Chapter 4: A Designer Trap and a Tearful Turn

Arjun said he’d introduce me to his friends. I had that sinking feeling—like before an exam or a rishta meeting. I knew it wouldn’t be warm; he wanted to embarrass me into quitting.

Public humiliation is a Delhi sport. He probably wanted to show me off as a failure in front of his friends, all ready to judge my bag and my words.

Honestly, I was ready to quit—one last outing, one last haul. Maybe walk away with my dignity and a designer bag.

But after meeting Kabir, something felt off. The way he looked at me—extra-wide smile, too charming, like a serial villain playing nice. He even pulled out my chair. Odd, considering he usually shot daggers at me.

Rumour was his sister liked Arjun, so Kabir’s always been a bit hostile. Today, though, he was laying it on thick—flirting, complimenting my earrings, ordering my favourite food, even winking when Arjun wasn’t looking.

During the meal, he was attentive—refilling my water, offering naan, laughing at all my jokes. Even the waiter gave us side glances. I bit my tongue to keep from laughing.

Near the end, Kabir “accidentally” spilled his drink on my kurti. The sticky stain was no accident—the glint in his eyes gave it away.

He was all, "Sorry, sorry! There’s a mall next door. Let me buy you a new one."

Arjun, stone-faced, said, "I hate shopping. I’ll wait in the car. Don’t take too long." Tossed his keys, smirked, and walked away—classic Arjun.

I dabbed at my kurti, mind racing. Even a ruined kurti can be a shopping excuse in Delhi.

As Kabir fussed over the stain, he rolled up his sleeve. I caught a flash of fair skin, veins, and that bracelet. My mind jumped to the ab selfie from the DMs—dead giveaway. These boys had no idea who they were messing with.

This was the guy who sent that selfie. Everything clicked—the fake account, the flirting, the stain. I could hear Nani’s voice: “Beti, never let them see you cry.”

Their plan was poisonous, like leftover biryani in May. If they wanted drama, I’d give them a full episode—with ad breaks.

Kabir led me to the fanciest store. The AC hit me as we walked in; the salesgirl’s eyebrows shot up, already judging my juttis against the wall of branded heels.

He pointed at a little black dress worth seventy-eight thousand. I pretended not to care, tilting my head as if this was routine. The sales assistant brought over a bag I’d been eyeing on Instagram for months. My heart skipped, but I kept my face neutral.

Kabir was all compliments, leaning in, voice honey-sweet. "You have great taste, Priya. This colour suits you."

I giggled nervously, "We… seem to be meeting for the first time?"

He replied, "You’re Arjun’s fiancée, my bhabhi! What’s wrong with a gift?"

He took the bag from my hands, acting gentle. "Arjun never shops for girls. If you’re bored, come find me."

I let my cheeks flush, played shy, but then let my eyes fill with tears. The AC felt suddenly chilly, my bangles cold against my wrist. The salesgirl looked away, uncomfortable.

Kabir didn’t expect that. He handed me tissues, hands shaking. I sniffled, voice breaking. "You don’t have to waste your time. Tell Arjun I’m a gold-digger, a fickle woman."

He stammered, trying to laugh it off, but his eyes darted everywhere. I raised my hand, signalling him to stop.

"Kabir, I know you sent that photo. What else do you want—a kissing photo, a bed photo?"

He went blank, flustered. My voice choked, my shoulders shook. The drama attracted stares, as always in Delhi.

"He says I’m lovesick and annoying. But is liking someone so unforgivable?"

My words tumbled out—painful, raw, and real. Kabir looked shell-shocked, mask slipping. For the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. I smiled through my tears—let them try to break me.