Page 50 of Cherish my Heart

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” I mutter, taking a slow sip. It burns—less than her silence these past few days.

“She looks happy,” Harsh comments, tipping his chin toward the far end of the room.

My gaze snaps there.

Aditi’s smiling. Head tilted back slightly, her fingers brushing her earring as she laughs at something a man in a tailored black suit says. His posture is easy and confident. Her smile is... bright. Real. Not the polite one she wears for clients or the tight one she gives me when she’s forcing herself to stay indifferent.

That one’s rare.

This one—this one makes something twist low in my stomach.

I place the glass back on the bar, harder than necessary.

Harsh’s hand shoots out to steady it. “Okay, relax. Don’t shatter crystal, please. I don’t want attention drawn here. This tux is borrowed.”

I shoot him a glare before rising. My jaw aches from how tightly it’s clenched.

“I’m just saying—” he calls after me, but I’ve already started walking.

Every step feels deliberate, like I’m pushing through something invisible—maybe my own restraint.

She doesn’t see me coming. Not until I’m too close to ignore.

The man says something else—something that makes her smile again—and her eyes flick past him and land on me.

The smile dies.

Good. Her lips part slightly. “Abhimaan—”

“Dance with me,” I say quietly, cutting off whatever excuse she was about to make. My hand is already extended.

She hesitates. Her eyes search my face like she’s trying to figure out what this is.

“I’m not asking again,” I say.

That gets her. Always the challenge.

She takes my hand.

The ballroom is dimly lit, warm-toned chandeliers casting a soft glow on the couples moving slowly across the floor. The music has shifted into something slower, with piano weaving into strings.

I guide her to the center.

Her body is tense under my touch. My hand rests on the small of her back, the other holding hers. There’s space between us—more than I want, less than she probably prefers.

“I thought you were leaving,” I say.

“I still might.”

“But you wore the dress.”

She exhales through her nose. “It was a nice dress. Would’ve been rude to let it go to waste.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.”

The conversation dies there, the tension between us loud in the quiet swells of the song. She won’t look directly at me. Her eyes stay slightly past my shoulder, fingers twitching faintly in my hold. But she isn’t pulling away. I don’t know what I expect from this dance. Maybe silence. Maybe a fight. But definitely not this heavy in-between where her body is here, close, warm beneath my palm—but her mind is elsewhere. Guarded. Distant. Like she’s dancing with a memory of me, not the man standing in front of her.