Dil Beparwah | ✔

eighteen

||CHAPTER 18||
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┊V A R U N┊

There was nothing more competitive than two judgmental socialites craving for gossip, and now I had the pleasure of watching it live. Standing with me on the balcony was Aryan Oberoi—the primary reason behind Raman Oberoi having no next of kin to overlook company operations. In his teens, Aryan had expressed his interest in a discipline that his grandmother supported, and in his twenties, he no longer expressed any interest in the family company.

He was the man she had been talking to when I was being introduced to his grandmother, and I couldn't quite pin if she was surprised to see me, or if that ghost of a smile she had hooked me with wasn't pretentious after all.

Well, mine wasn't. Mrs. Oberoi was fawning over Esha and saying something about her grandson too. I was listening to her, but my attention? Holy. Shit.

And even now, watching her storm into the wide verandah, a narrow length of her sari flowing behind her, amused me. Snatching the flute of wine that Aryan had been sipping from, she tipped her head back and chugged it all down. I could tell that she was unaware of my presence. Not once did she look anywhere but at her step-cousin and the glass of red wine. She handed it back to him, breathing heavily. "I fùçķìng hate him so much!"

Aryan shifted in his feet, humoring her. "Honey, I'm gonna need options if you want me to play fill-in-the-blanks with you."

Eyes closed, she lifted her face towards the sky, fanning her neck with one hand. The dial of her watch—which surprisingly I seemed to have a memory of—glinted as it slid down her wrist, and on their own accord, my eyes explored. The earrings looked heavy, dangling lightly when she moved her hair behind her shoulder. A matching, broad studded piece was clasped around her throat this time, resting just below her neck, and though the moonlight was enough to make out the color, I couldn't tell if it was gold or pink—was she obsessed with confusing shades?

"Whenever he talks," the skin of her neck bobbed as she spoke, "all I can focus on is the leopard printed frame of his glasses."

"Don't attack my uncle like that! Those glasses are atrocious. They suit his personality."

Arvika giggled, shoulders shaking lightly. A graceful, tired sound. Pleasant. All pausing to a halt when he spoke again. "Now, stop being so rude and meet Varun who isn't Esha's boy-toy afterall."

That was also the first thing he asked me when he singled me out from a socialite debate only to be mocking them later and I don't know which one of us was more relieved when I had denied those claims.

However, what interested me more at this very moment was the tint on Arvika's cheeks—which I doubt was a result of the makeup and moon light. Her eyes squeezed shut, lips pursing to one side, nose scrunching up, a hint of embarrassment lacing her features before turning her face in my direction, probably noticing for the first time a third presence in the balcony. Leaning against the railing, I waved at her once. Mocking her. Reveling in her flustered state, yet again. Eyes darting to her face from the dip of hips, artful drapery of the sari teasing anyone who peeked.

Aryan probably didn't notice our discreet exchange, for he was being called inside. "Please excuse me, my grandmother can't help but show me off." That sure sounded air-headed and conceited, but judging from the eye-roll he received from Arvika, it probably was some modest taunt aimed at her.

It was only after he walked inside, did she step closer, replacing him. I brought my wine to my lips, resting an elbow on the railing. Didn't bother looking away from her, and it didn't look like she wanted me to, either. The sleeves of her blouse consisted of a thin strap, barely covering the balls of her shoulder, the swells of her chest peeking seductively from beneath the mesh of her sari.