Page 33 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

“He’s here! The devil is fucking here !” Kash screams as she barrels into the room assigned to the both of us.

It’s nearly midnight. Everyone’s settling in, and I wasn’t sure if Kashvi would even make it tonight after visiting her family for the day.

But thank god she did. Because I cannot be trusted with these.

.. feelings that are suddenly sprouting like weeds in my gut.

I need backup. I need a hater . A professional-grade anti-Lucian hype woman.

I step out of the bathroom in my maroon salwar suit, the one with the black stonework and embroidery so intricate it practically weighs me down—fitting, given the emotional load I’m hauling tonight.

Kash is in jeans and a tank top, looking like she just rage-walked across the lawn. Probably did.

“You need to get ready. Dinner and drinks have already started,” I mumble, tugging at my earrings.

“You good?” she asks, instantly deflating. “Why is he here? How is he here?”

I shrug like I haven’t been internally screaming for hours. “Mrs. Keerti Talwar is to blame. She’s been demoted from mumma to... a distant relative.”

Kash snorts. “Kiki Aunty is savage . I can’t believe she invited the man who broke your—uh—vagina?”

“My vagina is fine!” I snap. “It’s the other stupid organ that’s fucked up.”

She nods gravely. “Right, right. The... the ovaries.”

I throw a cushion at her. “The heart , Kash. The heart .”

“Same difference,” she chirps, now casually stripping to her bra and panties. “My ovaries-slash-heart are also broken. We’re good. We’re fucking perfect .”

I button up her kurta like it’s a wartime ritual. She adjusts her jhumkas. I slip on my bangles.

“It’s not like I can tell my mom why we’re not together anymore,” I grumble. “How do you tell your mother that her precious daughter isn’t a virgin ? Hasn’t been for years !”

“Hah, you can’t!” She laughs and then checks herself out in the mirror. “Oooh! I look gorgeous.”

Both of us look like functioning awesome women from the outside.

But on the inside? Cracked glass and leaking glue.

Once we’re fully ready, we head to the central hall—a neutral zone nestled between the two mansions. Think Switzerland, but with uncle-aunties and alcohol-induced banter.

The hall is enormous, lined with buffet tables along every wall. Chafing dishes are steaming. Plates clatter. Laughter echoes. A band of small children is already chasing each other between tables.

There are at least two dozen round tables placed in no discernible order. Chaos reigns. My entire family is here, as is Vikram’s.

I scan the room for Ishika.

Kash, meanwhile, zeroes in on a particular table—one already populated by Advik and crew.

“Oh, I see them,” she mutters. “Go grab a glass of wine for me so I don’t end up stabbing him with a wine opener.”

I square my shoulders and beeline to the makeshift bar—a sad-looking table loaded with enough alcohol to open a small nightclub. This is a Punjabi wedding, after all. A dry one would be blasphemy .

I pour a generous glass of red for Kash and start fixing myself a whiskey and tonic, trying to ignore everything around me. But then I register the movement next to me—someone else making drinks.

Lucian fucking Vale.

I freeze. My hand stills mid-pour. And then— what the fuck is he wearing?

It takes me a second, but the realization crashes like a shot of tequila to the gut. That oversized, beige, bland-as-hell kurta... it’s Papa’s . He’s actually wearing my father’s kurta. Why? How?!

The fit is nothing to write home about, yet— damn it —he still looks stupidly attractive. The sleeves are rolled up just so, it’s buttoned all the way to the top, and with his frame and that goddamn face, he could walk a Sabyasachi runway and no one would question it.

And the bracelet? Still on his wrist.

He clears his throat. “Aarohi, you look... stunning.”

Heat creeps up my cheeks. I finally meet his eyes. He looks nervous, but oddly... at peace. Like he’s made a truce with himself, even if I haven’t.

“Thanks,” I reply coolly, nodding toward the two glasses of whiskey in his hands. “Be careful with that. You don’t exactly have a good track record with alcohol.”

His face goes pink, his ears following quickly behind. “Uh—these are for Raj uncle and Romi uncle. I don’t drink... anymore.”

I snort. “Right.”

“No, really. I’ve been sober for two months. Haven’t touched a drop since—” He hesitates. “Since that night.”

I narrow my eyes but say nothing. I nod once. “Good for you. Now go do your thing, waiter boy.”

I grab both glasses—mine and Kashvi’s—and stalk back to our table, refusing to look back even though I can feel his gaze searing into me.

