"Do I really have to do this?"

I thought to my self as we stepped out of the car, and the cool night air did absolutely nothing to chill the anxiety simmering beneath my skin. He walked ahead with that infuriatingly calm stride, like he wasn’t helping me commit social suicide.

I trailed behind, muttering to myself, “Great. Amazing. This is how people ended up on true crime podcasts. Pata nahi kyu hi is par bharosa kar raha hu mai. Bhagvan bachaye mujhe."

He shot me a look over his shoulder. “Relax. No red strings. Not yet.”

I glared at his back. “Not helping. At all."

He unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping aside like a gentleman. Or a villain in a Netflix thriller.

I cautiously walked in, half-expecting to be greeted by dim lighting and a creepy mannequin in the corner. But instead...

“Wait. What the .....” I blinked.

The place was spotless. Not a sock on the floor. Not a single cushion out of place. Everything was... minimal. Clean. Sterile.

“This doesn’t look like a serial killer’s place,” I muttered.

He arched a brow. “Disappointed?”

“A little,” I admitted. “Where’s the chaos? Where’s the personality?”

"Hidden. Like my mysteries," he said, smirking.

I snorted before I could stop myself.

He gestured to the couch. “Sit. Don’t worry, it doesn’t bite.”

I eyed it suspiciously before sitting down. He took the seat across from me like we were about to negotiate world peace.

“So,” he began, lacing his fingers together. “Let's start with the basics."

"Seriously?” I blinked. “No hospitality? Not even water? A suspicious glass of orange juice? Poison, maybe?"

"I don't do formalities," he said flatly. "But if you want something, the kitchen’s that way. Make yourself as comfortable as you can. Raid the fridge. Poison optional."

I gave him a long, unimpressed stare. “Wah. Mehmaan-nawazi ho to aisi. Itni toh kidnappers bhi izzat dete honge hostage ko.”

He shrugged. "I'm not here to impress. I’m here to make sure your little plan doesn’t crash and burn in five seconds."

“Charming,” I said dryly.

He leaned back, arms spread lazily along the back of the couch, studying me with unsettling ease.

"So," he said again, tone almost playful now, "Favorites. Go."

I squinted. “What am I? A BuzzFeed quiz?”

"Answer the questions, Yohan."

I sighed dramatically, flopping back against the couch. "Fine. Dogs over cats. Winter over summer. Coffee over tea. And if you put pineapple on pizza, you’re dead to me."

He smirked. “Good. I hate pineapple pizza.”

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. "Convenient."

"Or destiny," he said with a wink.

"Favorite food?”

“Why? Planning to cook for me?" I smirked. “Just so you know domestic fantasy isn’t included in the package."

"Ohh Please," he scoffed. "I don't cook. Just need to know what to pretend to order for you if your family inevitably forces us into a meal.”

I sighed, dropping my head back against the couch dramatically. “Pasta. Simple. But not the white sauce one. Too creamy. Makes me feel like I’m being suffocated. Like edible betrayal.”

He chuckled. “Got it. No betrayal pasta. What’s your dog’s name?”

I blinked. “I don’t have a dog.”

He tilted his head slightly, brow raised. “But you had one growing up though, right?”

I narrowed my eyes, something prickling at the back of my mind. “Yeah. His name was Pluto. Golden retriever. He died when I was twelv—wait.”

I sat up straighter, gaze sharpening. “Wait a second... how do you know that?”

The smirk on his face didn’t vanish fast enough.

“I—uh—just assumed, you know..... uh lucky guess?” he said casually, a little too quickly. “You seem like the kind of person who’d have a golden retriever. You know... golden boy, golden dog. It tracks.”

I didn’t push.But I noticed.

The slip. The lie.

The ease with which he covered it up only made it worse. Like he’d done it before. Like lying came as naturally to him as breathing.

I leaned back slowly, watching him with a blank face, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips—but it didn’t reach my eyes.

“Sure,” I said finally. “Lucky guess indeed.”

And we moved on.

After that awkward silence I cleared my throat. “Okay. Your turn.”

He nodded. “Ask.”

"Why do you live alone?" I asked, tilting my head like a nosy neighbor.

"You’re obviously not some broke nobody — the clothes, the attitude, the whole I-own-the-city aura? You practically scream 'mafia heir.' So what’s the story? Apartment over a palace — bold choice."

