Saanvi Khanna — POV
There's a strange kind of comfort in routine.
The way he always texts me before leaving the office — "On my way."
The faint chime of the elevator before he steps into the penthouse.
The glass of red wine waiting on the counter, always half full, always the same brand.
The way his hand instinctively finds the small of my back, like it's muscle memory — like it belongs there.
But lately, that comfort feels… rehearsed.
Like he's reading from a script he's practiced too many times. Every smile too precise, every touch perfectly timed.
I tell myself I'm overthinking. That I've been tired, distracted, imagining patterns where none exist. But ever since that night at the warehouse, the air between us has changed — sharp where it used to be soft, cold where it used to hum with something quiet and real.
Aaryan has been… different. Quieter. Sharper around the edges. Like a man wearing gentleness as armor. And when Aaryan tries too hard to be soft, it means he's hiding something.
The thought haunts me as I sit at his desk, surrounded by the clean scent of cedar and ink. The skyline stretches beyond the glass walls, a thousand city lights blinking like they know more than I do.
He'd asked me to look through some contracts — routine stuff, he'd said, his tone easy, disarming. So I did what I always do. I trusted him.
At first, everything looks normal. Pages of corporate jargon, familiar clauses, standard agreements. Until my eyes land on a name that freezes the air in my lungs.
Viraj Khanna.
My father's name.
I blink. Once. Twice. Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe it's someone else. But the more I read, the harder it becomes to breathe.
The document isn't simple. It's layered — masked under multiple holdings, transfer of equity, something old, something carefully buried.
A chill creeps up my spine. I flip through the pages faster now, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. Then I see it.
My name.
My credentials.
My digital signature.
For a moment, the world tilts.
He used me.
The folder slips from my hands and lands with a dull thud on the glass desk. I stare at it like it's radioactive. My vision blurs, tears stinging, but I blink them away.
Did I… did I help him do something illegal?
Or worse — did I just become part of something meant to hurt my own father?
I don't even hear the elevator at first. Just the low sound of footsteps behind me. The air shifts, charged and familiar.
"Aaryan."
He stops in the doorway, eyes landing first on the open folder, then on me. His expression hardens, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze.
"Saanvi," he says quietly. Measured. Too careful.
"Why," I whisper, my voice trembling, "why is my father's name in your files?"
His jaw tightens. One tick. Two.
"You weren't supposed to see that," he says finally.
And that's it. The confirmation. The admission.
I push up from the chair so fast it screeches across the marble floor. "So it's true?" My voice cracks. "You were using me?"
He doesn't lie. Doesn't even try.
"I was."
The words slice clean through me. I flinch as if struck. "You used me to get to him."
"Yes."
It's brutal in its simplicity. No excuses. No softening.
My throat tightens. "And now?"
There's a pause. A shallow breath. His eyes soften — that dangerous softness I once thought was love.
"I don't know anymore."
I laugh, a hollow, trembling sound. "You don't know?"
The tears finally win. They sting, but I don't let them fall. I won't give him that.
"I trusted you," I say, and the words taste like ash.
He steps closer, hesitating. "And somewhere in the middle of all this," he murmurs, "I started trusting you too. That wasn't the plan."
I shake my head. "You planned to break me."
"I planned to destroy him," he admits, voice low. "You were collateral. You were supposed to be cold, spoiled, untouchable. But you weren't." His gaze finds mine, raw and unguarded. "You were fire, Saanvi. You were real."
My heart twists painfully. "You don't get to make this poetic," I whisper. "You used me."
He exhales shakily, as if words won't help anymore. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach for me — but he doesn't.
"I'm sorry," he says finally. And somehow, it's worse than if he'd lied.
Silence stretches between us — thick, heavy, final. The kind that splits things open and leaves nothing but truth.
"I need air," I whisper.
He doesn't stop me. He just stands there, watching, as I walk past him. The weight of his stare burns into my back.
And as the elevator doors close between us, I can feel it — that ache, that fracture, that cruel, unspoken thing between us.
He's watching the only thing he never meant to want… slip through his fingers.
And I'm walking away from the only man who ever made betrayal feel like love.