AISHWARIYA' POV
My hand trembled slightly as I inserted the key into my apartment door. Five days. I had been away from home for five days, helping Carter through the worst of his withdrawal. Cold turkey was brutal, but he had insisted. No halfway measures this time.
"I need to feel every second of this," he had told me, his voice raw. "So I never forget."
I hadn't planned to stay so long. When Olivia had called me—Carter's friend, desperate to find someone who could help him—I'd only intended to check in, maybe arrange for professional assistance. But seeing him there, alone and struggling, I couldn't leave.
The door swung open, and my heart sank. Aaron's suitcase stood in the entryway. He was supposed to be gone for another day—a business meeting in Chicago that had already taken him away for five days. I had counted on having time to shower, to gather myself, to prepare my explanation.
"Where have you been?" His voice came from the living room, deceptively calm.
I set down my bag, taking a steadying breath before walking in to face him. He sat in his favorite armchair, still in his travel clothes, his expression unreadable.
"Aaron," I managed a smile. "You're back early. How was Boston?"
"Don't change the subject." His eyes never left my face. "I've been calling you for two days. You haven't been home. The doorman said you haven't been here all week."
I slipped off my jacket, mind racing. "I had an emergency with a client. The Chen wedding—they changed venues last minute. Everything had to be redesigned."
"For five days?" He stood slowly. "You couldn't come home at all? Couldn't return my calls?"
"It was chaotic," I said, the lie feeling hollow. "You know how these destination weddings can be. The client was panicking, and you were busy with your meetings. I didn't want to bother you with work stress."
"Interesting." Aaron took a step closer. "Because I called your office yesterday. Haley said you were 'unavailable.' Not working on the Chen wedding. Just 'unavailable.'"
My mouth went dry. "Haley must have misunderstood—"
"Stop lying to me." His voice remained level, which somehow made it worse. "You were with him, weren't you? With Carter West."
The sound of Carter's name on his lips sent a chill down me. "Why would you think that?"
"Because I'm not stupid, Aish." Aaron's eyes narrowed. "I read your last message with him. When he was telling you to meet, it was good that I blocked him, but what if you went to meet him? so tell me the truth or I know my way and you know that"
"He's a client," I said quickly. "He needed help planning a book launch." I can't lie to him about this he will know
"Is that what you were doing for five days?" Aaron's laugh was bitter. "Planning a book launch?"
I stood straighter, finding my resolve. "What exactly are you accusing me of, Aaron?"
"I think you know." He moved closer, invading my space. "Did you sleep with him?"
"No!" The genuine shock in my voice seemed to give him pause. "It wasn't like that at all."
"Then what was it like?" His tone softened, becoming almost reasonable—the voice he used in courtrooms to lull witnesses into a false sense of security before the attack. "Explain to me why my fiancée disappears for nearly a week without explanation."
I couldn't tell him the truth—about finding Carter struggling with addiction, about staying to help him through the worst of the withdrawal. I had promised Carter I wouldn't tell anyone. His recovery was his story to tell, not mine.
"He's a friend who needed help," I said finally. "That's all."
"A friend." Aaron shook his head. "You don't have male friends, Aish. We agreed on that when we got engaged."
"No," I corrected quietly. "You decided that. I never agreed."
His eyes hardened. "So now you're rewriting our relationship?"
"I'm not rewriting anything," I said, fatigue making me bolder than I might normally be. "I'm just stating a fact."
Aaron moved toward me, his expression softening into something more dangerous than anger—calculated sympathy designed to make me doubt myself.
"You've always been too trusting," he said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I fought the urge to flinch. "People take advantage of that. Men, especially."
His face hardened. " You're not seeing him again."
"You can't dictate who my clients are," I reminded him. "It's my family's business."
"A business that expanded because of my connections," he countered smoothly. "Don't forget who introduced you to the Vaghelas, the Sinhas, the Patels. One word from me about your... unprofessional behavior, and half your client list disappears."
My stomach dropped. "You wouldn't."
"Try me." His eyes were cold. "This ends now, Aishwariya. Your little adventure with Carter? Over. Your independence streak? Done. You're going to remember who's been there for you all along."