He stilled, jaw tightening like he was physically holding back a punch.

"You’re the one who said we needed to ‘bond’ or whatever," I said, tossing his own words back at him.

"So, spill it. What’s your grand reason?"

His gaze pinned me in place — calm, lethal, and somehow so heartbreakingly tired."Because it’s easier," he said flatly.

"Easier than what?" I challenged, because apparently, I had no sense of self-preservation.

He didn’t hesitate. "Easier than pretending I have a family worth going back to."

Yeah.

That shut me up faster than a slap to the face.

He stood abruptly, walking toward the kitchen. “Want anything? Water? Whiskey? Something to forget the weight of emotional trauma?”

I blinked. “Uh... water’s fine.”

He came back with two glasses and handed me one. I stared at the liquid like it held answers.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Define okay,” I said. “Because if it’s crying in a billionaire’s apartment while planning a fake relationship to get disowned by my overprotective family, then yes. I’m thriving.”

He chuckled. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m aware.”

We sat in silence for a beat, sipping water like it was therapy.

"You know this might actually work,” he said after a while.

I gave him a look. “You think?”

“You’re dramatic. I’m emotionally repressed. It’s perfect.”

I smiled for the first time in what felt like hours. “God help us both.”

He raised his glass. “To chaos.”

I clinked mine with his. “And questionable life choices.”

We sat there in his oddly perfect apartment, glasses in hand, silence settling between us like dust in a museum—too delicate to disturb.

“So…” I said, breaking the stillness. “Do you always look this emotionally constipated, or is it just a special look you’re saving for me?”

He snorted. “Oh no, this is my default. If I smiled too much, people might think I’m friendly.”

“God forbid.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not exactly sunshine yourself."

I watched him for a second—his posture, relaxed; his face, unreadable. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Oh? What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know… More tattoos. Some illegal weapons. Definitely more glaring.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re not what I expected either.”

“And what did you expect?”

“Someone more… spoiled. Dramatic. Naïve.”

“I am dramatic,” I said.

He gave me a half-smile. “True. But you’re also kind of heartbreaking.”

That stopped me.

“I’m not trying to be,” I said quietly.

“I know.”

There was a pause.

“I won't lie when I say I love my family,” I said, more to the empty space between us than to him. “ I do. But sometimes love feels like… a cage. One you can’t break without breaking something inside you too.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just watched me with those too-perceptive eyes.

"My brother used to sneak into my room when I had nightmares,” I continued. “Read to me until I fell asleep. And now? He barely looks at me unless it’s about business. My dad—he used to pick me up from school every Friday, no matter how busy he was. Now he doesn’t even know my favorite color.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your favorite color.”

“…Midnight blue.”

He nodded. “Fitting.”

I chuckled, bitter. “They all think I’m fragile. Like I’ll break if I step outside their perfect plan. I chose architecture because it was the least offensive thing I could think of. But even then, they acted like I wanted to join a cult. My dad… he still thinks I’ll grow out of being an architect. Like it’s a teenage phase. As if wanting to create something with my own hands is childish.”

"You have no idea how hard I had to fight just to pursue architecture. My family thinks I’ll get crushed under falling bricks or something dramatic like that.”

Sarvansh scoffed. “Yeah? If you can stage a whole fake relationship just to get disowned, I can’t even imagine what stunts you pulled to study architecture.”

I chuckled. “Oh, trust me—you really don’t want to know.”

He tilted his head slightly, amused. “Still... isn’t it kind of nice? That your family cares that much? That you’re that important to them?”

"That’s the problem,” I said, softer this time. “I don’t want to be their most important thing. I just want to be... normal. Just once.”

His smile faded, and his eyes shifted forward, staring into the room with that blank, unreadable expression again. The kind that made me feel like there were whole chapters of him I hadn’t even glimpsed.

“You should appreciate it,” he said quietly. “Not everyone gets that kind of affection from their family.”

"Yeah, I know,” I murmured. “But I just wanted space. A little time to be my own person. To explore the world on my terms. But they wouldn’t even let me breathe without bodyguards shadowing me."

"I have to sneak out just to breathe some quiet air. I even sneaked out of my room tonight, too. While they think I’m tucked in, dreaming sweet little dreams or something. Meanwhile, I’m out here staging a betrayal plot against them which is worthy of a Netflix original."