Kash, Ishika, Vikram, Vikram’s cousin Navya, and of course, Advik are all seated. I plop into my seat gracelessly.

“What’s wrong?” Advik asks, casually draping his arm over the back of my chair.

“What? Nothing ,” I lie without conviction.

Ishika snorts into her drink.

Kashvi growls under her breath like a feral cat gearing up for blood.

Advik leans in, voice low near my ear. “Why is that Lucifer guy here?”

I stiffen. “He’s... a guest. Kind of. Mom sort of invited him.”

He leans back slowly, eyes scanning the room with forced nonchalance. But I know he’s watching Lucian like a hawk circling roadkill.

“Who’s the foreigner?” Navya pipes up, blinking all wide-eyed innocence. She’s twenty-one but the way she’s looking at Lucian? There’s nothing innocent about it.

I grit my teeth. “He’s m—” I catch myself. “—my friend.”

Shit. Mine? Is that what I was about to say? Really, Rohi?

My betrayal must show on my face because Kashvi chokes on her drink, Ishi’s cackling like a witch, and Advik just raises an eyebrow like he’s already planned my wedding toast.

“Shut it!” I hiss at him.

He smirks, hands raised. “Didn’t say a word.”

“Wait—your friend?” Navya continues, completely oblivious to the social cues flying past her. “From Canada?”

I nod stiffly, praying she finds someone her own age to annoy.

“How old is he?” she asks, staring openly at Lucian like she’s about to slide into his DMs with a thali in hand.

“He’s forty-five . Back off.” I snap.

Vikram’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? He looks thirty.”

Kashvi scowls and nearly spits out her drink. “He’s thirty-two and off-limits, kid.”

Navya just hums, still watching Lucian like she’s sizing him up for a Tinder profile. “Thirty-two...” she repeats to herself, and I swear I can hear wedding bells in her head.

God help us all.

I’m trying to rein in my jealousy. Really, I am. And I almost— almost —succeed.

Until Navya jumps up from her seat. And I know exactly where she’s headed.

I catch her movement from the corner of my eye—hips swaying like she’s auditioning for Victoria’s Secret—beelining straight for Lucian. My breathing picks up.

Advik’s hand lands on my thigh, a quiet anchor, but I barely register it as I turn.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Lucian, blissfully unaware of the looming disaster, is laughing at something my dad just said. Teeth out. Even his damn laugh is attractive.

And then Navya— Navya —walks up to him and places her hand on his shoulder like she’s known him since kindergarten.

I flinch. So does Lucian, though he does it in that smooth, graceful, damn-him way.

He looks up at her, politely startled... then his eyes find mine across the room.

Now—Navya is a gorgeous girl. But that’s just it. She’s a girl . Lucian is... a lot of things, but he’s not a cradle-snatcher. Twenty-fucking-one is too young for him. And she damn well looks less than eighteen.

I’m still recovering from the sheer audacity of this... child when my father says something to her. I watch her stiffen.

Lucian, still holding eye contact with me, bites his lower lip. Not in a sexy way—more like he’s trying not to laugh.

Navya returns a moment later, stomping like she just lost a bet. Her glare lands squarely on me.

“Why didn’t you tell me he’s your boyfriend ?” she huffs, dramatic as hell.

“I did tell you he’s off-limits,” Kash mutters, rolling her eyes hard.

I sit there, stunned. Because Lucian? He didn’t say a single word. That assumption? Purely from whatever the hell my dad said to her.

Fucking hell. Is that what my family thinks?

That Lucian is my boyfriend ?

God , I’m going to need more whiskey.

??????

I find him alone in the courtyard.

He’s standing with his head bowed, eyes glued to his phone, thumbs moving fast like he’s either texting someone important or spiraling through five Reddit rabbit holes at once.

“What did my dad say?” I ask, skipping hello entirely.

He jumps— jumps —like I’ve shot a taser at him. Not just startled. It’s more than that. His whole body flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

He turns to face me, and for a second, I swear he looks... scared?

His breathing is all wrong. Short, shallow. His hands tremble slightly as he lowers the phone.

“Sorry,” he says, voice a little too quick. “You just—uh—you startled me.”

I frown. “You okay?”

He’s sweating. Sure, it’s India, but the heat tonight is actually mild—barely 28°C with a breeze. And he’s not even wearing layers.

He laughs, but it’s forced. “Yeah. Just the alcohol withdrawal thing. I’m kind of... jumpy these days.”

My stomach tightens. “Withdrawal?”

