Aishweriys's POV
The door slammed shut behind him. I froze in the hallway as the sound echoed through the apartment. Heavy footsteps followed.
"Aishwariya," Aaron growled, his voice cutting through the silence. "Where the hell have you been?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat and stepped into view. "I was with Priya."
"Don't lie to me." His eyes were bloodshot, his breath tinged with the sour heat of whiskey. "You think I wouldn't find out?"
He tossed something on the coffee table—it was photos of my artwork from the art show. My breath caught.
"You think I'm stupid?" he spat, voice trembling with rage. "Someone from the gallery recognized you. Said you were the artist. You've been sneaking off to draw instead of focusing on the business. On us. Then I went to the gallery and you know what I saw, your drawing style, you think I don't know your style?"
I stared at the flyer. My name wasn't on it. How had they known?
"Aaron, I—"
"You what?" he cut in, eyes flashing. "You've been lying to me for months. Sketching in secret like a child. Entering shows behind my back. What the hell were you thinking?"
"I was thinking about myself," I said softly. "For once."
He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Right. Because being a wedding planner—running your family's business—that's not enough for you? You want to waste your time with crayons and gallery dreams now?"
"It's not a waste," I said, the words edged with defiance. "It's part of who I am."
"Who you were?" he snapped, voice laced with contempt. "Before we built something real. Before you had responsibilities. Do you think your clients care that you can sketch a skyline?"
"They might care if their planner actually has a soul."
He walked toward me, slowly, the tension in his body like a drawn bow.
"You're supposed to be preparing for our future," he hissed. "Not playing pretend like you're still in college."
"This has nothing to do with pretending. It's the only time I feel real."
His face twisted with fury. "You're acting like a child."
"You treat me like one."
He slammed his fist down on the table, hard enough to make the glass rattle. "I've given you everything. This apartment. This business. My name. And you throw it away for what? A sketchpad?"
"You didn't give me everything," I fired back. "You tried to take everything else away."
He moved to our room, opened my drawer, threw all my clothes on the floor, found the canvas I had drawn, and hid that from Aaron. The one I'd covered with a sheet but hadn't had the strength to move back to the studio.
"Aaron, don't—"
But it was too late. He grabbed the sheet, yanked it down, and stared at the charcoal cityscape I'd spent weeks perfecting.
"This is what you've been hiding?" he sneered.
I didn't answer.
"You skipped meetings, lied to your parents, ignored our deadlines—for this?" He grabbed the frame. "This pathetic thing?"
"Put it down," I said, suddenly breathless. "Please."
But he smashed it to the ground. The frame cracked. The canvas tore.
"STOP!" I cried, pushing past him, but he shoved me back.
"Wake up, Aishwariya!" he shouted, voice raw with fury. "You're not some artist. You're a wedding planner. That's your job. That's your place. That's what people expect of you."
I stared down at the torn canvas. My chest ached.
"You don't get to decide that," I whispered.
He turned back to me. "Excuse me?"
"I said, you don't get to decide who I am."
He moved so fast I didn't even see it coming. A hand raised—and then the sting of skin against skin.
Silence.
Everything in the room stopped. Even him.
His face paled. "I didn't—"
But I was already stepping back.
"You did," I said. My voice was calm. Almost too calm. "You finally did."
He reached for me. "No—please, I just lost my temper. You were yelling, I—"
I moved away from his touch like it burned. "Don't. Don't turn this on me."
"Aishwariya, we're getting married. You can't walk out over this."
I walked to the coffee table. Pulled the ring from my finger. Set it down gently.
"No, you are wrong," I said. "We're not getting married."
He looked stunned. "You don't mean that."
"I do."
"Where are you going to go?" he asked, voice now desperate and bitter. "Back to your drawings? Back to your fake little gallery shows or to Carter? No one will take you seriously. You'll lose everything."
I looked around the apartment. At the broken canvas. At the man I once thought I loved.
"Then I have nothing left to lose."
I picked up my keys. My sketchbook. My courage.
And I walked out.
With that, I stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind me. The night air hit my face, cool and clean and full of possibility.
For the first time in years, I could breathe.
The rain had subsided to a gentle mist by the time I reached Carter's apartment building. I stood outside for several minutes, wondering if I was making another mistake. If I was jumping from one fire into another.
Finally, I pressed the buzzer.
No answer.
I tried again, my finger lingering longer this time.
The intercom crackled to life. "Hello?" Carter's voice sounded rough, wary.
"It's me," I said, my voice small in the empty street. "Aishwariya."
Silence. Then the door buzzed open.
I climbed the stairs slowly, my legs feeling like lead. When I reached his door, it was already cracked open. I pushed it wider, stepping into the warm light of his apartment.