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure the family drama is properly documented. Can’t let a good crisis go to waste.”

I gave a sad smile."Yeah? Sure.... So if there’s a chance—even a small one—to finally live the life I want, just once... I’ll take it.”

I looked at him. My voice dropped. “Even if it means faking a relationship. Even if it means getting disowned. I want to do everything I’ve been told not to do. Then, one day, I’ll go back. I’ll tell them they were right. That we broke up. That I’ve learned my lesson. And they’ll accept me again. Because as much as I love them. They also love me the same. And they will probably became more protective than they already are."

A beat passed. I let out a slow, bitter sigh.

"After that... I’ll marry whoever they choose. I know it sounds harsh. Manipulative, even. But I don’t have any other option.”

When I finally looked back at him, Sarvansh was staring at me.

Not mockingly. Not with pity.

But like he saw through every layer I thought I’d hidden.

And for once, he didn’t say a word.

Just sat there in silence, the weight of my truth settling between us like a fragile truce.

And then, because I couldn’t stand the intensity, I blurted, “Okay, now ask something ridiculous. Balance the mood. Go.”

He blinked, surprised. For a second, it looked like he might actually think about it seriously — which, honestly, scared me more than the previous conversation.

Then he smirked. “Alright. If you were a vegetable, which one would you be?”

I stared at him. “Are you serious right now?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Deadly.”

I pressed a hand to my forehead dramatically. “God. I’m fake-dating a maniac.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, watching me with an amused gleam in his eyes. “Well? What’s the answer, Mr. Future Escapee of the Year?”

I sighed heavily, playing along. “Fine. I’d be... a potato.”

He laughed — an actual laugh, low and unexpected. “Why?”

“Versatile. Survives anything. Deeply unimpressive at first glance but secretly everyone’s favorite.” I tossed him a smug look. “Your turn.”

Without missing a beat, he said, “Chili pepper.”

“Of course,” I muttered. “Spicy, extra, and causes unnecessary pain.”

He grinned wider. “You’re catching on.”

I shook my head, letting out a reluctant laugh. The tension that had wrapped around my chest like barbed wire loosened, just a little.

Just enough.

But that nagging suspicion from earlier?

It didn’t leave.It just slipped quietly to the back of my mind, waiting for the right moment to strike.

I narrowed my eyes. “You enjoy this, don’t you? Messing with people.”

“Only when they look this good while being messed with,” Sarvansh shot back, leaning lazily on the armrest.

“Ugh,” I groaned, throwing his hands up. “How does anyone take you seriously?”

“They don’t,” He said casually.

I squinted at him. “But seriously. You’ve got this mysterious, dark-and-brooding vibe going. What’s your big secret? Let me guess. You collect porcelain dolls?”

He stood up.

"No,” he said casually. “ I just have a crush on someone who isn't aware of it." he said.

The words fell into the room like a bomb, silent at first — then deafening.

I stared at him. “Wait… what?”

He didn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he busied himself with the cuff of his sleeve, like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

“You have a crush?” I repeated. “On someone?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. Almost too quietly.

I felt the ground shift beneath me.

“Then why are you doing this?” I demanded, harsher than I meant to be. “Why agree to fake-date me if your heart’s already somewhere else?”

He lifted his gaze then — and it was almost unbearable, the way he looked at me. Like he wanted to say something but had already decided I wouldn’t understand.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” he said, voice low. “That... wasn’t going anywhere. And you... you were desperate.”

My chest squeezed painfully. “So what? You’re just—what? Playing knight in shining Armani? Saving the poor fool who thought this was a good idea?”

He stayed silent, the muscles in his jaw ticking.

And somehow, the silence hurt worse than any answer he could have given.

I stood up, heart pounding. “You should’ve said no.”

“You should’ve asked someone who didn’t care,” he murmured, almost too soft for me to hear.

It hit like a slap.

“This was a mistake.”

“I warned you,” he said, voice ragged around the edges.

I turned toward the door. My hand was on the handle when I said it — the final nail in whatever-this-was.

“I don’t care who your mystery crush is, Sarvansh,” I said without looking back. “But don’t lie to me while helping me lie to my family. That’s one layer of bullshit too many.”

And with that, I left.