, earning a laugh from me at her cute behaviour.

Turning around, she grabbed the small container of flour, opened it, and scooped some into a bowl. She seemed very determined, and my brows bunched in confusion.

“What are you doing?” I asked curiously, taking the bowl away from her delicate hands.

She looked up and stared at my face for a few long seconds before answering in an obvious tone, with a light shrug of her shoulders, “Making parathas.”

I took a deep breath. “There’s no need to do this. Just go to your usual place.”

“Par kyu? I want to do this, actually, aap jao and vaha baitho.” So now she’s ordering me. Really tempting, but I had to pass.

When I didn’t budge, she clicked her tongue in annoyance and tried to push me out of the kitchen— in which she failed miserably. “Veer! Jao na.”

"I don't think it's a good idea, Siya. Let me help." I made an effort to explain but she grimace in disagreement. And let her head fall onto my arm, clearly tired of trying to push me out.

"It is a good idea, just go and sit over there." She knocked her head against my arm while speaking, completely urging me to laugh at her behavior.

Holding my hands up in surrender, I said, "okay, I'm going. Will you stop knocking your head?" When I feel her nodding, I smiled and silently walked out and sit on the counter chair.

She eyed my every move as I opened the newspaper that was on the counter, pretending to read it as if it was one of the things I did every day. Maybe I should add this to my routine— that way I’ll get her attention.

I hid my face behind the newspaper, carefully masking the smile that crept onto my face. Acting like she wasn’t here was the hardest thing I’d ever done.

Soon enough, she was done with the dough— which she prepared in dough maker, and mixture of potatoes— I doubt there's reasonable amount of salt in it.

The sound of the gas flickering on made me peek over the newspaper and stare at her. She had some flour on her cheeks and nose, and a few loose strands of hair were falling into her face— probably irritating her, considering how her nose scrunched up.

A few seconds passed— or maybe minutes? I couldn’t remember, because all I was focusing on was how she tried to push those stray strands of hair back with her forearm, only for them to fall again, causing her to huff in irritation.

Her eyes flickered towards me, and I quickly darted my gaze down, staring at some politicians’ faces in the newspaper. I could feel the heat of her eyes on the paper, but I chose to ignore it.

"Veer," her voice was soft and low, almost like a mumble. I held the newspaper a little low but didn't give her my attention, pretending as if I didn't heard her.

But in my peripheral vision, I could see her holding a potato-stuffed paratha— with a hole in it.

She called me again, leaning towards my direction as if I was too far to listen her melodious voice, "Veer, suno na!" This time, her pitch was higher, signaling me to finally lift my head and look at her.

Folding the newspaper, like my father usually does at the dining table, I stare at her. "Kahiye, cook sahiba, is my breakfast ready?"

She nibbled on her bottom lip as I raised my brows in question. Her eyes settled on her victim on the counter as she mumbled, "Vo-vo I messed up."

"Accha aur?" I questioned, causing her to frown.

She hesitated, "I need your help." Her hazel eyes met mine.

I rose from the seat and walked over to her. Cupping her face, I gently brushed the flour from her cheeks and nose, revealing a rosy tint beneath it.

“Someone pushed me out of the kitchen, saying it’s a good idea to—” she cut me off mid-sentence, or rather, the sheepish smile that spread across her face stopped me from speaking any further.

Sometimes, she’s just too adorable to handle.

I released a deep breath, subtly nodding. Her eyes widened with surprise, “You’ll help me?” she asked, as if I had any heart to deny her.

"Yes, now go and s—" she cut me off.

"No, I want to watch you cooking from here." Her voice pitched up, prompting me to chuckle.

Nodding at her, I cleaned my hands, set her victim aside, and began making the parathas. She sat on the counter, her legs dangling in the air, watching me intently.

“Veer, have you watched humshakal movie?” She asked, leaning toward me with both hands on the counter.

I shook my head, “No.” because I’m certainly don’t remember if I’ve watched it or not.

“Hmm, you know there’s a scene in that movie, where they had vodka wale parathe. I always wanted to try them.” It took me a few seconds to realise that she wanted to try something with vodka.

I looked at her, “You’ll be staying away from vodka or any kind of drinks, Siya.”

The last time she had wine, she single-handedly created a scandal—not that I’m complaining, but having her drunk is definitely a risky situation.

She’s a lightweight, and a very moody drunk.

The good news? I don’t actually keep any drinks in the house—or so she thought. She never realized the wine showcase in the hallway holds real bottles. She’s never paid much attention to it.

She frowned then as if remembering her own acts, she nodded in agreement, “Okay.” Her eyes moves with each movement of my hands as I place a paratha in a plate and hold it up in-front of her face.

"Ye raha aapka breakfast, Mrs. Oberoi." Taking the plate from my hands, she placed it down. "Thank you, Mr. Oberoi." A smile lit up her face as she thanked me.

