Page 111 of Drunk On Love

I watched her fingers toy with the corner of her napkin as that fake, practiced smile doing a poor job of masking the storm beneath. Her eyes flicked between faces, never settling, like she was trying—reallytrying—not to let her father’s words ruin the night.

She was holding it together with a fragile thread.

And then he walked in.

Vihaan Singhania.

Swagger dialed to the max, whiskey in hand, entitlement trailing behind him like an expensive cologne. He didn’t glance at anyone else. His eyes locked on Kiara like a moth to a flame he thought he once owned.

“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter,” he drawled, lips curling in that smug grin he probably practiced in the mirror.

I stiffened.

He leaned lazily on the back of a chair, elbows casual, tongue sharp.

“You know, all this family drama could’ve been avoided,” he continued, “if you’d just married me. Kiara. Imagine—your dad might’ve finally loved you.”

A fewguests turned awkwardly toward us, some pretending not to listen, others clearly too stunned to look away.

Kiara didn’t speak. She didn’t even look at him. But I saw it—the way her spine tensed, the way her lashes fluttered like she’d been sucker-punched from the inside.

That was it.

I didn’t care about the crowd, the cameras flashing, or the fact that this was supposed to be a birthday celebration.

She was hurting.

And he made her flinch.

That was enough. My chair scraped loudly against the floor as I stood. Conversations around us dimmed to a hush. I didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t need to. I simply walked—slow, deliberate steps—until I stood in front of him.

“Vihaan.” My voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous. “I’m going to say this once. So listen carefully.”

He arched a brow, still riding that high horse of self-importance. “Well, this should be fun—”

“If youeverspeak to Kiara like that again—especially here, in her grandmother’s home, on a night meant to celebrate her family—I won’t care if you’re her ex, a guest, or the damn Prime Minister of India.”

His smirk faltered. Not much. But enough.

“You’ll leave. On your own,” I continued. “Or I’ll show you the door myself.”

Vihaan let out a theatrical scoff. “Jesus, Oberoi. Getting all knight-in-shining-armor now? It’s not like she—”

“Enough.”

I stepped forward—just an inch—but the kind of inch that makes a man instinctively reevaluate his life choices. He moved back. Barely. But I saw it.

“I know yourtype,” I said. “The kind who masks cowardice as wit. Who mistakes cruelty for charm. But let me tell you something about Kiara.”

He opened his mouth again, some lazy quip loading on his tongue.

“She doesn’t need your approval. Or your jokes. Or your smug commentary on things you’ll never understand. She’s better than you. Always was.”

I turned slightly, my gaze finding her—my anchor in a sea of rage.

“And now,” I said, voice softening just enough, “she’s mine.”

The room held its breath.