CHAPTER:5

Three weeks.

No calls.

No sightings.

No word.

Just silence thick enough to cut with a knife.

But you don’t let someone like kaira vanish. Not when she’s under your skin. Not when she’s tangled in every nerve, every brushstroke, every damn dream.

So I did what she would never expect.

I opened the gallery.

My family owned two spaces in Mumbai—rented to up-and-coming artists, curated for profit. I never used them. Never cared. They were investments, not passion.

Until now.

I picked the smaller one in Kala Ghoda.

Intimate. Dark floors. White walls.

Then I filled it with her.

Not pictures of kaira,Not photographs but a

Paintings.

Raw. Fevered. Filthy. Tender.

Kaira looking over her shoulder, naked, a silk tie in her hand.

Kaira with her mouth slightly parted, lashes heavy, fingers gripping white sheets.

Kaira curled in my lap, her expression unreadable—half lust, half something else.

And then—the final piece.

Kaira walking away. Just her back. Hair loose. A suitcase in one hand, her other hand reaching behind her, fingers almost touching someone unseen.

That was the one I hung alone. Center spotlight.

I didn’t name the collection.

Just titled the show: "Five Nights."

Private invite only. Limited viewing. Every major collector in Mumbai got a ticket.

And so did Mira.

Because I knew Mira would bring her.

I dressed sharp that night. Black-on-black. No tie. Just tension. I stood near the back, near the bar, pretending to be part of the furniture while voices murmured in front of my sins.

“Is she real?”

“The emotion’s brutal.”

“It’s too erotic to be pretend.”

“Looks like he was in love.”

“Or still is.”

And then I felt it.

Her.

She walked in like she owned the city again.

Black saree. Backless blouse. Minimal jewelry. But her eyes—those eyes were fire and fury and fear.

Mira trailed behind her, smug and silent.

Kaira looked at the first painting.

Stopped.

Didn’t blink.

Moved to the second. Then third.

Her shoulders tensed. Her throat bobbed.

And when she reached the final one—the one of her walking away—she froze.

Didn’t move for a full minute.

Then turned.

Her eyes found mine.

Everything else melted.

She walked toward me slow. Deliberate. Each step louder than any heartbeat.

When she stopped in front of me, I saw it—not anger.

Pain.

“You painted me,” she said, voice like broken silk.

“I felt you,” I said. “Then lost you. This was the only way I knew how to keep you.”

“You showed them my body. My mouth. My—”

“I showed them my truth.”

She shook her head. “You shouldn’t have.”

I stepped closer. “You shouldn’t have left.”

She blinked, fast. “You think this is love? Lust dressed in oil and canvas?”

“No,” I said. “This—” I pointed to the center piece, the one of her walking away—“is love. The kind that stays even when you don’t.”

Tears welled, but didn’t fall.

“I don’t know how to love,” she whispered. “I only know how to survive.”

“Then survive with me.”

She looked away. “I’m still scared.”

“Good,” I said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “That means it’s real.”

And then I kissed her.

In the middle of the gallery. In front of strangers, collectors, whispers.

She kissed me back like she was drowning.

Like she finally let go.

And when we broke apart, her fingers slid into mine.

No more contracts.

No more running.

Just us.

She didn’t leave the next morning.

For the first time since the first night, I woke up with her still beside me.

No robe. No heels. No mask.

Just kaira . Naked, tangled in my sheets, her head on my chest, her breath warm against my skin.

I didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

Her fingers trailed down my ribs in soft, lazy circles. She wasn’t asleep. Just quiet.

I ran my hand through her hair. “You stayed.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“I kept waiting for the urge to run.”

I kissed the top of her head. “And?”

“It never came.”

I smiled. “Maybe we’re both broken.”

She looked up at me, chin resting just below my collarbone. “You don’t seem broken.”

“Trust me,” I said. “I’ve just always had money to hide it behind.”

She snorted softly. “At least you’re honest now.”

“I was always honest. Just... not with myself.”

Her hand slipped lower. Past my navel. Fingers slow, teasing.

“I like this version of you,” she whispered.

“Which one?”

“The one who paints women instead of playing them.”

I rolled her onto her back, my thigh between hers, hand cupping her jaw. “You think I painted women?”

She arched a brow. “Didn’t you?”

“No, Kaira,” I murmured, kissing the hollow of her throat. “I painted you. Again,and again, and again. Because I don’t want anyone else.”

Her breath caught.

I slid down, kissing her breasts, her stomach, her hip bones.

“You’re saying dangerous things,” she said, voice shaky.

“Then stop me.” i said but she didn’t.

Her legs opened beneath me.

I kissed her like I was starving.

She gasped when my mouth reached her, her fingers buried in my hair, body trembling as I devoured her slow and deep, until she came against my tongue with a cry that sounded like my name.

I didn’t stop.

I made her come again—this time with my fingers and lips in tandem, until she was breathless, drenched, wrecked.

And then I slid into her.

No protection. No barrier. Just skin. Sweat. Truth.

It was the first time we didn’t use anything between us.

She didn’t stop me,she watched me.

Like she needed to see me fall apart inside her. And I did.

I held her thighs apart, drove into her slow and deep, sweat dripping onto her chest, our mouths crashing again and again in open, needy kisses.

We didn’t say I love you.

But it was in every moan, every shiver, every time she whispered, “Don’t stop.”

Afterward, she lay with her back to me, my arm around her waist, our bodies a mess of heat and need.

Then she said, quietly, “I’m not used to softness.”

“You were never hard with me,” I whispered.

“I tried to be. But you made it impossible.”

I smiled into her hair. “I’ll take that as a win.”

She twisted around. Her eyes met mine.

“No more running?” I asked.

“No more hiding,” she said.

Then she kissed me.

Not like a woman desperate,not like a rival or a fantasy or a contract.

She kissed me like mine.

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