I liked calling her Mrs. Oberoi. It was a reminder to myself that she’s my wife, and having her call me Mr. Oberoi was a constant reminder of how much I was hers.

"You’re not going to have breakfast?" she asked, watching me turn off the stove.

I shook my head. "I’ll have it in my office." Cleaning my hands, I stood beside her. She hadn’t started eating yet, just watching me like a curious child with too many questions in her eyes.

In the process of taking the pan from the stove, I accidentally get burned from the pan, and it elicit a gasp from Siya. She grab my hand and inspects it and surely find a small red mark on my index finger.

As panic settled in, she hopped down from the counter to take a closer look. Her nose scrunched in displeasure as she touched the burn area.

Taking a deep breath, I leaned against the counter and watched her carefully blow air on the burn, almost as if she was afraid she might hurt me in the process. She caressed the skin around the burn with her soft hands, looking up at me.

"Should I bring the first-aid kit?" she asked, concern lacing her voice. I shook my head in denial, it doesn’t hurt much.

"Pkka?" she pressed, still holding my hands, her voice filled with genuine concern. "We can apply some ointment on it, dard hoga nahi toh."

Though I was tempted to mess with her, the expression on her face told me it was better not to. So, instead, I said calmly, "I’ll be fine, Siya. It’s just a small burn."

She stood on her toes, then pressed them flat against the marble, repeating the motion a few times before asking in a low voice, "Pkka?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to stay calm and composed. "God, Siya, stop being so cute." I muttered under my breath, hoping she couldn’t hear.

“What did you say?” she queried, her voice curious.

“Nothing. I have a meeting at the office, so I think I should leave now,” I said with a small smile, turning toward my room to grab my jacket and the tie I’d forgotten earlier.

Before I did, I washed my face, brushing off the flour from my clothes, and set my hair. A quick spritz of cologne around my neck, and I went to the closet.

Grabbing a navy blue jacket, tie, and a pair of shades, I walked out and into the living room where Siya was now sitting on the couch. That clingy Bruno was resting his head on her lap, purring as she gently mussed his fur.

I made a sound to announce my presence, clutching the tie in my hand. She turned her head around, hazel eyes locked with mines. The weight of love for her in my heart settles down, drowning me in her again.

Her eyes lowered to my hand, realisation flickers in them. “I’ll help you with this, if it’s okay with you.”

I nod, silently approaching her and stand in-front of her. She rose to her full height but on the couch, cheeks turning pink in shade— she’s blushing.

She quietly took the tie from my hands, looping it around my neck and already starting to work. I couldn’t resist, tapping her nose playfully, breaking her adorable concentration.

Her eyes bounced between my face and the tie, then she bit down on her lower lip, nervously.

"You're blushing, Mrs.Oberoi." I tease her, a grin tugging at the corners of my lips. And prompting a surprised glare from her. Eyes wide, flushed cheeks and nervous gulps.

Her fingers fumble on the cloth of tie as she spoke, defending herself but stammered failing miserably. "I-I'm not!" The evidence, however, was clear—the pink in her cheeks was the only answer I needed.

"Your cheeks say otherwise." Suddenly, the knot of the tie tightened.

Oh— she choked me.

I bite back a chuckle at her flustered behaviour.

Death is beautiful when it comes at the hands of an angel. And I would die again and again, if that angel were my wife—a divine soul with invisible wings, ready to choke me until I breathe out every emotion I’ve buried in my heart.

"You're being romantic too, but as I said, I have a meeting—" I started to speak again when she loosened her grip, but as soon as I teased her once more, she tightened her hold, choking me further.

And this time, I couldn’t help but laugh. Keeping a hand on her back, I lifted her up and settled her down on the floor, so that I was now the one towering over her.

She fixed the tie without uttering a single word, but her eyes never left mine. Smoothing the shirt on my shoulders, she held onto me, her hands firm on my shoulders. The next moment, I was pushed onto the couch.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked down at me. "Jao, aapko meeting ke liye late ho rha hoga," she muttered, still flustered.

Just as she turned to storm off, I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward me, causing her to fall right beside me on the couch.

“Where is my goodbye kiss, Siya?” I wrap a hand around her waist, just in case she tried to run away. I couldn’t help but smile when the rosy colour spread across her cheeks once again. I realized—I love her more when she blushes like this.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, likely contemplating whether to indulge my playful request or not. Honestly, it would be great if she kissed me like she had in my dream last night.

My grip on her waist tightens— not too firmly but in a gentle way, just enough to remind her I wasn’t letting go. She glanced up at me, hands resting on my chest, and with a soft huff, she rested her head against my chest.

“Don’t tease me, Veer. I can’t take it.” She mumble almost like a whisper.

I instantly move my hand from her waist to cradle her face, “hey, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” I meant it. My intention was not to make her uncomfortable with my presence.

She shake her head, “I’m not uncomfortable, it’s just I-I aapko meeting me nahi jana?” 

