Page 83 of Drunk On Love

His response came quickly:

Manav:What do you want to talk about?

Me:Obviously not about the dark and long beautiful hair of Nancy.

Manav:Is she bothering you?

Me:Can I hug her?

There was another pause, and I stared at the screen until his reply finally chimed in.

Manav:No physical contact with her.

Me:I’m damn tired tonight, my brain is technically fried, and I need to hug someone.

Manav:There are five million pillows in your room; go ahead and hug one.

Me:I need to go home.

Manav:Wait till tomorrow. The media are camping at your doorstep. Unless you want to tell them gossip about our relationship, I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Me:There is no relationship.

Manav:For the world, we are madly in love with each other.

Me:It was a very, very insane mistake announcing me as your fake girlfriend.

Manav:I don’t think so.

Me:Social media is telling me otherwise.

Manav:I don’t care.

Me:Can we talk? Like in person…

Manav:Tomorrow.

Me:Is this how you behave with your girlfriend, with whom you are madly in love?

Manav:Go to sleep, Kiara.

Me:I’m not sleeping until you tell me what’s going on.

Manav:I’m just… tired. It’s been a long day.

Me:We need to talk.

There was no response for the next ten minutes.

Manav:Not tonight. Good night.

Frustrated, I stared at my phone screen for a few more moments before tossing it onto the bed. Nancy, comfortably sprawled on one side of the bed, lay fast asleep.

I couldn’t lie there anymore, not while my thoughts screamed louder than my silence. My chest felt too tight, the walls too close. I needed air, light, noise—anything but stillness. I stood up and quietly stepped out of the room, heading toward the kitchen. I needed something to calm myoverworked mind—a strong coffee to process everything that had happened.

As I entered the kitchen, the dim lights cast a soft glow across the marble countertops, making the entire place look both eerily silent and strangely comforting. The air was still, the only sound being the soft hum of the refrigerator. I moved toward the cabinet, searching for the coffee powder, when I felt an odd presence.

Turning around, I saw him—Manav Oberoi—sitting on a stool, typing on his laptop while his piercing gaze fixed on me. His shirt was slightly crumpled, and his usually sharp appearance was replaced with a weariness that softened his edges. “What are you doing?”