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AAVYA RAJAWAT

He slipped his hand off the bouquet, letting it fall to the table as his fingers moved with deliberate intent—sliding into the vest jacket of my three-piece suit. “I apologise, sunflower—apologise for disappointing you, sweetheart,” he whispered, his breath brushing my lips.

My eyelids grew heavy as I closed them, overwhelmed by the proximity, the scent of his cologne—earthy and sharp like stormy nights—and the quiet ache that bloomed in my chest. I wanted to tell him he hadn’t disappointed me at all. That I was only pretending to be mad. That I liked getting a reaction from him—his sharp jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, possessive way.

But I stayed quiet.