Carter stood in the center of the living room, hair disheveled, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. He looked at me, taking in my wet clothes, my trembling hands, the bare finger where my engagement ring had been.
He didn't speak. Neither did I.
Instead, he crossed the room and pulled me into an embrace so gentle it nearly broke me. I sank against him, breathing in the clean scent of soap and faded cologne. No alcohol. No anger. Just Carter.
After a long moment, he pulled back, his eyes searching my face. I could see the questions he wasn't asking.
"You're soaked," he said quietly. "Let me get you something dry."
I nodded, suddenly aware of how cold I was.
He disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a faded black hoodie and sweatpants. "They'll be big, but they're clean."
"Thank you." My voice sounded distant to my own ears. And I went to the bathroom
In the bathroom, I caught sight of my reflection – pale, makeup smudged, eyes too wide. I looked like a stranger to myself. I changed quickly, folding my wet clothes into a neat pile. The hoodie smelled like him – laundry detergent and something uniquely Carter.
When I emerged, he was in the kitchen, filling a kettle.
"Tea?" he asked.
"Please."
He nodded, setting two mugs on the counter. "Chamomile okay? It's all I have besides coffee."
"That's perfect."
Neither of us spoke as he prepared the tea. The silence wasn't uncomfortable – it was a respite from the cacophony of the past hours.
He handed me a steaming mug and gestured toward the couch. "Sit. Please."
I sat on one end of the worn sofa. He took the other, keeping a careful distance between us. I appreciated that – the space, the lack of pressure.
"I left him," I said finally. The words felt strange in my mouth, like speaking a new language.
Carter's eyes met mine. "Are you okay?"
It was such a simple question, but it undid me. Tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision.
"I don't know," I whispered. "I don't think I've been okay for a long time."
He nodded, his expression grave. "What happened?"
"he just got so angry about the art show." I stared into my tea, watching the steam rise.
Carter's jaw tightened. "Did he hurt you?"
"Not physically. I mean, he sure slapped me. " I traced a finger along the rim of my mug. "But he also destroyed my paintings. My sketchbooks. Years of work, just... gone."
"Jesus," Carter breathed. "Aish, I'm so sorry." I am going to kill that bastard, and he put his hand on my cheek, and just there, I just felt safe
"Don't worry about that, I think that's what I needed to leave him, I mean it's my fault. I should have left a long time ago. Before it got this bad."
"No." His voice was firm. "Don't do that, it's not your fault."
I looked up at him. "I chose him, Carter. I stayed with him even when I knew something was wrong."
"We all make choices we need to survive." His eyes held no judgment. "Sometimes the hardest part is recognizing when survival isn't enough anymore."
"I felt that tonight," I said softly. "When he raised his hand, something inside me just... woke up."
Our eyes met across the couch, and something passed between us – recognition, understanding.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Anything."
"Why did you only listen to me? Out of all the people you could have, I mean, Olivia was there, Sebastian was there?"
Carter's fingers tapped lightly against his mug. "Because I feel like you understand me, and you are the only person who will be there holding my hand. I believe in life, but I know she would have forced me to go to Rehab, but you won't, and also because you were the only one who had seen me when I wanted to go away from everyone."
A memory stirred at the edge of my consciousness. "What do you mean?"
He hesitated. "We've met before. A long time ago."
"Before the wedding?"
"Eight years ago." His voice quieted. "On a rooftop."
I went still, the mug halfway to my lips. "The rehab center."
"You remember."
"I was visiting my uncle. He was a patient there." I closed my eyes, the memory coming into focus. "I couldn't sleep. I went up to the roof to sketch, and there was someone already there."
"A skinny kid with track marks and shaking hands," Carter said. "I was three days clean and climbing the walls."
"You were sitting on the ledge." The image came back clear as glass. "I thought you might jump."
"I was thinking about it." His honesty was stark. "Then you sat next to me, pulled out your sketchbook, and started drawing the stars."
"I remember your hands were shaking so badly."
"But you didn't mention it. You just said—"
"'Let the lines go where they want to go.'" I finished his sentence. "I had no idea that was you."
"I didn't tell you my name. You said—"
"Names are heavy things. They come with stories."
"And we both had too many stories already."
I set down my mug, feeling slightly dizzy with the revelation. "All this time... how did you know it was me? At the gallery?"
"No, at Sebastian and Olivia's wedding," he said, his eyes softening with the memory. "But I wasn't sure because I was... not myself eight years ago. I couldn't be certain until I saw your art in your studio."
"My art?" I asked, puzzled.
"That series you have hanging in the back corner. The abandoned buildings." His eyes held mine. "Especially the one with two shadows on the edge of a rooftop."