In that moment, I saw Aaron clearly for perhaps the first time—not as the charming, successful man who had swept me off my feet, but as someone who had been carefully constructing a cage around me, gilded but impenetrable.
"I'm going to shower," I said quietly, unwilling to continue the fight when I was so exhausted. "We can talk about this later."
"There's nothing to talk about," he said, his tone final. "You're done with him."
That night, after Aaron had fallen asleep, I stared at the ceiling, making a decision that would change everything.
CARTER's POV
The apartment felt empty without her. Quieter. Less vibrant somehow.
I moved through the rooms, putting things back in order after the chaos of the past week. Empty soup bowls, blankets piled on the couch, books she had read to me during the worst hours when sleep wouldn't come and reality felt like it was fracturing.
Aishwariya had saved me. She had no obligation to stay, to witness the ugliness of withdrawal, to clean up after me when I couldn't even hold down water. But she had.
My phone buzzed with a text. I lunged for it, hoping it was her, but it was just Emily—my ex-girlfriend, still hovering on the edges of my life despite our breakup.
Where are you? You are not home whenever I come to meet you. we haven't seen each other for 1 week
I set the phone down after blocking her finally.
The doorbell rang, startling me. When I opened it, Olivia stood there, her expression a mixture of concern and relief.
"You look better," she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "Last time I saw you, I wasn't sure you'd make it through the night."
"I almost didn't," I admitted, closing the door behind her. "If you hadn't called Aishwariya..."
"I didn't know who else to call," she said, settling onto my couch. "Everyone else had given up on you."
"Including you?" I asked, only half-joking.
Her eyes softened. "I never gave up. I just ran out of ideas." She looked around the apartment—clean now, orderly, no evidence of the chaos from a week ago. "She really got through to you, didn't she?"
I nodded, unable to put into words what Aishwariya had done for me. It wasn't just the practical help, the staying awake through the night, the gentle encouragement. It was the way she had looked at me—like I was still worth saving, even at my worst.
"I need to thank you," I said quietly. "For telling her about... my problem. For asking her to help."
"I was desperate," Olivia admitted. "When I found you that night, you were barely conscious. The pills, the alcohol..." She shuddered at the memory. "I knew you wouldn't listen to me again
"Why her?" I asked. "You barely know her."
"I have heard the way you talk about her " Olivia said simply. "Like she was the only real person in a room full of ghosts."
I felt heat rise to my face. "She's engaged."
"I know." Olivia's expression was sympathetic. "but that does not mean she can't help you, she can be your friend right"
"Have you heard from her?" Olivia asked.
"No," I admitted. "Not since she left three days ago."
Olivia frowned. "That's not good."
"she can be busy, I think Aaron should be back till now so she could be busy"
"Maybe," Olivia conceded. "But just in case..." She pulled out her phone and sent a quick text. "I'm checking in. If something's wrong, we'll know."
Two days later, a call came from an unknown number. When I answered, a woman's voice I didn't recognize said, "Cartor? This is Priya, Aishweriya's Friend."
"Is Aishwariya okay?" I asked immediately, fear gripping me.
"She's fine," Priya assured me. "But she needs to see you. She asked me to call because..." The woman hesitated. "Because her phone is being monitored."
Cold anger washed over me. "Where and when?"
"Tomorrow at 2 PM. She'll be at her studio." Priya gave me the address. "She said to tell you it's about the sketches."
AISHWARIYA's POV
The routine had become carefully choreographed over the past week. Leave for the office normally. Have Haley cover while I slipped away to the studio I'd rented in secret. Return before Aaron could become suspicious. It was exhausting, but necessary.
The studio was small—just a converted loft above an old warehouse—but it was mine. A space Aaron knew nothing about, paid for with money from my personal savings rather than the business account he monitored.
When Carter arrived, exactly at two, I nearly dropped the brush I was holding. He looked better than when I'd left him—steadier, clearer, more himself. But there was worry in his eyes as he took in my appearance.
"You look tired," he said simply.
