I didn’t even realize that she was Mannat—my Mannat! I mean, the Mannat with whom I spent my childhood? Damn, how stupid am I? What must she be thinking about me? I was sitting in a bar, lost in thought. If I hadn’t seen her picture with Rehaan on his phone wallpaper, I wouldn’t even have recognized her. How could I? She’s friends with this duffer. And every time Ayaan tried to talk about her, I always cut him off, saying I didn’t want to hear about her.
I never imagined she’d grow into such a beautiful woman, with perfect curves. The Mannat I remember was always messy, with two ponytails in her hair. Thinking about our childhood together, a smile crept onto my face.
“Kya soch raha hai?” Rehaan’s voice broke my thoughts.
“Nothing. I was just wondering what excuse I’ll give Dadi for not attending that so-called party,” I replied.
“After so many years, you came back, and not once did you tell me you were coming to India! Whenever I visited London, you were the first person I called, bloody bastard,” Rehaan said, sipping his wine while eyeing one of the dancers who was smiling at him.
“I know,” I muttered, drinking more, but my mind kept drifting to those brown eyes and innocent, luscious lips.
“Shit! Damn it!” I growled in irritation, banging my glass on the table.
“Thinking about her?” Rehaan smirked, pissing me off even more. He was right. I was completely messed up after learning that she was Mannat—the same Mannat. But what would she think about me? Why did I even care about her thoughts? I hated her, didn’t I? My inner voice mocked me, exposing the emotions I was trying to bury.
“I’m leaving,” I said abruptly, ignoring whatever Rehaan was saying, and drove straight to the mansion. The guard opened the gate, and I parked my car before heading inside. Just as I was walking to my room, I heard a voice call out to me.
“Armaan, beta…” I turned to see my mother sitting at the dining table, preparing a plate of food. She looked beautiful in her blue saree, but I didn’t want to talk to her.
“I’m not hungry,” I said, taking a step forward. She came over, holding my hand firmly.
“How can you say that? Come and eat. You haven’t even spoken to anyone since you returned. Everyone wants to meet you,” she said in a strict tone.
“Stop acting! Enough with the pretense!” I snapped, pulling my hand away. “If you cared so much, why didn’t you stop me years ago?”
“Armaan, listen—” she started, but I interrupted.
“Listen to what? About how you chose your friend’s daughter over your own son? The girl you picked over me?” I spat bitterly.
“Mannat. Her name is Mannat,” she said, meeting my eyes directly.
“Oh yes, Mannat—the one you chose. Then stay with her. For you, your eldest son is as good as dead!” I shouted, noticing the loneliness and sadness in her eyes. Without another word, I stormed to my room.
As I walked, I noticed Mannat standing in the corridor. Her expression made it clear she’d overheard our conversation. She looked everywhere except at me. Ignoring her, I went to my room, but the sound of her anklets told me she was heading to console my mother. She was the sole reason for my destruction.
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Authors pov
Mannat reached downstairs and saw Sumitra wiping her tears. Seeing her cry made Mannat feel bad, and her anger toward Armaan only grew. Controlling her urge to confront him, she approached Sumitra.
“Badi Maa, why are you upset? He’s probably just angry right now. Talk to him tomorrow. But please, don’t cry,” Mannat said gently, wiping Sumitra’s tears with her saree’s pallu. Sumitra managed a small smile at Mannat’s concern.
“It’s getting late. You should sleep now,” Sumitra said, trying to change the subject.
“You won’t cry anymore, right?” Mannat asked with innocent concern.
Sumitra laughed softly. “I won’t cry, promise.”
“Pinky promise?” Mannat offered her little finger, making Sumitra chuckle before locking her pinky with hers.
“Pinky promise! Now go to bed. Don’t you have college tomorrow?” Sumitra teased before going to her room.
Mannat, however, stood outside Armaan’s door, hesitant to knock. Remembering the incident at the party earlier, she felt scared. She didn’t want to face him ever again. But seeing Sumitra’s tears had given her the courage to confront him. He needed to understand that many people long for a mother’s love, yet he was hurting his.
As she stood lost in thought, the door suddenly opened, shocking her. Armaan stood there in a white t-shirt and black trousers, his wet hair dripping as he dried it with a towel. His broad chest and veiny arms were in full view.
“What are you doing here, standing for so long?” he asked in his rough, dominating voice, sending chills down her spine.
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