"I do, but I’ll listen to you first," I said, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear.

"No," she said quickly. "I have nothing to say. Just go or you’ll be late." She stood up in a hurry, storming off to her room, slamming the door behind her.

𖤐

I clicked the door shut behind me as I strolled to my desk and plopped down on the leather chair. Eyes closed, muscles relaxed, deep breaths followed.

The meeting had stretched longer than I anticipated, but surprisingly, it was enjoyable. Unlike the usual boring ones, this time I got to tease Eklavya the entire way through about some of the points his team had made.

The door to my cabin flew open, and Avinash walked in with a few files in hand. Taking his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, he tapped on it a few times and then slid it across the table.

I read the message on the screen, a smirk curling at my lips. “Tell that fucker to answer my phone calls.” The text was in bold black font.

I pulled my own phone from my pocket and checked it—two missed calls from him. Seriously? I had expected at least twenty, judging by the way he’d texted Avinash.

Dialing his number, I signaled to Avinash to bring me an energy drink. He nodded with a sigh, clearly tired of all this already.

On the third ring he picked up the call. His voice heavy and irritated. “Next time, pick the damn fucking call.”

I let out a soft chuckle, deciding to mess with him. “Why were you worried about me, Mr.Hunter?”

A low scoff came from his side then a few clicking sounds of keyboard tapping. “I’m not worried. I just don’t want to waste my time dialling your phone instead of working at office.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually working like a good boy. Because the last time I checked, you were illegally invading someone’s privacy, Mr. Hunter.”

Avinash coughed, holding back a laugh as he placed the energy drink on the desk and took a seat in front of me.

"Will you ever call me by my real name? My grandfather put a generous amount of effort into choosing it, you know." There was a trace of annoyance in his voice—he was clearly done with me.

I clicked my tongue in disagreement. “Still sucks. Never let him name anyone again. That old man doesn’t realize those 1950s names are way out of trend. Poor you, though.”

His name isn’t that bad, but I love teasing him about it every chance I get. It’s entertaining to get on his nerves and watch him lose his cool. One day, I’ll tell this to his fiancée just to ensure he never gets a moment of peace again.

“Fuck you.” I smirk at his reaction, completely satisfied from what I’ve expected. 

Inhaling deeply, I get to the main reason he had called me at first. “Sure, but first, have you done your homework?”

“It’s called research, you dum— But let’s cut to the chase. I’ve got important work. The owner of the phone number is Harshad Dixit, 34 years old. Born in Vienna, raised in Barcelona.”

"Harshad Dixit.” The name rolled off my tongue, but no bells of familiarity rings in my head.

What I did feel, however, was fury—an intense anger that consumed me, the same one I’d felt when that man had called me. The threat—or childish warning, whatever it was—didn’t affect me.

What did was the name he’d spoken. My wife’s name. He said he would conquer her.

Funny, because I have no intention of ever leaving my wife. Not now, not ever.

“Da." Hunter hummed in russian in conformation of the person’s identity.

[Yes]

A knot of unease twisted in my stomach as I asked, my grip tightening around the phone, "Did he had any interactions with Siya in the past few years?”

A short pause before he answered, "From the information I've gathered, no—he hasn't had any interaction with your wife in the past few years. Surprisingly, he's an NRI and has never set foot in India in his whole lifetime.”

“Repeat again.” My muscles relaxed hearing the new peace of information. And I let it aside to lighten my mood.

He groaned but did as I asked, “You can't be serious. I said, he's has —"

"Not that part, the other one.” I cut him off mid-sentence, my tone sharper now. Leaning back on the leather chair, rolling the transparent paperweight on the desk.

“Yebuchiy oderzhimyy psikh.” he muttered in Russian but didn’t repeat what I actually wanted to hear.

[ Fucking obsessed psycho ]

It had been six years since we met, and the last time he cursed at me in Russian, I made it a point to learn the language—just to use it back on him someday. So yes, I understood what he’d just said.

I chuckled and replied sarcastically, “I’m not the one who hunts down his own fiancée.”

A low grumble, “That wasn’t hunting down, you fucker!” The groan at the end was the evident of him being done with me.

I nod in acknowledgment as if I didn’t named him Hunter after he told me about how he practically chased his fiancée through woods in night. Psycho. “Yeah-Yeah, whatever you say, Mr.Hunter.”

The irony.

He calls me a psycho, yet acts like one himself. I’d bet my life—no, I’m Siya’s, but his entire worth—that if he took a psychiatric exam, he’d be diagnosed with several syndromes.

“That isn’t my name, you damn lovesick puppy!” And he hung up the call.

My brows lifted in amusement as I turned to Avinash, who was quietly organizing the files in the right order.

Opening my chat with Hunter, I typed out his next assignment. His reply came instantly.

Veer : Find all the details about Harshad Dixit and mail them to Avinash.

Mr.Hunter : Consider it done.