"Nice to see you too," I replied, attempting a smile.
"Sorry." He closed the door behind him, stepping into my secret world. "I just... Priya said your phone was being monitored?"
I set down my brush, wiping my hands on a cloth. "Aaron's been tracking my calls, my location. It's easier to use Priya's phone than to risk him finding out I contacted you."
Carter's expression darkened. "That's not normal, Aish. That's control."
"I know," I said quietly. "I'm handling it."
He looked skeptical but didn't push. Instead, he moved around the studio, taking in the canvases propped against the walls, the sketches pinned up for reference. "These are incredible," he said finally. "Are you preparing for something?"
I nodded. "A show. In three weeks. At the Westgate Gallery."
"Under your real name?"
"I'm going to stick with AP after all," I said quietly. "Like I always have."
After a long moment, he nodded. "Okay. AP, as long as you are comfortable, I am with you".
For the next hour, we moved around the studio together as I showed him each piece, explained my vision. He listened intently, asked thoughtful questions, and gradually, the tension I'd been carrying eased.
Carter sat cross-legged on the floor beside me, looking through one of my sketchbooks, his brow furrowed in concentration, then easing into laughter when he reached a caption I had forgotten about.
"You gave this woman three hands," he teased, grinning. "Was that intentional?"
"She's multitasking," I said, shrugging. "Some days I feel like I need at least six hands just to get through."
His laugh was warm, genuine, wrapping around me like a blanket. It wasn't just his words that affected me—it was the way he looked at my work, with pure appreciation untainted by judgment or expectation. Aaron had never understood my art. Had never tried to.
"What's this one about?" Carter pointed to a sketch of a woman peering through a keyhole, her face a mix of longing and fear.
"Freedom," I said softly. "Looking at it, wanting it, but being afraid to reach for it."
His eyes met mine, and something passed between us—an understanding that went beyond words. He knew what it meant to be trapped, to feel the walls closing in. To want escape but fear it simultaneously.
It was late, and I was working on a new piece while Carter watched. I leaned against his shoulder without thinking, exhausted. The solid warmth of him was comforting, familiar even though we had known each other for only a short time.
He didn't move.
I could feel his heartbeat, the slight rise and fall of his breathing. His scent—soap and coffee and something uniquely him—filled my senses. There was a gentleness to him that Aaron lacked, a vulnerability that made me feel strong rather than exploited.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For being here. For seeing something worth saving in these."
The silence between us felt like warmth. Like the possibility. I knew I should pull away—I was engaged, committed to another man, skating dangerously close to a line I had promised myself I would never cross. But in that moment, with Carter's steady presence beside me, I felt something I hadn't experienced in years—the sensation of being truly seen and accepted.
Carter's POV
I watched her work on her canvas, her movements precise and practiced. She had painter's hands—capable, expressive, never still for long. I had memorized those hands during my withdrawal, had focused on them when the pain became too much, when the craving threatened to overwhelm me.
There was paint on her cheek again. A streak of blue that looked like a smudge of sky. I reached out without thinking and gently wiped it away with my thumb. She stilled under my touch, her eyes meeting mine.
"Paint," I explained softly.
"Oh." She touched her cheek where my fingers had been. "Thank you."
The moment stretched between us, electric and fragile. I should have stepped back, maintained the careful distance we'd established. Instead, I found myself moving closer.
"You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen," I said quietly. "They change with your mood. Right now they're almost amber."
A blush spread across her cheeks. "Carter..."
"Sorry," I said, though I wasn't. "Just an observation."
She smiled then, the shy, genuine smile that made my heart race. "No one's ever noticed that before."
"I notice everything about you," I admitted. "The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're concentrating. The little hum you make when you're pleased with something you've painted. The way your whole face lights up when you talk about your art."
"You're a writer," she said, her voice slightly breathless. "You notice details."
"Not with everyone." I took another step closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. "Just you."
She set down her brush and turned to face me, so close now that I could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. "And how do you feel about me?"
"Like you've woken up something in me I thought was dead." My hand found hers, our fingers intertwining as if they'd always belonged together. "Like I want to be better, do better, because of you."