He nods once, then looks at me like he already knows what I’m thinking. “Yeah. I know I said I quit drinking, but I guess I didn’t explain how much I was drinking before that.”

He looks away for a beat, then back at me with a soft, rueful smile. “Turns out I’m what they call a high-functioning alcoholic. I was drinking every day. For over a year. Sixteen months, actually.”

Sixteen months?

My brain stalls. That’s... that goes back to when Tim cheated. When he unraveled.

And suddenly I realize he’s not just confessing this casually—he’s trembling. Still.

He must see it on my face because he rushes to clarify. “I wasn’t drunk all the time, Aarohi. I didn’t show it. I was functional—meetings, deadlines, work, everything. But I was drinking. Consistently. Quietly.”

I take a step back without meaning to. Not out of fear—just... processing . Recalculating every memory. Every night we spent together.

Had he been drinking before showing up at my door? At my bed? At his bed?

His expression crumples a little. “I never lied to you because I was drunk. I swear. I won’t use alcohol as an excuse. But I was numbing myself. And I didn’t even think I was addicted. Not until I stopped. Not until the symptoms started.”

I’m blinking too fast, my eyes suddenly glassy.

“What—what kind of symptoms?” I ask, my voice quieter now. My earlier irritation is gone, buried under the weight of this new truth.

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I mean, the jumpiness, obviously. Sometimes it’s high heart rate—you know, tachycardia. Some fever. Shakiness. The usual. It’s getting better, though.”

The usual?

I want to say something comforting. Or furious. Or helpful . But all I feel is this hot, heavy ache in my chest.

Because maybe it started with one heartbreak. With betrayal.

But it stopped after another one—after me .

He got sober after me .

And I don’t know what to do with that.

Because he’s right here, still slightly shaking, and somehow still trying to be better. And despite every reason not to, my eyes blur with tears.

Lucian sees them—and he actually gasps.

“Shit,” he whispers, face contorting in panic. “What did I say? I’m so sorry.”

He’s holding himself back—physically restraining himself from reaching out. His arms twitch with the effort, his body leaning toward me like instinct’s trying to override reason.

“Nothing,” I mumble, swiping at my cheeks. “I just... I didn’t know. It was a bit shocking.”

“Oh.” He deflates instantly, shoulders sagging as he takes a hesitant step back. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Maybe I should’ve—at the cafe, this morning.”

“No, that’s fine.” I shake my head, clearing the fog. “It’s good that you’re... you know. Doing something about it.”

He nods, lips pressed together. And I hate how small he looks. Exhausted. Rattled.

“I was...” he starts quietly, eyes flitting back to his phone, “I was looking for flights.”

My breath catches.

“There’s a direct flight in two days. I can—”

“You’re leaving?” I blurt, and immediately want to slap myself. You told him to leave, dumbass.

“Yeah,” he says gently, like he doesn’t want to remind me of my own words. “You said—”

“I know.” My fists curl, more at myself than him. “What would you even tell my parents?”

“Whatever you want me to,” he whispers. And somehow that hits me harder than anything else he’s said since coming to India.

Like he’d lie, grovel, vanish—just to make things easier for me .

My chest tightens. “Have you ever been to an Indian wedding?”

His brows lift slightly, a flicker of amusement sparking. He shakes his head.

And he smiles.

That smile. The one I used to find in the quietest of moments. The one that made me feel like I was home. And he’s right—there is a difference in him now. In his words. His eyes. His restraint.

“Stay,” I say before I can stop myself. “Stick around. Maybe you’ll find it fascinating.”

He chuckles under his breath. “I already do.”

I start to turn away, but pause mid-step, remembering why I came out here in the first place.

“Wait—what did my dad say? When Navya came over?”

“Navya?” Lucian’s face scrunches in confusion. Then the realization dawns. “Oh. That girl.”

Now he’s grinning. That boyish, stupid, heart-squeezing grin. Damn it. Stop being adorable. Go back to being a walking red flag.

No. Wait. Not that either. Ugh.

He tilts his head, teasing. “Are you sure you wanna know?”

I narrow my eyes. “Lucian.”

He takes a deep breath, clearly enjoying this.

“Your dad introduced me to her as...” he pauses for effect, “...his future potential son-in-law.”

Time stops.

My soul leaves my body. Faints. Revives.

Lucian is still standing there like it’s just a fun little joke while I’m internally being defibrillated.

“Goodnight, Lucian,” I mutter, turning on my heel before he sees me spontaneously combust.

Behind me, I hear him laugh softly.

Son-in-law, my ass.