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Simran blinks, caught off guard. I’m not sure what surprises her more—my sudden claim or my arm around her waist. I’ve never felt this possessive, this territorial about anyone before. It’s overwhelming, yet it feels right—so right.She feels right in my arms.

Simran swallows hard, her voice slightly unsteady as she turns to Peter.

“Peter,” she begins slowly, meeting his curious gaze, “this is Vishnu... he’s Veer’s father.”

The introduction falls short, far from what it should be, making my jaw clench. Peter’s smile slips just a fraction, like he’s trying to recalibrate, but I know the effect my presence is having. It’s clear he already knows about her son, but that’s not enough. I want him to know everything. I pull Simran even closer this time, feeling her warmth against my side as I lock eyes with Peter.

“Veer’s father and Simran’s fiancé,” I correct, emphasising every word. I watch with satisfaction as his expression changes. Simran’s head whips up, her eyes flashing with a mixture of shock and anger.Good. “We’re getting married soon.”

The words come out before I can stop them, but I don’t regret them. Not when I feel the slight tremor that ripples through Simran, not when I see Peter’s face fall slightly. I’ve never been the type to mark my territory regarding a woman, but with Simran, it’s instinctive, as though my heart and soul already know she’s the only one for me. This possessiveness surprises even me. I’ve never been this way with anyone else. She makes me feel things I’ve never felt before, awakens parts of me I didn’t even know existed.

Peter recovers quickly, his polite smile looking forced.

“Well, congratulations! That’s… wonderful news.” He glances at Simran, then at me, clearly wondering how this development escaped him.

Watching Peter’s expression shift is oddly satisfying.

“Th… Thanks, Peter,” Simran stammers, her usual composure slipping.

He nods at us before excusing himself to check on the media team. The moment he’s out the door, Simran yanks herself free from my grasp.

“I don’t remember saying yes to your proposal yet for you to announce it so openly,” she hisses, her eyes sparking with irritation.

“I’m not letting you say ‘no’ either,” I reply, closing the distance between us in one step, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, taking in the way her chest rises and falls with every agitated breath.

Before she can respond, a sharp knock at the door interrupts us. Julie steps in, informing us that the media team is ready. Simran throws me one last glare, but I catch the slight quiver of her lips and the way her breath hitches when I’m near her. As she walks out, I remain rooted to the spot, trying to process these new emotions wreaking havoc between us.

I’ve commanded armies, faced death, and made impossible decisions, but nothing has prepared me for how I feel about Simran. This jealousy, this overwhelming need to claim her as mine—it’s both foreign yet familiar, like a song I’ve always known but never truly sang.

****************

I stand just outside the room where the media team has set up the interview in Simran’s boutique. I could have stayed by her side, but I didn’t want to overcrowd her with my presence during such an important moment. So here I am, practically gawking at her from across the room, while she’s blissfully unaware of me, caught up in her world of success and ambition.

As I watch her commanding the room during her interview, I’m struck by her presence, her confidence shining like a beacon. The way she articulates her journey, from her roots in India to building this empire in New York, fills me with immense pride. Watching her, my mind wanders to how much she’s achieved. She’s held her own against the fierce competition here and managed to thrive, even while carrying the weight of her own secrets—secrets that have shifted the course ofmylife.

When she laughs at one of the media personnel’s remarks, it stirs something in me—something that’s been dormant for far too long. I don’t realise it until my tongue swipes over my lips, my eyes glued to her every movement—the movement of her lips as she talks, her innate poise as she answers the questions, and the way her fingers push back that stray strand of hair that insists on falling to her face. Every little gesture she makes only intensifies the ache I feel for her. That longing, it’s relentless—unbidden yet undeniable.

Peter stands in the corner, and though his presence still irks me, my mind is racing with darker thoughts. The threat to Simran—it’s becoming clearer now. Her success, her rising prominence in New York’s cutthroat fashion industry makes her an obvious target. I’ve seen enough in my life to know what a target looks like, and at this level of success, enemies are almost a certainty. I can’t help but wonder if this masked figure, whoever he is, has been hired to threaten her, shake her confidence, or maybe even sabotage her career.

My fingers clench involuntarily at the thought, knuckles turning white as anger courses through me. I thought I was protecting her by keeping her away from work, but now I realise I may have been playing right into our enemies’ hands, doing exactly what he wanted. Simran is like a rare butterfly—delicate yet strong, beautiful yet resilient. Caging her would only dim her light, clip her wings when she’s meant to soar.

“And how do you manage to keep your designs so uniquely Indian yet universally appealing?” the interviewer asks, breaking my chain of thoughts.

Simran’s eyes light up, and my heart skips a beat.

“It’s about finding the balance,” she responds, her voice melodious and confident. “Every piece tells a story—of tradition meeting modernity, of East meeting West. It’s like a dance between two worlds.”

Just like us, I think. We’re dancing our own complicated dance—truth and deceit, trust and betrayal, hate and... whatever this burning feeling in my chest is.Love?

The wound of her deception, of keeping Veer from me for all these months, is still feels fresh. It’s a betrayal that should make me want to walk away, yet here I am, plotting ways to bind myself to her forever. The irony doesn’t escape me. I’m not just planning our marriage without her consent; I’m doing it without informing my family as well. It’s so unlike me—the man who’s built his entire life on discipline and control—is now acting on impulse and desperation.

But as I watch her handle another question with grace and wisdom, I know why I’m doing this. I may never fully trust her again, not after what she hid from me, but I have to acknowledge one thing. She gave me Veer. Our son—my pride and joy. How can I not give her everything in return? Even if our relationship begins on shaky ground, even if trust needs to be rebuilt brick by brick, I’ll give her my world. Because in giving me Veer, she’s given me her own.

“Ms. Simran, your latest collection has received international acclaim. What’s next for your brand?” the interviewer continues.

Her eyes briefly meet mine across the room, and for a moment, time stands still. In that fleeting glance, I see everything—her strength, her vulnerability, her defiance.

“The sky’s the limit,” she answers, and I find myself nodding.