My breath caught. The painting he referred to—one of my most personal works—showed an urban rooftop bathed in moonlight, with two silhouettes perched on the ledge, their shadows stretching long behind them. I'd painted it shortly after my encounter at the rehab center, never telling anyone its true inspiration.
"That piece..." My voice trembled slightly. "I painted it a few weeks after that night. I never thought the stranger from the rooftop would see it."
"It captured everything about that moment," Carter said quietly. "The night air, the strange peace we found. When I saw it hanging in your studio, I knew without any doubt. It was you."
"Aaron destroyed it." My voice broke. "It was my favorite piece, so I kept it hidden. But he found it tonight."
Carter reached across the space between us, his hand stopping just short of mine. "I'm sorry. I know how much your art means to you."
"It was just a canvas," I said, though my heart contradicted my words.
"No, it wasn't." His eyes held mine. "It was a piece of you."
Something warm unfurled in my chest. "You understand."
"I do." He hesitated. "When I saw you again at the gallery, it felt like... I don't know. Like a circle closing. Like something incomplete finally making sense."
"I felt it too," I admitted. "Even before I knew who you were. I felt safe with you."
"You are safe with me." The simple conviction in his voice nearly undid me. "Always."
"I don't know what happens now," I confessed. "Everything I've built with Aaron – my career, my connections, my home – it's all gone."
"Not everything." Carter's voice was soft but certain. "You still have your talent. Your vision. Your courage. Those are yours. They always have been."
"Aaron says I'll never make it without him. That he created me."
"He's wrong." Carter's eyes flashed with quiet anger. "He didn't create you. He just took credit for what was already there."
I felt tears threatening again. "I don't even have a place to sleep tonight."
"You do," Carter said. "Here. The couch is comfortable. I've spent enough nights on it to know."
"I can't impose on you like that."
"It's not an imposition." He smiled slightly. "Consider it repayment for that night on the rooftop when you talked to a stranger until the sun came up. or for taking care of a druggie for 5 days"
"You don't owe me for that."
"I do." His voice softened. "And I want to help. No strings, no expectations. Just a safe place to land."
I studied him, this man who had once been a boy on the edge of oblivion. "Why are you doing this, Carter? Really?"
He considered my question carefully. "Because eight years ago, you saw me when I was invisible. You showed me kindness when I didn't deserve it. And now also you helped me when you didn't even know me well."
"Everyone deserves kindness."
"That's exactly what I mean." His eyes held mine. "You still believe that, even after everything."
We fell silent, the space between us humming with unspoken words.
"I should have recognized you," I said finally. "At the wedding"
"We were different people then."
"Were we?" I tilted my head, considering him. "Or were we exactly who we are now, just... unfinished?"
Something in his expression shifted, softened. "Maybe both."
"I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow," I admitted. "If I could do it alone"
"You're not alone this time," Carter said. "Whatever you decide, whatever you need – I'm here."
"For how long?"
His eyes never left mine. "For as long as you want me to be."
The weight of his words settled between us, heavy with possibility.
Slowly, hesitantly, I moved my hand across the couch cushion. My fingers brushed his, a question in the touch.
Carter turned his palm upward, an answer.
Our fingers intertwined, and the trembling in both our hands gradually stilled.
"You know I was just waiting for you to remember me ... you are someone that I've been waiting to meet again."
"And now that you have?"
He smiled, the first full smile I'd seen from him. "Now I am not letting her go, I mean, now I know her name too."
The air between us seemed to thicken with unspoken words. My heart pounded against my ribs as I found myself leaning toward him, drawn by something beyond my control. Carter moved closer until our foreheads touched, the warmth of his skin against mine sending electricity down my spine.
"This feels..." I hesitated, searching for the right words, "wrong and right at the same time. Like I'm breaking rules I didn't know existed."
His eyes, dark and intent, held mine. "Yes," he breathed, understanding exactly what I meant.
His hand came up to my cheek, fingers barely grazing my skin, giving me every opportunity to pull away.
I didn't.
Instead, I closed the final distance between us. Our lips met softly at first, a tentative exploration. Then something shifted—a dam breaking, years of unconscious longing rushing through. My hands found their way to his hair as his arm circled my waist, pulling me closer.
The kiss deepened, becoming something hungry, desperate. I could taste the coffee on his tongue, feel the slight stubble on his jaw beneath my fingertips. His hand slid to the nape of my neck, holding me like something precious and wild.
When we finally parted, both breathless, I kept my eyes closed, savoring the sensation of his forehead still pressed against mine, the rhythm of his breath against my skin.
"I think I started falling on that rooftop," he murmured. "And I never stopped."
I opened my eyes to find him watching me with wonder, as though I were a constellation he'd been trying to map for years.
Carter smiled against my palm, then gently pulled me back to him. This time when our lips met, it wasn't with desperation but with certainty—the difference between falling and flying.