Her free hand came up to rest against my chest, right over my heart. She must have felt it pounding beneath her palm. "Carter," she whispered, my name a question and an answer all at once.
I brushed my thumb across her knuckles. "You should draw more," I said, changing the subject before I crossed a line I couldn't uncross.
She blinked, then followed my lead. "I will. After this show."
"No, I mean..." I squeezed her hand, suddenly urgent. "Even if no one sees it. Even if you hide behind a fake name. Don't stop. Don't lose that part of you again."
Her eyes met mine, wide and vulnerable. "You think I could?"
"I think you've already fought too hard not to."
She nodded slowly. Then whispered, "Thank you."
The air between us felt charged, alive with possibility. She was engaged to another man. I was barely three weeks sober. The timing couldn't have been worse. And yet, I couldn't remember the last time anything had felt so right.
I reached out, almost without thinking, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. My fingertips lingered a moment too long against her cheek, and I felt her breath catch.
"I should go," I whispered, not moving.
"Should you?" Her voice was barely audible, her eyes never leaving mine.
The distance between us seemed to shrink, though neither of us had moved. I could smell the faint scent of paint and jasmine that clung to her skin, could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes.
"Aish..." Her name on my lips felt like a confession.
She placed her hand over mine, still resting against her cheek. "What are we doing, Carter?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I can't stop thinking about you. When I'm with you, everything makes sense. When I'm not... I'm just counting the hours until I see you again."
She closed her eyes, leaning slightly into my touch. "I feel it too," she whispered. "And it terrifies me."
"We don't have to define it," I said. "We don't have to cross any lines."
Her eyes opened, meeting mine with an intensity that took my breath away. For a moment, I thought about leaning forward, about closing the distance between us. The desire was there—I could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she trembled slightly under my touch. But I didn't move. I slowly pulled my hand away from her cheek, though it took all my willpower to do so.
I helped her clean up her workspace, both of us moving in a daze, stealing glances and shy smiles. When it was time to leave, I walked her to her car, reluctant to say goodbye.
"This is complicated," she said, her keys in her hand but making no move to open her door.
"I know." I reached for her hand, intertwining our fingers. "But nothing worth having comes easy, right?"
Aishweriya's POV
The studio felt empty after Carter left. Quieter. The air still held traces of his presence—the warmth of his touch lingering on my skin, the echo of unspoken promises hanging between us.
I moved slowly around the space, touching canvases, brushes, arranging and rearranging things that didn't need to be moved. My thoughts were scattered, my heart racing. What had just happened between us?
It was more than friendship. More than gratitude or shared experiences. Something deeper was forming, something that terrified me even as it drew me in.
The memory of his fingers against my cheek made my skin tingle. How close we had come to crossing a line I had promised myself I would never cross. How part of me had wanted him to close that distance, to press his lips against mine. And how another part had been relieved when he pulled away.
I touched my cheek where his hand had been. No one had ever looked at me the way Carter did—like I was something precious, something worth fighting for. Not even Aaron, the man I was supposed to marry.
Aaron, who monitored my calls. Who tracked my location. Who saw my art as a hobby rather than the core of who I was.
Carter understood. Without my having to explain, he understood the importance of these canvases, these colors, these shapes that expressed what I couldn't say in words. He saw the real me, not just the parts that fit someone else's idea of who I should be.
A thought flickered through my mind, unbidden but impossible to ignore: What if this is what love is supposed to feel like?
I sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, and closed my eyes. The exhibition at Westgate Gallery loomed just three weeks away. My show, under a pseudonym rather than my real name. Another secret kept from Aaron, who would never understand why it mattered so much.
When Aaron found out—and he would find out—everything would change. My carefully constructed life would crumble. I should have been terrified.
Instead, I felt something strange and unexpected: relief. As if part of me had been waiting for the inevitable collapse, had been preparing for it all along.
I looked at my reflection in the studio window—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, looking more alive than I had in years. Whatever was happening with Carter was changing me, awakening parts of myself I had buried for too long.
It terrified me. And yet, I couldn't bring myself to stop it.