My Secret Lover, Mumbai’s Rebel Piercer / Chapter 6: The Finish Line
My Secret Lover, Mumbai’s Rebel Piercer

My Secret Lover, Mumbai’s Rebel Piercer

Author: Anaya Reddy

Chapter 6: The Finish Line

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Early next morning, Aryan called to remind me to watch his race.

"Tu nahi jaanti, Patel family ka chota nawab bhi aa gaya hai mujhe race karne. Dekh, main usko hara ke dikhaunga."

"Go for it, go for it!" I cheered, finding myself actually rooting for him for once.

The stadium was packed—Aryan, flamboyant in red, strutted over surrounded by people. Vendors weaved through the crowd, selling samosas and Limca, while college students waved homemade banners for Aryan. The whole place buzzed with energy.

His fans surrounded him, whistling, someone even blowing a conch. Cameras flashed. The Patel family’s young master looked all polished, but his eyes had a cold calculation I didn’t like.

I walked over to Aryan, pretending to tidy his collar. He winked at the TV cameras, grinning like a total hero. The media went wild.

Just as I was about to step back, Aryan suddenly grabbed my hand and raised it to his lips. My eyes widened—was he really going to kiss it? Luckily, he just brushed it with his nose. Still, I had to force a smile.

"Aryan, just you wait."

I smiled for the cameras, but inside I was grinding my teeth. Aryan smoothed my hair, his own smile fake as ever.

"Tu sochti hai main act kar raha hoon? Agar tu bachpan mein itna drama nahi karti toh—hmm."

Everyone knew Aryan and I didn’t get along. When news of our engagement broke, people were shocked. So, we put on a show.

"Get lost."

I snatched my hand back and wiped it on my kurta. Aryan grabbed his helmet, using the excuse to wipe his hand too. Before getting into the car, he called back with all the swag in the world:

"Finish line pe wait karna. Phool le aana."

I waved, muttering under my breath about how fake the whole thing was.

But as I turned, I suddenly froze. The crowd was a sea of faces, but my eyes found Kabir’s instantly. The crowd’s cheers faded, replaced by the rush of blood in my ears. My feet felt rooted to the spot.

His hand was clenched at his side, veins bulging, his gaze fixed on me. The roar of engines and the chaos faded, leaving only the electric silence between us—like the hush before Mumbai monsoon thunder, all tension, no release. And in that charged silence, I realised—if I took even one step towards Kabir, nothing would ever be the same.

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