My Alpha Hubby

It had been five years since Rhea Kapoor last saw him. Five years since she buried her heart behind designer smiles, high-end bridal events, and a life curated so perfectly, even grief didn’t dare knock. But tonight—tonight the ghosts didn’t need permission. Because he was here. Armaan Raichand. The man who once held her under the stars and swore she was his forever. The man who vanished the next morning without a word. The ballroom was already buzzing when Rhea stepped into The Imperial Hotel’s grand atrium, her heels clicking confidently against marble. Her white silk dress shimmered under the chandeliers, and every head turned. She liked it that way. She lived for the performance now—flawless makeup, cold poise, no one could see the ruins beneath the luxury. Until her eyes met his. He stood across the room like he belonged to another world—one with darker suits, colder eyes, and power thick in the air. Armaan’s jawline was still sharp, his frame broader now. That same commanding aura surrounded him, but this time, it was less boyish charm, more dangerous dominance. Like a wolf wearing a tailored Armani suit. And worst of all? He didn’t even look surprised. He just tilted his glass of whiskey in her direction. Mocking. Remembering. Her fingers curled tightly around her clutch. This was the Raichand-Mehra merger event, a billion-dollar wedding she’d been hired to plan. The most high-profile contract of her career. Walking away wasn’t an option, no matter how fast her heart beat or how vividly her body still remembered every stolen kiss, every night tangled in his sheets. She was a professional now. Not the girl he left broken in a hotel suite with nothing but memories and mascara stains. “Miss Kapoor,” a voice broke her trance. Her assistant, Pia, leaned in. “The Raichands are requesting a few last-minute changes to tomorrow’s walk-through. They’re—well, Mr. Raichand is insisting on speaking with you personally.” Of course he was. “Fine,” Rhea said, exhaling softly. “Schedule the meeting.” Pia looked nervous. “He’s requesting it… now.” --- The private lounge smelled like cedarwood and dominance. Rhea stepped in, back straight, heart braced. Armaan stood near the bar, pouring himself another drink. No security, no entourage. Just him, like he’d been waiting. “Still drinking Glenlivet,” she said casually. He turned, and that lazy smile spread across his lips. “Still watching me closely.” “Just observant.” She walked toward the couch, not giving him the satisfaction of her trembling hands. “Let’s get this over with. You wanted changes?” He sipped slowly. “You cut your hair.” “People change.” “Some more than others.” Rhea narrowed her eyes. “Is this your idea of small talk?” “No. This is my idea of remembering how your legs felt around my waist.” Her breath hitched—just for a moment. But Armaan saw it. He always did. “You shouldn’t speak to a professional like that,” she said, voice clipped. “I hired you to plan my brother’s wedding,” he said, setting the glass down. “Not to pretend you forgot what we had.” “Correction—you hired Kapoor Events. You don’t get to act like you didn’t disappear after sleeping with me and vanish without so much as a text.” “I had my reasons.” “Save them. I’m not interested.” But she was lying. God help her, she was. Her body remembered him in ways her pride tried to erase. The way he kissed like possession. The way he whispered in Hindi when his control snapped. The way he held her as if he owned every inch of her soul. “You’re angry,” he said softly, stepping closer. “You should be.” “I’m over it.” “No. You’re dressed like vengeance.” “I dress like a CEO.” “You weren’t wearing much that night.” Rhea stood sharply. “I’m leaving.” But Armaan moved in front of her, and the air shifted. “I missed you,” he said, voice low. “Every night. Every damn day.” “Shut up,” she whispered, even as tears pricked her lashes. “You don’t get to say that.” He touched her wrist gently. “Rhea—” “I hate you.” “I know.” And then she kissed him. Or maybe he kissed her. It didn’t matter. It was fire, fury, memory, and madness. Her nails clawed at his shirt as he pressed her against the wall, and she didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to. His hands ran down her sides, possessive, hungry, like five years hadn’t happened. She moaned when his mouth found her collarbone, her dress sliding off one shoulder. “I still remember every sound you make,” he murmured against her skin. “And I remember how you left.” He paused. But only for a second. Then she was on the lounge sofa, her legs straddling him, and her lips trailing down his throat. Her body betrayed her—arching, reacting. Wanting. He gripped her hips like he couldn’t believe she was real. “Tell me to stop,” he rasped. She didn’t. She unbuttoned his shirt instead. The next moments blurred in heat and urgency. Clothes half off, bodies pressed together, breathing heavy with lust and heartbreak. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was raw, reckless, five years of pain crashing into one night of madness. Her moan echoed as he sank into her. And still, she didn’t stop him. --- Later… Rhea sat up first, adjusting her dress in silence. Armaan was still on the couch, shirt open, watching her like a storm. “Was that closure?” he asked softly. She glanced back. “That was a mistake.” He smirked. “You said that last time too.” Her chest ached. “Don’t confuse lust with love, Armaan. I know the difference now.” But as she walked out of that lounge, heart racing, she knew one thing for sure. This wasn’t over. It had just begun.